Space

The arrival of the babies precipitated the need for extensive renovations. One couldn’t house them in the standard quarters, they wouldn’t appreciate the comprehensive wine list, for one thing, and the bunk beds simply weren’t appropriate. And then there was the issue of space, or lack of space, as long-time Centre resident, Jenny Lypstock, put it. The council already had the adults rotating through the primary accommodation buildings in alphabetical groups of ten. You couldn’t fold newborns into that kind of mix, she argued, without upsetting the dining services schedule (who was going to nurse the infants, when, where, and how exactly were they going to do it, not to mention when would the breastfeeders themselves get a chance to eat, and then you’d have the catering staff up in arms as well).

At the planning meeting, Clive Roundtree proposed a buddy system (one grown-up would watch the baby, while their ‘buddy’ went to the dining hall, collecting a 2.5 ration which the three of them would eat together later in a quasi-family configuration). But Jenny Lypstock declared that idea absurd. Principled and high-minded but absurd is how she put it, pointing out that babies don’t have any teeth or motor control, so how were they going to eat the honeyed ribs, or chop and chew the Shangri-la chicken? Let alone the host of other issues, such as where to get that many nappies on a regular basis, and who would do all the changing.

‘And let’s not forget the elephant in the room – how to find the money to feed those extra mouths,’ called out Henry Bendell, the Centre CFO, which brought on a round of applause, and then a bout of crying, as the babies who, to that point, had been peacefully asleep in their caregivers’ arms, were startled by the commotion into rousing wails of affront.

Who brought all the babies anyway? Where did they come from? Someone must have seen something. It wasn’t possible that they’d just arrived there on their own. That many babies would leave a trail. Somewhere there would be a zillion little footprints.

‘Do you know who brought all the babies?’ asked Henry Bendell after yet another sleepless night.

‘God, don’t look at me,’ said Jenny Lypstock. ‘I don’t have a maternal bone in my body. And I can’t drive.’

‘It probably took more than one person to organise it. How many babies do you think there are anyway?’

‘At least two thousand,’ said Jenny.

‘Yes, I think so,’ said Henry. ‘At least two thousand. And two thousand infants you can’t transport by yourself.’

‘Are you implying I was somehow involved?’

‘Not everyone would need to drive a car. You could be an accomplice without driving a car.’

‘What possible interest could I have in being an accomplice?’

‘Babies are said to give a woman a feeling of completeness. A pretty, intelligent, single lady such as yourself might be looking for that kind of purpose.’

‘Screw you, Henry,’ said Jenny Lypstock. ‘Maybe you were an accomplice. Maybe you need a purpose.’ And she stormed off, double BabyBjörn secured tightly to her small efficient body, its tiny charges bouncing madly in time with each exasperated step.

Despite Jenny’s growing preoccupation with cost of living indices and residential real estate prices in several major metropolitan areas, she still wasn’t quite ready to move out of the Centre, the only home she had ever really known. Instead, she threw herself into the renovation project with the gusto of a person not sleep-deprived and covered in baby vomit. Some called it nervous energy, others, sublimation.

‘Chill out, brussels sprout,’ said her good friend, Candy Mack. ‘These kids are important, but so is your health.’

‘Yeah. Go with the flow,’ said her other friend, Lucille. ‘Let the divine energy guide your way.’

‘Be cool like a swimming pool,’ chimed in Nigel, who was on beverage detail and happened at that moment to be standing beside their table refilling their hand-crafted, white-glazed clay coffee mugs. ‘You’ve got to pay attention to the NOW. Before you know it, those babies will be fully grown and away at uni. Don’t blow this moment trying to make it perfect. Sometimes near enough has got to be good enough.’

‘Big words from a high school dropout,’ said Jenny Lypstock, rolling her eyes at the roughly assembled chorus.

‘Eff you,’ said Nigel. ‘At least I can drive.’

‘He’s got a point,’ said Candy Mack. ‘He’s actually quite a good driver. And he does raise the obvious question, why burn the candle at both ends? These kids don’t look like they’re going anywhere any time soon. Why not relax, pace yourself?’

‘Definitely. That’s what I’d do,’ said Lucille. ‘Besides, I thought you’d had enough of this place. What about all those travel plans?’

