by Whitney Weisenberg
Her daughter and mine used to sit together on the bus, in the cafeteria, and in class. They were always side by side. She told me once after a playdate our girls were like sisters, and I believed her. I thought family was earned.
Before we had Penny, my stomach was a garden of disappointment. Yellow and green bruises blossomed from injections. I craved growth but it stayed ugly and flat.
Every night I dreamt of babies that weren’t mine. Babies with fins that could only age when I placed their feet in water, babies with gigantic heads which rolled off whenever I picked them up, and babies who popped like bubbles.
I saw pregnant women everywhere. The grocery store. The airplane. The doctor’s office. It was like there was a conveyor belt emptying them out every place I was, reminding me I was the only one in the world who couldn’t conceive.
I ached to be a mother, but she got pregnant without trying.
In the gym, she taps me on my shoulder like we are buddies, like her child didn’t just invite everyone in their friend group to her house, every single fucking one except for my daughter.
She hugs me, but I don’t get up. I let her lean into me.
“I love your jumpsuit!” She stretches the word “love” until it’s lost all of its elasticity.
My nephew gets called out for a foul and I yell at the Ref. “Come on!”
When Penny was younger, she used to hook her tear-stained arms around my legs and refuse to move until I reassured her it would be okay. Over the years I’ve taught her, “Kindness begets kindness,” and “you reap what you sow.” But now I am like a peddler with faulty wares. My cart is loaded with empty promises.
I pick up my jacket that is resting on the bleacher beside me. There’s nowhere to put it except for the floor, so I sit on it and make room for her. A sleeve or a glove in my pocket bulges until the discomfort is difficult to ignore.
She touches Penny’s hair, and I stiffen. She pets her like a dog until my daughter dutifully smiles.
She pulls at the ends. “Did you get a haircut, sweetie?”
It needs to be brushed and braided, but Penny nods like all is forgotten and forgiven. Pennies have a thin layer of copper. It looks like that’s the only thing they’re composed of, but their appearance is deceiving.
Her daughter hurt mine.
My fingers curl into fists as she talks about an upcoming vacation. A movie she wants to see.
A mother on the other team she doesn’t like.
For the entire basketball game, I rest my face against my hand. I press my fingers against my lips and block all the things I want to say from slipping out. When my nephew and the other players celebrate, I get up slowly, afraid since my mouth is no longer covered, my words will spill out and she will trip over them.
She hugs me again. “I wish we saw each other more. I miss you. Promise we’ll all get together soon.”
Abandoned coins sit in dishes next to cash registers with a tiny sign taped on top.
“Take a penny, leave a penny.”
Behind me, a child is scooting his sneakers back and forth. He digs his toe into the floor until it squeaks. He presses his foot again and again until it is a continuous cry.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Whitney is a writer, an artist, a teacher, a Master Educator, a mother of two daughters, and a member of SCBWI. Her work has appeared in Dead Skunk Magazine, NUNUM-Done in a Hundred Anthology, Nine Cloud Journal and Poet’s Choice.
ABOUT THE ARTIST
Ann Calandro is a writer, artist, and classical piano student. Her short stories have been accepted by The Vincent Brothers Review, Gargoyle, Lit Camp, The Fabulist, The Plentitudes, and other literary journals. Duck Lake Books published her poetry chapbook in 2020. Calandro’s artwork appeared in juried exhibits and in Mayday, Nunum, Bracken, Zoetic Press, Mud Season Review, Stoneboat, and other journals. Shanti Arts published three children’s books that she wrote and illustrated. See more at www.anncalandro.webs.com. Submitted piece is a mixed media collage.