“After you cut yourself, does it hurt? Do you hurt?”
Josephine’s stomach churned at the question. She soothed her chest and dropped her eyes to the ground.
“I’m sorry,” Laila said. “I didn’t mean to—”
“No, no. It’s just . . . no one has ever asked that question.”
“Well, if I offended you, I—”
“Oh, come off it!” a hoarse voice from outside the room called out. Josephine closed her eyes and groaned. Laila opened her mouth to speak, but before she could get a word out, a tall, elderly woman staggered barefoot into the living room. She wore a long red dress and turban, and her piercing glare was heightened by the yellow where the whites of her eyes should have been. Laila did a double take at the painting and other features became apparent: the stoic face of this elderly woman juxtaposed with everyone else’s smiles, her hands folded while the others’ were open.
The elderly woman stood with her hands on her hips and said, “What is up with all this jibber jabber?”
“It’s called being polite, though I wouldn’t expect you to know that,” Josephine retorted.
“It’s called beating around the bush. And don’t you talk to me like I’m your child. You don’t have one, remember?”
Laila leaned forward but stopped herself short of defending Josephine, who shrank in size by curling her back and hunching her shoulders. Before Laila could recollect herself from the shock of the cold remark, she was startled by Josephine’s mother’s smirk. Silently, Laila hoped Josephine would say something else, but she receded, the color draining from her face.
“The rate for the caul is fifteen thousand dollars. Will that be an issue?” the mother asked.
“Fifteen—fifteen thousand?” Laila sputtered.
“Yes,” the woman said curtly. “Will that be a problem?”
“No, it won’t, Miss—”
“Melancon. Marceline Melancon.”
“Miss Melancon, it won’t be an issue. Josephine and I were just—”
“Discussing, I know, I know. But you see, Josephine isn’t good with securing a deal. She’s not as stern of a businesswoman as I’ve been teaching her to be.” She gripped her daughter’s left shoulder, and Josephine shifted uncomfortably in her chair.
“Fifteen thousand should be fine. Are there returns?”
Marceline scoffed. “Returns?”
“Maman—” Josephine interjected.
“Quiet!” Maman snapped. “We don’t have the patience for your offensive questioning. I’ve had white folks with more savvy and money than you be out the door in the amount of time it took you to walk through it.”
“I apologize. That amount is fine.”
“Good. Then Josephine will see you out. Good day.”
As Laila was being guided out of their home, she halted on the hallway carpet when another woman glared at her from the top of the staircase leading to the basement. Her silvery hair was dripping water all over a satin slip that all but exposed her naked body. Laila gasped at the sight. It took her a moment to recognize that this person was the third woman in the painting. Landon, who had been standing in the hallway the entire time, shielded his eyes while Josephine ran to place a large coat over her sister Iris’s body. She tried to lead Iris back downstairs, but Iris gripped the carpet with her feet and locked her knees in place.
“H-Hello,” Laila reluctantly said.
Iris sniffed and shot her eyes directly above Laila’s head to yet another hole, this one in the ceiling. Her eyeballs ricocheted from the corner with chipped wallpaper to the other with the same wear and tear, and Josephine groaned again at the behavior. Then, Iris’s eyes rolled into the back of her head and she made a choking noise.
“Is she all right?” Laila asked.
“She’s fine. She’s—oh.” Josephine soothed her temples. “Who or what are you seeing now, Iris?” she asked in a deadpan tone.
Her eyes rolled back and immediately connected with Laila’s. Her heart seized.
“They wanted me to tell you that they miss you and that they’re sorry. They’re really sorry.”
“Okay, that’s enough—” Josephine attempted to nudge Iris down the steps, but she was unmovable.
“It’s not your fault, they wanted to say—what?” She looked to the hole in the ceiling again and said, “You’re waiting? Waiting for what? Waiting for who?”
“Stop, Iris,” Josephine said.
Suddenly, Iris hugged Laila and whispered in her ear. “I know what Constance and Sydney said to you. You were meant to meet us. But bottom line is you still a mother, Miss Lay. You still a mother.”
Josephine pulled Iris away from Laila before Iris had a chance to say anything else. Laila stood there in awe. Iris’s words convinced Laila that beyond a shadow of doubt this baby was gonna live and these women were going to help her.
“I’ll take her.” Landon grabbed Laila’s hand and proceeded to promptly get her out of the brownstone.
On their way to Laila’s home, Landon told Laila that he would follow up the next day with details on how and when they would exchange the money and caul. She beamed with expectation and kept her hand on her stomach all throughout the day and evening with the comfort of now being able to get lost in her dreams. She made never-ending lists of potential names for the baby, delighted herself with how she and Ralph’s characteristics would show up in the child’s personality or mannerisms, and researched Mommy & Me classes all throughout the city. But the next day passed and Laila heard nothing. She wasn’t too worried, however. There were far too many things to preoccupy her time with: baby clothes, day care and preschools, and maybe even foreign language tutors. But after three days passed by without any contact, Laila took it upon herself to call Landon, and the call went immediately to his voicemail.
Now she wasn’t sleeping so well. She abruptly stopped planning for the baby’s arrival, and the days felt longer as she obsessed over when her phone would ring. Whenever Ralph would check in, she wouldn’t respond immediately because she was frustrated that her husband and seemingly everyone else in her circle were contacting her and not the one person she needed to hear
