I look up and realize every single person is staring at us.
No one else is in the pool, except for Emily, who is sitting on the steps of the shallow end, smirking.
“Let’s play the next game, if Molly and Seth are quite done with their horseplay,” Elle says.
“I think I’m pregnant just from watching them,” the caftan guy says to a soaking wet woman beside him.
My cheeks go hot. We’ve been acting like teenagers.
Flirtyteenagers.
Completely unacceptable.
“Sorry!” I call, paddling very, very far away from Molly Marks, and lifting myself out of the pool.
I’m better than this.
Gloria throws me a towel. “What’s the next game?” she asks Elle.
“Baby Bucket List,” Elle says. “It’s where we go around in a circle and write down an activity we think you should do with the babies in their firstyear. I’ll compile them all into a book, and you and Em can write little notes about the experience on the back of the cards, to remember.”
“Oh, that’s so sweet!” Emily says.
“I know.” Eliana laughs. “It’s sickening.”
We all gather around the table, and Elle passes out Sharpies and yellow cardstock embossed with the wordsIn your first year as moms…
“Okay,” Elle says, “I’m setting a timer for five minutes. Let’s do this.”
We all bend down over our cards. I try not to drip water on mine. This is important. They’ll probably keep these for the rest of their lives. (Or, at least, I would.)
I rack my brain for an idea. Then I remember when my nephew Max was born. He was a fussy baby, and when I came out to visit Dave and Clara, they were desperate for any break they could get. So I used to strap him to my chest in their baby carrier and walk him around the hiking trail near their house. Some days we’d do it for hours, just me and him. I loved the feeling of him tucked against my chest, his tiny feet dangling on either side of me.
I take care to make my terrible handwriting legible.
Hike with them close to your chests on a beautiful trail on a beautiful day.
When everyone is finished, we take turns reading them aloud.
Elle suggests feeding the babies her and Gloria’s mother’s recipe for arroz con leche. A pink-haired woman in a linen jumpsuit suggests making copper molds of their hands and feet and turning them into a mobile to hang over the crib. (She offers to do it herself; unsurprisingly, she’s an artist.)
I read mine aloud and successfully avoid choking up, even though the game is making me emotional.
Molly goes last. I expect her to say something glib or sarcastic, since mushy topics repel her. Maybe something like “Make breast milk cheese and bring it to a cookout for your neighbors,” or “Remember: don’t shake the babies—too hard.”
She clears her throat, and her voice is softer than usual. “So, when I was a baby, and really until I was nearly grown up, my mom would sing me lullabies while I was falling asleep. And it was so soothing that to this day I still have a lullaby playlist I listen to when I have insomnia. So my suggestion is to sing your babies to sleep together.” She pauses and twists her lips. “Yeah. So that’s my, um. Yeah.”
Gloria puts a hand over her heart. “Molly! That is so sweet.”
And it is. It really is.
I can’t help but think of tough, flinty Molly curled up in bed with her earbuds, drifting off to a lullaby.
Or better, Molly cradling a baby of her own, singing her child to sleep.
It makes me regret that it will never be me singing with her.
CHAPTER 17Molly