Images of lush seaside resorts flashed through Jenny’s mind. She could almost taste the pineapple wedge floating in her pina colada, feel the paper umbrella tickle her nose as she raised her coffee mug for another sip. ‘Maybe after I’ve confirmed the roofing contractor and negotiated the bulk deal on the bassinets,’ she said. ‘Now could we please focus.’ But the island mood stayed with her and she spent the afternoon unable to shake thoughts of tarmacs and departure lounges and bright, expensive cocktails nervously spilled on counter tops in cheap airport bars.

That night Jenny’s mind flitted between requisition orders, staffing shortages, and the logistics of the babies. As an orphan (her parents had died in a traffic accident soon after her birth), she felt ill-equipped to properly appraise the situation. Was one literally born with the desire to be a parent, and if not, where did it come from? Clearly someone had to look after the babies, and if it wasn’t going to be the government then it would have to be the people. But what if the people, or in this case, the parents, didn’t want to do that? What if there were other activities they preferred to occupy their time, like whitewater rafting and snorkelling? Is that what had happened here? Had the parents simply abandoned their progeny in favour of alternative pursuits? Lord knows the babies seemed hungry enough when they’d arrived at the Centre, and most of them needed changing. But did that make caring for them the members’ responsibility, particularly if they hadn’t asked for the job, and some at least were having thoughts of suspending their affiliation?

It occurred to Jenny that the very act of entertaining these ideas itself constituted an essential disloyalty, as though the questioning represented some fundamental incompatibility between her outlook and the values shared by the majority of the Centre membership. Even before the arrival of the babies, Jenny had often imagined herself living in a small one-bedroom apartment in the middle of some city where cars outnumbered trees and people thought cooking meant slitting a corner of the plastic film before inserting their frozen meal into the microwave for exactly five minutes on high. She expected she might feel settled there, as though the ruckus outside would cancel out her internal disquiet; she longed to be able to turn up the external volume to drown out her private noise.

She lay staring at the wallpaper on the bedroom ceiling, a 70s melange of silver, pink and grey, which, as this was her week on the top bunk, was only about two feet away from her face, and wondered who the hell thought that pattern was attractive. That was a person she would like to meet.

At four am she finally got up. The nursing auditorium was crowded with cribs and rocking chairs, and hundreds of volunteer wet nurses cradling the hungry babies in their arms.

‘Here, I’ll take them,’ she said to Mary Jo, who had Lyall #41 and Richard #6 balanced on her knees. They were both well fed and dopey and barely sighed as she relocated them into the BabyBjörn she had secured around her torso. She had grown so used to it she rarely took it off now except for bathing. It had moulded so exactly to her shape, it was almost like a second skin.

The gender distribution of the babies was fairly evenly spread: 1073 girls, 927 boys. Of the most popular names, there were 139 Anthonys, 66 Sarahs, and 43 Roberts.

Although the planning meeting didn’t lay out the exact whys and wherefores of a baby processing system, enough parameters were put in place so that after an initial adjustment period a workable schedule seemed to organically evolve in which the same group of people came to care for the same cluster of infants, creating informal clans or tribes identified by group name and decoration, each of which was stitched to the yellow jumpsuits of the children and the primary caregivers in question, obviating the need for other more literal methods of identification.

Jenny didn’t have any direct experience working with children, but her background in project management made her the obvious choice for interim infant flow coordinator. She walked into the crèche to find hundreds of babies decked out in highly distinctive bibs festooned with pompoms and badges from places like the Grampians and Wilsons Prom, souvenirs acquired on camping trips taken well before their time, their little yellow bodies lolling about on the polished linoleum floor like unclaimed luggage on a baggage carousel.

Lucille was one of the primary caregivers on duty that day. Her jumpsuit was extravagantly embroidered with the names of ‘her’ babies: Abby, Abe, Abigail, Adeline, Alexander, Alexandria, Alexis, Allison, Angela and Astrid. Each name was followed by a small silver star sewn in superscript, like its own personal asterisk. ‘It’s my Monday group,’ said Lucille. ‘The Super Stars.’

‘That must have taken you hours,’ said Jenny. ‘I had no idea you were such an accomplished seamstress.’

‘Oh, you know, once they’re asleep there’s not a whole lot else to do.’

‘When you can get them to sleep.’

‘Yes. Obviously. I can’t tell you how much I’m dreading teething. It’s bad enough now. Feed them, burp them, put them down, listen to them cry, pick them up again. I live for that moment when their little eyelids start to flutter. It’s the greatest feeling in the world, isn’t it, when they finally nod off? That sense of freedom.’

