Dedication
To Black Mothers (Past, Present, and Future)
Epigraphs
“I was born with a caul, which was advertised for sale . . . Whether sea-faring people were short of money about that time, or were short of faith and preferred cork jackets, I don’t know; all I know is, that there was but one solitary bidding . . . The caul was won, I recollect, by an old lady with a hand-basket . . . It is a fact which will be long remembered as remarkable down there, that she was never drowned, but died triumphantly in bed, at ninety-two.”
—David Copperfield, Charles Dickens
“When I was handling this caul of hers downstairs I could feel some mighty power in it. Shoot, Lena may be able to . . . do all kinds of things.”
—Baby of the Family, Tina McElroy Ansa
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraphs
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Part II
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Morgan Jerkins
Copyright
About the Publisher
Part I
1
Something was bound to happen to Laila’s baby, and everyone from the pews of Abyssinian Baptist down to the northern shore of Central Park knew it. One of the last vestiges of the Black elite in Strivers’ Row, she was the only one whose brownstone was not punctuated with the sounds of pitter-pattering feet or wails in the dead of night. The first few times Laila became pregnant, she couldn’t wait to tell everyone who crossed her path. Then, weeks later, some of those same people would casually ask for an update and she’d reply, her face crestfallen, her posture slouched. As the first failed pregnancies turned into several, people stopped asking though she never stopped announcing, hopeful that collective faith would carry her flailing belief in the power of her body, and in God’s will. Eventually, she lost count of how many children abandoned her after the first heartbeat, or how many times she’d wake up with blood soaking her backside. Her body was desolate land, each crack in her earth a forewarning from the last child to future ones that this place was no home. Some of the fetuses grew, saw the dents of their past siblings in her womb, and joined them in the ether. After they disappeared, they left a hollow hole as a reminder of what could have been.
Seven months after her latest loss, Laila found out that she was pregnant yet again. She stared for a long while at the two pink lines that formed on the pregnancy test she’d purchased from the nearby Duane Reade. In her earlier years, she would’ve squealed; she would’ve danced, knocking over Q-tips and tweezers and extra rolls of toilet paper. But this time, she turned toward the mirror, holding the test with one hand and with the other pinching the side of her belly, saying, “Don’t fuck with me this time. Please.”
Laila figured she’d keep this pregnancy a secret. Any woman with a smidgen of common sense should know that this child—like the others—would not live past the first trimester. She continued on with her life: attending social events around the neighborhood, busying herself with redecorating her home and taking on the occasional interior design gig, a skill she pursued out of love rather than necessity. Her husband, Ralph, an architect, was usually out of town at least two weeks a month due to a long-standing assignment in Boston, and so he barely noticed the extra snacks lying around when he returned home or her frequent dashes to the bathroom. Neither he nor anyone else suspected anything. That is, until one night, Ralph returned home a day early and found a copy of What to Expect When You’re Expecting lying half-open on the arm of their love seat. When Laila emerged from the bathroom wiping her mouth, a few water droplets dotted her slip so that the satin clung to her belly, emphasizing its roundness. He shook his head while holding the book with both hands and smiled as he approached her. She stood like a deer caught in headlights in front of Ralph and weakly said, “I’m sorry.” He then swooped her into his arms before they released a glorious laugh. That night, he went out and bought a fudge crunch ice cream cake from Baskin-Robbins and they ate it in bed, his hand caressing Laila’s stomach the entire time.
Neither of them could remember the last time their home had been filled with such happiness. He offered to relinquish his responsibilities for his Boston-based project in order to wait on Laila hand and foot, but she refused. He thought it might be best to care for Laila more carefully this time around, but she would hear nothing of it. The money that he would receive for the completed job would be helpful since they planned to spoil their miracle baby rotten. To make up for his absence, Ralph began to send flowers or small gifts like boxes of chocolate or handwritten love letters. He’d call morning, afternoon, and night for brief check-ins and hired a twice-a-week housekeeper so that Laila would not overwork herself and jeopardize her health.
This child was different because it was growing and changing her from the inside out, persevering from the first trimester and moving past the middle of the second. Laila’s brown skin became dewy, a sunset behind a hill. Her hair, once fine and short, sprouted thick and unbridled. Her neighbors craned their necks when she passed them on the sidewalks. Her walk was different. Instead of her usual erect posture, she hunched slightly, her legs waddling. “Missus Reserve got a baby in ’er,” bystanders whispered on their front stoops behind their potted amaryllis bulbs and hibiscuses. A pair of meddling women could not restrain their curiosity and approached a five-months-pregnant Laila as she walked by their brownstone’s front stoop one sunny afternoon.
“Oh, hi, ladies.” Laila smiled and placed a hand on her
