The Girl at the Door

I was in my sixth month when the girl came knocking. I’d gotten used to visits at home, almost as if I were sick. In a certain sense I was, a languid infirmity that had me spending the days doing nothing. The doctors prescribed a lot of rest. The challenge was to find new ways of resting. It was always the others who were coming to me. I’d learned how to re-ceive them. People passed by to ask me how I was, give me advice and bring me books on motherhood with covers so ugly I didn’t know where to hide them. If they didn’t bring me books, then they came with something to eat. At times it was something potentially toxic, so along with their kindness came a heartfelt self-reproach: “How stupid of me! Tiramsu… raw eggs! How could I not have thought about it!” The girl came empty handed. On the threshold, her hair down, her jeans tight, just the way I used to wear before the visitors came to replenish my stock of maternity pants. I was constantly hiding stuff those days. “Are you the professor’s wife?” the girl asked me. “Girlfriend, um… partner,” I specified, even though it embarrassed me to use that term. It felt like I was putting on airs. “I have to speak to you,” she said.