‘Yes, but you do know you don’t have to do it, don’t you?’ said Jenny. ‘It’s a voluntary posting. There’s no obligation. If you don’t like your roster, we can always assign your tasks to someone else.’

‘Oh no, don’t get me wrong,’ said Lucille. ‘I don’t want to stop. Really, I don’t. I love it actually. It’s just kind of fun to complain about it at the same time. Like, I’m so exhausted, these kids are running me ragged, that sort of thing. But I wouldn’t trade it for the world. These babies, they’re my life now. We’re a family. Albeit a blended family, but a family nonetheless. The whining is just part of it, the whole parenting routine.’

‘Is it?’ said Jenny. ‘I wouldn’t know.’

‘Sorry,’ said Lucille. ‘That was insensitive. But take it from me, if your parents hadn’t died on that highway all those years ago, they would have complained about you too.’

‘Do you think so?’

‘Definitely.’

‘But would they have embroidered my clothing?’

‘That I can’t say,’ said Lucille. ‘But I’d like to think they would have. After all, they had the foresight to arrange for you to live here, didn’t they? It’s not as though you had to go off to some foster family situation. Then again, not everyone can sew. They might have had other talents. Maybe they would have woven your little blankets, or knitted your little booties. Parents bring whatever skills they can to the family table, and I’m sure yours would have brought a lot.’

‘Wow. That’s really kind of you to say,’ said Jenny. ‘Though I guess I’ll never really know. I mean, look around. Talk about widespread dereliction of duty. I’m sure Abigail’s parents, or Alexander’s, or Astrid’s all seem perfectly respectable to the outside world, but where are they now? Not at home knitting, that’s for sure.’

‘No, probably not,’ said Lucille. ‘I’ll grant you that. But at least these little ones have me now, praise be.’

Construction on the baby housing complex started the same week as the rain. Jenny had a nine o’clock walk-through scheduled with Henry Bendell, who called to suggest they meet at the Centre cafe instead of the pergola, as it would be much drier inside, and he fancied a cup of coffee.

He was early. She was late.

‘What do you want, Henry?’ asked Jenny as she pulled out a chair and sat down on the wrought iron. She wore her embroidered ‘Jenny’ T-shirt under her new stain-resistant khaki pants-suit.

Henry was a big man, but he looked even bigger tucked into that tiny Centre cafe table. He went to adjust his position and knocked his coffee all down the front of his corduroys. ‘That’s why I always wear dark colours,’ said Henry Bendell, madly wiping himself with a flimsy, embossed white Centre cafe paper napkin.

‘You’re a wise person,’ said Jenny Lypstock, ‘though you should consider the stain-resistant garment. Virtually indestructible, this fabric. And in this current environment the benefits are obvious.’

‘Yes, I see your point,’ said Henry. ‘Very practical. So, how’s everything going with the babies?’

‘You mean with the early weaning?’

‘Yes, and in general. Any takers on that community adoption scheme?’

‘The problem there is that many of our members are now quite attached to the infants. No, I should say extremely attached.’

‘Bonded?’

‘Yes. In a familial way. They don’t want to give up the babies. They feel that the babies have become their babies. Some even think they look alike.’

‘That’s understandable, given the matching yellow jumpsuits.’

‘Fuck John Lennon.’

‘My sentiment exactly. But it doesn’t change their position. If anything they become more insistent. They’re my feelings. Who are you to tell me? That sort of thing.’

‘And the accelerated early weaning?’

‘Well you can imagine, no one’s getting much sleep.’

‘But is it working?’

‘The switch to the bottles?’

‘Yes. Are they maintaining their nutrient intake? Are you monitoring the total consumption levels?’

‘You know we are. It’s not any cheaper, if that’s what you’re getting at?’

Henry Bendell licked his top lip. ‘Look, don’t make this personal. It’s not about me. I’m paid to focus on the bottom line and those kids are costing the Centre a fortune.’

‘What do you propose I do about it? Throw them back out on the street because we can’t afford Krug and baby formula?’

‘No, I’m not suggesting that. I’m simply putting you on notice, that’s all. These renovations aren’t cheap. If we want to hang on to the babies, we’ve all got to tighten our purse strings.’

‘If we want to hang on to the babies?’

‘Yes. If we want to keep custody of the babies.’

‘Are you saying there’s been talk of giving them up?’

Henry pointed his finger at her. ‘No, you don’t. Don’t go putting words into my mouth. I’m just saying that we haven’t ruled anything out, that’s all. This is a cooperative decision, and as such, we all have to pull our weight.’

