Page 165 of Things We Burn

Then they left.

Then next was Calliope.

I’d seen her around the bakery a handful of times but hadn’t interacted with her a whole bunch. Although for some reason, I gravitated to her somewhat more than the outspoken and extroverted Fiona or the feminine and shy Nora. She always wore a slash of red lipstick, sharp eyeliner accentuating her dark eyes, hair slicked back into a bun, showing off angular features. And she was always in black with high heels, looking like she was going to a high-powered business meeting instead of walking around a small coastal town in Maine.

When I heard she’d been in New York until recently, I understood why I was drawn to her. The no-nonsense attitude, the slight chill, the overall confidence. She reminded me of who I used to be.

I didn’t know much about her other than that she was Rowan’s sister—the resemblance was uncanny—and she had worked on Wall Street before moving to Jupiter.

She was the last person I wanted in the rotation because it shoved an uncomfortable truth in my face… That I’d never be like her, or even close to being like her, again.

But she arrived at our doorstep one Saturday evening.

“You’re going out,” she declared, stepping her red-soled shoe through the doorway. “Where’s the baby?”

I pointed to the living room where Mabel was in her $300 baby swing she barely tolerated for longer than five minutes, watching fruit dance along the screen of the TV.

I was vaguely embarrassed about this put together woman coming into our house, seeing me with Kane’s tee and boxer shorts on at five thirty in the afternoon, my kid in front of the TV.

I’d told myself I wouldn’t expose Mabel to screens—there was all sorts of research to show that it wasn’t beneficial to kids under the age of two. But I’d found something the studies didn’t mention: it gave me five minutes of respite. I could enjoy a hot coffee, breathe, use the bathroom, sit on the sofa and stare into space.

Those fruits were the best thing ever invented.

“Good, great, she’s distracted.” Clearly, Calliope didn't have judgment over the TV being on. Kane was sitting on the sofa, watching out daughter with that tender look on his face.

Calliope pointed to both of us. “You’re going out,” she repeated. “Go get ready. I’ll sit with her.”

I sucked in a deep breath. “I can’t expect that of you.” What I didn’t say is that I couldn’t leave my daughter with a stranger. I’d barely left her with my mother.

“You’re not expecting anything. I’m telling you you’re going out,” she said. “And I know you don’t know me, I don’t have kids, but they’re pretty foolproof at keeping alive at this age. For short periods anyway.” She shrugged with a mischievous glint to her eye. “I’m an aunt to about a thousand of the little fuckers and have babysat them all without major bodily injury. You cancall Nora for references if you wish, or you can get ready, go out, have something to drink, or have sex in your car on the beach. Whatever tickles your fancy.” She waved her hands. “The most important thing is you get out of this house and away from singular identities like mother and father and have a couple of hours as whoever you feel like being.”

While I digested her words, Kane was grinning, quite obviously on board with the idea despite his overall protectiveness of Mabel. He almost jumped on strangers for staring at her too long, yet he was okay with the Jupiter tribe, it seemed.

“I’m breastfeeding,” I said lamely. “She needs a bottle.”

“Well, pump one,” Calliope flicked her fingers to the breast pump on the coffee table. I couldn’t remember how long it had been there.

She made it all seem so simple, so I struggled to find any other reason why we couldn’t leave our baby with an almost stranger.

“Go,” she ordered, settling on the couch close to Mabel.

And although her sister-in-law had been much quieter and gentler with her orders, it’d had the same effect. I heeded them.

Twenty-Seven

“We should go back inside,”I said the second that I got on the back of Kane’s bike. He’d suggested we take it, and I’d jumped at the chance. Initially, I’d jumped at the chance. The thought of being pressed against Kane, the fall air biting at us as we tore down the road… It promised an exhilaration I had loved in the past.

But now I was dressed, in jeans—no elastic waist to be found—and in a simple, long-sleeved top, makeup on and hair haphazardly curled. I was wearing shoes. Low heeled boots. Real people, adult clothes.

I’d longed for such things. Just like I’d longed for time with Kane, a ride on the bike. But straddling the bike, my body was frozen as I stared into the windows of our house. The curtains were drawn, so I could see light filtering out, and I swore I could hear a baby calling out for her mother.

Never mind that she couldn’t even form words yet.

“We are not going back inside,” Kane stated, putting a helmet on my head.

I scowled at him. “We don’t know her.” I pointed to the house again.

“We know Rowan, we know everyone else she is family with, and I know she has great taste in automobiles.” Kane motioned to the sleek car parked in our driveway. I couldn’t say much about it other than it was red.

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