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

was really caught up with being interesting.
    Blithe’s standing in the kitchen in only her bra and panties, the replacement egg held up like she’s about to sing a jingle. She looks confused and he feels doubly guilty—for being with Blithe in the first place, and then for letting her down.
    â€œI need another sock,” Uri says. Blithe sets the egg on the counter and goes to find one.
    It’s not that late, only eight-forty, when he leaves Blithe’s apartment, the new egg wrapped in Blithe’s nicest sock. He left the pink one there, drying on the faucet. Down the street he finds a drugstore and buys a Sharpie. Carefully, on the way home, he re-creates the face he drew. The little eyes, the horseshoe nose. He does a reasonable job.
    â€œWhere were you?” India says when he walks in.
    â€œI went out for drinks,” Uri says. He bangs his leg on the trunk by the front door and when he leans down to rub it, he stumbles and catches himself on the molding.
    â€œAre you drunk?” India asks.
    â€œI guess, a little.”
    â€œWho were you with?”
    â€œJust Tom. And this new investigator.” He rubs his leg until he can feel a heat there, then takes the egg out from his bag and sets it on top of the trunk. His jacket covers the wet spot on his pants.
    â€œI got the egg a new outfit,” he says before she can notice. The sock he took from Blithe is cashmere—she made sure to tell him this as she dangled it in front of him—light cream with little blobs of blue in it.
    â€œWhere’d you get a sock?” India asks, coming over to take a look.
    â€œI bought it at lunch.”
    â€œWhat happened to the pink sock?”
    â€œThe egg didn’t like it.”
    â€œThe egg didn’t like it?” India says, lowering one eyebrow. She looks like she’s about to push the issue, but decides to let it go. She runs her thumb and forefinger around the edge.
    â€œIt’s cashmere,” Uri says.
    â€œI don’t have any socks this nice,” India says. “Lucky egg.”

    In the morning, India brings him coffee and toast in bed. “Why the special treatment?” he asks.
    â€œI want to talk to you,” she says, and immediately, her eyes tear. Uri feels his gut flip. How could she know? He reaches for her hand; her bones are thin under her warm skin. He has an urge to take this hand and squeeze, feel the bones bend and snap. His hangover threatens to drag his tongue back down inside of his body and disintegrate it. India stares out the window by the bed and Uri looks out too. Two squirrels squabble on the fence.
    â€œI was trying to figure out what my deal is,” she says. “And I think I’m just really afraid that I won’t be a good enough parent.”
    Uri relaxes. It’s nothing he hasn’t heard before. India’s mother is an alcoholic. When India was thirteen, her mother, in the middle of a rant about how India would soon be off “participating” with men, put on an Aerosmith record and cut off her own ponytail. The next day, instead of apologizing for the theatrics, she volunteered to show India how to make paintbrushes out of it. He pulls India toward him.
    â€œYou’ll be fine,” he says because it’s true, but also because that’s his script; there’s nothing else he can say.
    â€œI just called the doctor. If you’re sure it’s what you want,” she says into his shoulder, “I’ll get the IUD removed today. They can fit me into a cancellation at four.” Uri nods and they make a quick plan: he’ll get off at three and meet her there. His heart beats in his chin and wrists and groin and he takes India’s hair, lifts it up so that her head rises with it and she starts to object, then presses her down beside him on the bed. He studies her face. She’s striking, not just pretty like Blithe. Her hair is black and her eyes are a pale,