Back in the office, Jenny scanned the internet again for any reference to the babies. ‘Don’t you think it’s strange that there’s still no mention of them?’ she yelled to Candy Mack at the adjacent desk, who, even with the newly installed double-glazed windows, could barely hear her over the racket of the jackhammers outside. ‘The entire two and a half months, nothing. Not in the newspapers, not in the police reports, not even a footnote on missing persons. How do that many babies just up and relocate without a word from the mainstream media? Am I crazy here, or do you think it’s a little fishy?’

‘It could be that it’s so random no one’s put it together.’

‘Yes, but if that were the case, how did the babies derandomise and organise to congregate en masse at our doorstep?’

Candy Mack laughed. ‘It’s a conspiracy, is it? Next thing you’ll be telling me the same people assassinated Kennedy.’

‘Which one?’

‘See, there you go being tetchy.’

‘It was a reasonable question.’

‘I meant JFK, if you must know. What’s put you in such a foul mood?’

‘What?’

‘WHAT’S PUT YOU IN SUCH A FOUL MOOD?’ yelled Candy.

‘I’M NOT IN A FOUL MOOD!’ screamed Jenny.

‘Right. So what did he say?’

‘Who?’

‘Your boyfriend. The big H.B.’

‘Shut up. He makes my skin crawl.’

‘And?’

‘Oh, you know him, it’s always money, money, money. The babies are eating too much, they’re costing too much, if we don’t cut back there’ll be deep budget cuts and major menu changes. He also spilled coffee all down his pants.’

‘Good. You told him where to go, right?’

‘I don’t know, Candy. He’s got a point. This kind of capital development is enormous. And it’s all geared towards babies. But babies become toddlers, and then children, and then teenagers. And then before you know it they move out of home.’

‘Or someone comes forward claiming to be so-and-so’s mum or dad or grandfather or custodial guardian, and wants to schlep the kids back to wherever they came from in the first place.’

‘Yes. And what will we be left with?’

‘A lot of photos. Some good memories.’

‘And a huge, empty baby housing complex.’

‘Our own empty nest.’

‘Don’t joke. This is serious.’

‘Are you saying we shouldn’t be building it, then?’

‘No. I don’t know. Of course not. It’s just a lot to deal with right now. I mean it affects the very foundation of our project here. At minimum we’ll have to rewrite all the promotional materials. The catalogue itself will take months to reshoot. And then that in itself raises further questions, like do we include images of the babies or not?’

‘I hadn’t thought of it quite like that.’

Jenny nodded. ‘I don’t think anyone has.’

The dining hall reeked of smoke. Someone had burned the toast. Jenny collected a tray and helped herself to a poppyseed bagel, a spoonful of homemade peanut butter, and a small French press of black coffee. She’d assumed the dining hall would be a quiet place to think, but at six am it was already buzzing. She took a seat by the window overlooking the construction site and opened her newspaper, automatically scanning for mention of the babies before returning to the headlines on the front page.

‘Good morning, there,’ said Stan Weinberg, chief Centre librarian. ‘More circular food, I see.’ He sat down.

‘Circular food? You mean the bagel?’

‘Yep. I’m a finger person, myself. Carrot sticks, fish sticks. Anything long and narrow. Asparagus. Gherkins. Those long, skinny pretzels. And I love a baguette. Look,’ he said pointing at his plate. ‘I even cut my toast into slivers.’

The lightly grilled wholemeal was dissected into six evenly spaced columns, its tiny pools of melted butter gently quavering at his touch.

‘It’s an old habit,’ continued Stan. ‘They said I’d grow out of it, but woops, never did.’ He picked up one of the fingers, closed his lips around the end of it and pushed the entire piece into his mouth. ‘So how’s it hanging, Miss Lypstock?’ he asked, his mouth full of toast. ‘Any news?’

‘No. Not yet. Nothing to speak of. Nothing you don’t already know.’

Candy Mack came over to join them. ‘What are you two talking about?’ she said, balancing her tray on her hip as she offloaded her Rice Bubbles, milk and orange juice.

‘Jenny’s perverse appetites,’ said Stan. ‘She’s gone from scattershot to round.’

‘That’s news to me,’ said Candy. ‘Who is it this time?’

‘Yes,’ said Stan to Jenny. ‘What’s his name?’

