3.

Her days all start the same and the morning Vivian decided to buy the saplings was no exception. Kissing her husband goodbye, Vivian shut the door behind him and looked out the window, watching him get in his car. As he drove out of sight she lingered there, looking but seeing nothing. Behind her a living room waited, beyond it a kitchen, dining room, and a den. Above her perched three bedrooms. She stayed at the window, keeping her back to the spiteful rooms that mocked her with their unsoiled floors and tasteful décor. She hated this moment and though it came every weekday morning, she just couldn’t get used to the feeling of dismay that physically rose up in her throat as she mentally took stock of what her day would bring. Lately she’d been staying at the window for longer stretches of time, grateful for the sheer curtains that hide her form from her busy neighbors as they hustle children to the nearby elementary school or stroll the streets pushing baby carriages and pulling wagons with giggling passengers. If anyone had noticed her behind the curtains she would have looked like a ghost, which was oddly appropriate for a woman who spends each day haunting her own home, roaming from room to room.

The damn clock—an antique cuckoo clock that was a wedding gift from her inlaws—conspired with the rooms, passing time behind her. Each second’s tick commanding her, in a judgmental tone, to move from the window. She knew her legs could hold her there all day while the sun climbed over the house—she had done it once—but Derrick found it very upsetting. Her window vigil had come to be called “the incident” in the Troy household. Just recalling his reaction that evening, when he returned to find her exactly as he’d left her nine hours earlier, caused Vivian to look at the floor in shame, averting her eyes though she is all alone. Vivian sighed uncomfortably at the memory. With no need to revisit that unfortunate business the young woman ran her palms over her thighs, smoothing her night gown, took a deep breath to steel herself and, squinting her eyes so that she could absorb the grotesque view slowly, she turned to face her living room.

But that morning, things had to be different. She couldn’t spend another day, cleaning already clean surfaces, mopping shiny floors, washing loads of just yesterday’s clothes. A zombie. She felt like a zombie busying herself in a home with nothing to do. She supposed she could call her old boss, tell him she was ready to return to work, but that was almost two years ago that she took a leave of absence from her job as an editor at a small publishing house. Although she’d been promised her job back when she was ready to come back, she’d avoided the calls she’d received from her colleagues a few months after she left. They would leave her kind voicemail messages, “not intending to pressure” her, but inquiring about her plans for the future. Finally, Jim, her boss, called and asked if they could have lunch to discuss her position with the company. She agreed to a date, but then canceled, not once, but twice with his secretary. After the second cancellation, Jim emailed her, insisting that she meet him at his office in the near future. That email was followed by several calls from Jim’s secretary, trying to schedule an appointment, but Vivian avoided all of it. Eventually the calls and emails ceased—her boss and her colleagues stopped attempting to reach her, which, Vivian was certain, meant her job was actually no longer hers. But she and Jim were friends from college. They’d lived in the same dorm as freshman, both being English, majors found themselves in many courses throughout their college careers. Her job, her office, her writers might belong to someone else, but she was fairly confident Jim would find room for her if she requested that he consider allowing her to return.

That was the problem, though. Vivian didn’t want to return to the publishing house or, for that matter, the workforce. Not like this. Not still without the family she’d initially left her job to start. She was no closer that morning to being a mother, than she was when she took Jim to lunch and told him that she needed to take some time off to pursue “assistance” with beginning a family. Now here she was, two years later and three lost pregnancies with nothing to show for it but a psychotically clean house and a whole lot of emotional baggage.

One of the biggest topics Vivian wrestled with in the perpetual Oprah episode taking place in her head was what to consider herself. None of her babies made it to term, but they also lived long enough to be measured and grow, to have heart beats and distinguishing genitalia – two girls and a boy. And then there’s the fact that she refers to what they did inside her belly as “lived long enough.” During her fleeting pregnancies, she rubbed her belly with soothing strokes like she hoped to rub the babies’ backs one day. She talked with them, telling them stories about how much they were wanted and all that they’d do together when they arrived. And, in each case, when the cramping or spotting would start, she pleaded with them not to leave her. Begged them to hang on, stay put, to give her more time. But all three times her bargaining and begging were not enough to keep them with her. She’d lose them. Her babies, they’d be gone. So when strangers on the treadmill next to her at the gym or the ones who’d catch her daydreaming in the baby aisle, fingering the tiny jars and wondering if the baby she hoped to have some day would like peaches or peas, asked her if she had kids, it pained her to tell them no. She was aware of women who counted their miscarried and stillborn children among their family members. Had talked with women online who would blink an eye to hear Vivian say, yes, she had three children. But that didn’t sit well with Vivian; she didn’t like the idea of angel babies. At the same time, she felt like some kind of Judas, denying her babies three times. She couldn’t help it though. She just didn’t feel like a mother, but it also pained her greatly to completely disregard the little beings she’d bonded with. While she didn’t see herself wearing a necklace with three little angel charms—one for each of her miscarriages—she also realized that the time had come to do something about them. Or, more accurately, for them. She couldn’t continue to act like they never existed, like her miscarriages were medical conditions no different from a common cold or a sinus infection. She also couldn’t afford to exist in a state of what could only be described as suspended grief. She wasn’t a mother, but she had lost three children. It was time for Vivian to face that.