“Is this all?” the woman asked.
Laila jumped. “Oh. Maybe—Can I get a copy of New York magazine?” Laila pointed to it. The Melancon woman moved too quickly along the edges and hissed as one of the pages sliced her fingers. A paper cut was painful, but Laila didn’t think that her response of hurriedly turning her back, hunching over, and covering her entire hand was necessary. There were a box of Band-Aids and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide right on the back shelf if she needed it. After a few seconds, Josephine turned around and said, “Sorry, how embarrassing.”
“That’s okay. Don’t worry about it.”
As the woman reached for the New York magazine with the same hand as before, Laila saw that there wasn’t so much as a nick on any of her fingers.
The woman looked down at one of the titles of the inside stories, detailing a new labor trafficking act being debated in New York, and smirked. “That’s some pretty heavy reading for a pregnant woman.”
Laila chuckled. “It’s always good to be aware of what’s going on.”
“Indeed.” She slowly rang up the newspaper and took a beat with the two boxes of Chips Ahoy!. “If I can ask, how far along are you?”
“Excuse me?”
The woman repeated herself and blinked her eyes twice with anticipation.
“Oh.” Laila took a beat and peered deeper into the woman’s eyes but could find nothing beyond pure curiosity. “Five months.” The woman directed the cashier to go to the back to check inventory. The male cook was in the middle of grilling the hamburger meat, and the grease popping from the griddle was loud enough to drown out their conversation.
“First kid?” she whispered as she leaned over the counter.
“I—Well, not quite.” Laila winced. “You see—I-I don’t want to unload on you, it’s just—”
“It’s okay. I get it. I’ve been there too.”
“You have?”
The woman nodded. “Many times.”
Laila sighed with relief and dropped her shoulders. “I’m scared. I’ve been feeling so lonely throughout this. How did you get through it?”
“I’m Josephine.”
“Laila. Laila Reserve.” Laila extended her hand, and Josephine shook it.
Josephine surveyed the large emerald-cut diamond on Laila’s left ring finger and said, “Are you getting all the proper care you need?”
“I think so. But you can never be too careful, you know?”
“Indeed. Six thirty-nine.”
“Huh?” Laila saw her bagged items and blurted out, “Oh. Sorry. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome and good luck with the baby.”
When Laila left the bodega, she thought that perhaps she had made a new friend in the most unexpected of places. As much as she wanted to find any characteristic of Josephine’s to hate, she couldn’t, and then Laila felt bad for assuming the worst about her before their conversation. Josephine wasn’t bougie-acting, rude, bitchy, or stuck-up. She was beautiful and kind, and they were two women experiencing the same problem with their wombs. No matter how special that extra layer of skin was, it could not prevent the plague of infertility, and this misfortune made Josephine more human than any gossip had led her to believe. Laila sat on her love seat with both packages of Chips Ahoy! Each time she took a bite out of a cookie, she was reminded of Josephine’s scent, replete with notes of vanilla and sandalwood. In between the chewing and swallowing, Laila could hear Josephine’s comforting voice inside of her head and soothed her protruding belly. As for Josephine, her thoughts toward Laila were much more pointed and grand.
The following Sunday, Laila attended St. Philip’s Church, where she and her entire family were members. Laila always sat toward the end of the pew with her eyes closed, her shaking hands holding a rosary. This was her tradition whenever she was with child. No one bothered her, for they would not have disturbed anyone deep in prayer. But when they saw her hard, bloated belly, the congregation agreed that Laila needed more divine communication and angel encampment than anyone else at service. The vestry came to her when it was time for Communion, but before they did, at the altar, they shared knowing glances: Do not ask Missus Reserve nothing. Keep your eyes on her. Nod and smile. Do not say anything. They were afraid to ask about her pregnancy in the house of the Lord, worried that their words could send tremors to her body and endanger her child. Every congregant of St. Philip’s knew there was life and death in the tongue.
Laila was aware that she was being watched. Folks needed to touch her. Whether it was a female elder in the church gently caressing her knuckles while they prayed as a congregation or an auntie double tapping her shoulder as they walked by her pew, Laila felt like a child being delicately handled. The more she thought about it, the more offended she became, until her anger broke, and a calmness settled upon her spirit. What faith could do for a soul, if only for a moment.
She needed to be delicately handled. She looked down at her body and saw that her hands were tightly clasped together on her lap and her shoulders were up to her ears. She shook, almost uncontrollably. As quickly as it had left, fear had taken hold once more. The service was halfway through; she figured that everyone had already sensed her fear so there was no need to try to straighten up now. But she was uneasy still because Landon Thomas, a longtime family friend and godfather to Laila’s niece, could not stop looking over his wife’s shoulder to stare at her. Any time there was a pause in the service, whether