Jenny laughed. ‘Don’t be crazy. I don’t have time in my life for romance. B-A-B-I-E-S,’ she spelled out to the tune of Tammy Wynette’s ‘ D-I-V-O-R-C-E ’ . ‘Babies, babies, babies. I’m all about the babies.’

‘Good,’ said Stan. ‘You’re perfect for the job. Now when is that darn baby housing complex going to be finished? The construction noise is unbelievable and it’s such a mess out there. Every time it rains I end up covered in mud.’

‘We’re working on it,’ said Jenny. ‘Believe me, we’re doing everything we can. If they don’t get it finished pretty soon I’m going to be farming out the children to people’s bedrooms. So keep your fingers crossed or you might end up with a cot by your bunk.’

‘That’d make Lucille happy,’ said Candy. ‘Apparently she’s sleeping in the nursery as it is. I think she’s the only resident not looking forward to the end of this construction phase.’

‘Isn’t she one of those vegan, bongo playing, twenty-first century hippies?’ said Stan.

‘That she is,’ said Candy.

‘The personal is the political is the global is the universal,’ said Jenny.

‘Whatever that means,’ said Stan. ‘A licence to do whatever she likes, I suspect.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Candy. ‘I think the girl might have religion this time. She really hasn’t left the nursery for weeks. I had to go down there yesterday and she wouldn’t shut up: motherhood is her life, everything else seems so unimportant by comparison, she can’t imagine what she’s been doing with her time until now. Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.’

‘It’s incredible, isn’t it?’ said Jenny. ‘So un-Lucille-like. But she gave me the same spiel. She actually called the babies her family.’

‘How long’s this been going on?’ said Candy.

‘At least a month.’

‘Well I’ll be damned,’ said Stan. ‘A hippie changes her spots.’

‘Or not,’ said Candy. ‘There’s probably some guy involved. Let’s see how long it lasts.’

By three and a half months two-thirds of the babies were sleeping through the night and the whole mood of the Centre changed. Dining services resumed regular meal schedules, roommates were able to coordinate lights-out, and members began to lose that harried, pale look of the chronically exhausted. The sense of relief was palpable as people returned to their old routines, eschewing jumpsuits for regular clothing (at least for extra-Centre activities), and once again taking a certain pride in their grooming and appearance. The Centre’s beauty spa had never been busier.

Clive Roundtree stood at the door to Jenny’s office sporting a neatly trimmed beard and moustache. His nails had recently been buffed. ‘You should take that thing off,’ he said, pointing at Jenny’s BabyBjörn. ‘At least when you’re typing. It can’t be comfortable.’

‘You’d be surprised,’ said Jenny. ‘Anyway, by the time I get it off I invariably have to strap it back on again, and when it’s only me around, well, let’s just say I don’t have the dexterity.’ She minimised the Gateway to the Big Apple website, pushed herself back from the computer, and swivelled around to face him square on. ‘So Clive, come on in. What’s on your mind?’

Clive Roundtree pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘There’s something I want to discuss with you,’ he said. ‘It’s about the babies.’

‘The babies?’ Jenny recrossed her legs and leaned forward. ‘What about the babies, Clive? Is there something the matter?’

‘No, no, it’s nothing serious. Not like that. It’s just, I’ve been talking with the election committee, and with the construction project effectively completed and the elections coming up, and in light of all the work you’ve done, we want to nominate you for the baby housing complex coordinator.’

‘Me? But I’m a terrible public speaker,’ said Jenny. ‘I’ve never run for anything in my life.’

‘Stan warned me you’d try to smokescreen me with objections.’

‘They’re not objections. I’m just not confident that I’m the best candidate. There are a lot of good people out there.’

‘Don’t be silly. You’d be a shoo-in. People are very impressed by your organisational abilities. The babies were weaned in record time, and that large-scale vegetable mashing initiative was so clever. And inexpensive. The collection drive for the additional sieves was an inspiration.’

‘Oh Clive, I don’t know. It’s a lot of responsibility. I’m already so busy.’

‘Yes, but you’d have an aide, and most of your current tasks would be reassigned. We feel strongly about this. It’s time for a changing of the guard. Do you know the current Centre administration has been in office, on and off, for the last ten years? Think about it. Ten years. That’s a long time.’

‘That is a long time. It seems like only yesterday I was watching them being sworn in.’

‘I know. The older we get, the faster time flies.’

‘Has it really been ten years?

Clive nodded. ‘Really. It makes you think, doesn’t it?’

‘Where did the last decade go?’

‘Yes. Or, time to get ready for the next one.’

