Read Online The Mother Garden by Robin Romm - Free Book Online

inspired moment, fills the rest with cotton balls. He sets the egg on top. It looks like it’s floating on a cloud. He brings it to India while she’s drinking tea in the study.
    â€œLook,” he says, setting the box by her keyboard. Her face goes blank.
    â€œThat’s sweet,” she says tentatively. “It’s like a little bed.”
    â€œIt is a little bed,” Uri says. India nods.
    In the bedroom, Uri sets the egg on the nightstand and waits for India to finish brushing her teeth. The egg’s face is growing on him. The more he looks at it, the more he thinks he can see something sentient. A sparkle in the dried ink. A texture to the shell similar to the fine hairs on human skin. India comes in and takes off her yoga pants and top. She stands in front of the mirror looking at her body. Sometimes she turns and asks him if he thinks she’s beautiful. It’s amazing that she does this; she speaks with such derision about women (like her sister) who need constant affirmation. Tonight she doesn’t ask him, though she scrutinizes her profile before grabbing her nightgown from the drawer.
    She looks at the egg for a minute before she turns off the light.
    â€œIt looks like Groucho Marx,” she says.
    â€œIt looks nothing like Groucho Marx,” Uri says. “It doesn’t have a mustache.”
    â€œWell, it looks like a weird old man,” she says. Uri can smell her coconut face lotion and the rich unwashed oil of her hair. He thinks of Blithe. He thinks of pears.

    Blithe trots down the maroon carpets of the office in a short wraparound dress. She’s wearing sheer stockings and the same little black heels. She disappears into the file room and Uri imagines following, pushing her face first against the wall. She’d gasp and reach behind her to feel him, hard through his khakis.
    Instead he goes into his office and flicks on the light, takes the egg, and sets it next to his phone. Then he thinks better of it and sticks it in his drawer.
    He’s halfway back to Berkeley that evening when he realizes he’s left it there. Rather than face India’s wrath (“You left it at work? Imagine what would happen if you forgot a baby ?”), he gets off the train in Oakland and takes another train back to the city. He sits next to an elderly Chinese woman clacking her dentures sloppily. As he disembarks, she takes out the teeth and stares at them as though a stranger left them in her mouth.
    The security guard buzzes him in. It’s nearly six o’clock and all the government workers have fled. The building is strangely muted. When he presses the door code he’s met with the reassuring smell of reams of paper and printer toner. He’s never thought of coming here to relax, but it’s nice. Orderly.
    â€œOh,” says Blithe. “I thought you’d gone.” He’s in his office, egg in hand. He quickly slips the egg into his trouser pocket. It bulges. He tries to dangle his hand in such a way that she won’t notice. Her hair is falling out of her clips; she’s distracted.
    â€œI was just stood up,” Blithe says. “It’s the second time this guy’s stood me up, and it’s my birthday.”
    â€œOh. That sucks,” Uri says. Blithe stands there, looking miserable. “Happy birthday.”
    â€œYeah, right.”
    Uri’s heard Blithe complain about how much harder it is to make friends out west. No one’s reliable and no one knows how to drink. He guesses it’s true. Most of his buddies are from elsewhere: New York, Louisiana. India’s from Detroit. Blithe looks like she’s going to cry. India works late on Thursday nights and then she has a meditation class until half past nine.
    â€œI can take you for a beer,” Uri says. Blithe looks grateful.
    They take the train to the Mission. Blithe knows a new tapas bar and they get a table near the window. Outside, a young woman