‘That’s very persuasive of you. But then I guess you knew that.’ She took a deep breath. ‘So, if I did do it, what sort of time commitment would you be looking for?’

‘That’s hard to say. To some extent it’s up to you. It wouldn’t have to be ten years. But then again it could be.’

‘Ten years? Gosh, Clive, I don’t know. I really hadn’t seen myself moving in that direction.’

‘No? Well, what direction did you see yourself moving in?’

Jenny paused to think. It was hardly the time to announce she’d been contemplating leaving the Centre, and talk of vacations was clearly inappropriate. ‘I’m not entirely sure,’ she finally said. ‘Another direction.’

‘Well, will you at least consider it? There are a lot of people behind you on this one.’

‘There are? Who? Which people?’

‘The committee, of course. But many of the members as well. When we canvassed your name there was overwhelming support.’

‘Honestly?’

‘Honestly! You know I wouldn’t joke about something like this, Jennifer. Child rearing is a serious business. The most serious business there is. And it’s up to caring people like us to do it right. There are thousands of little lives at stake.’

All this talk of promotions had given her a headache. Rather than swallow aspirin, Jenny decided to go out for a walk. Fresh air was always restorative. She meandered through the Centre grounds way up past the meditation gardens to the summit lookout, from which vantage she could see the entire valley. It was barely dusk, but already lights were blinking in the town.

She sat there for a long while taking slow deep breaths until her headache started to subside. Is this what Lucille meant when she talked about her essential stillness? Lucille was always badgering her to join her morning yoga group, but marching up the hillside at dawn to greet the day in upward facing dog wasn’t her cup of tea. Or at least it hadn’t been. Perhaps she should give it a try?

By the time Jenny got back to her room it was dark. Even though it was getting late, she telephoned Clive Roundtree. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you like this, Clive, but I’ve been thinking about this all day and this baby housing complex coordinator job, it’s not for me. I’m sorry but I’m going to have to withdraw.’

‘Really? Are you absolutely sure?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid I am,’ said Jenny Lypstock.

‘But the banners. We’ve already ordered the banners.’

‘You have? So fast?’

‘Yes, of course we have. Jenny Lypstock for Baby Housing Complex Coordinator. Jenny Lypstock for Centre Management. Jenny Lypstock Rules.’

‘Jesus. That’s taking things a bit far.’

‘You gave me the impression you’d be going all the way. When I approached you, you said yes.’

‘I said I’d think about it.’

‘And then you said yes.’

‘But come on, Clive. It was a tentative yes at best. I didn’t expect you to go off and start organising campaign materials. Not without further discussion. I certainly didn’t expect you to schedule a media conference.’

‘Well, what did you think was going to happen? We’d sit around with the babies sharing stories over cups of tea?’

‘Don’t be like that. There’s no need to get nasty.’

‘Need? You say you’re going to do something and then you back down. Back down! What are we supposed to do now?’

‘I was thinking maybe you could find someone else to step in. I believe Lucille is very committed.’

‘Lucille? Hippie Lucille? She couldn’t organise her way out of a paper bag.’

‘No, that’s not true, I understand she’s very clear-sighted. And she’s deeply involved in the parenting process. In my opinion she’d be very good.’

‘Be that as it may, the committee wanted you. We approached you.’

‘Look, Clive, I’m really sorry, but my decision’s final.’

‘Final, final?’

‘Yes, yes.’

‘Final, final, final?’

‘Yes, yes, yes. I’m afraid it is.’

Jenny put down the phone, stood up, unclipped her double BabyBjörn, then lay down and stretched out fully on her bunk. It felt good to lie flat like that, without the bulk of the baby support bunching up and distorting her posture. She had grown so accustomed to it that she had equated its absence with a certain discomfort, but now that she was free of it she immediately felt lighter, looser, more fluid in her movements.

She waited for the guilt to kick in, but it didn’t. She gave it five extra minutes to be absolutely sure, then she sat up and put on some lipstick.

Maybe she should take up Candy’s offer to teach her to drive, she thought as she examined her face in the mirror. That would be interesting. Then she could go wherever she wanted whenever she wanted without ever having to wait for a lift. She could even ask Henry Bendell out on a date. ‘Come on, Henry,’ she imagined herself saying. ‘I’ll pick you up in my truck.’ And if all went well then maybe one day they could make a baby too, a real one of their own, and possibly buy a house and a minivan and run errands together, slip-knotting through the suburbs.