Holding back from Aimee is as unnatural to me as posting on social media. I become awkward and two-dimensional. My tone never lands. The ride to Greenport alone with Aimee should have been the highlight of my weekend, and yet I feel a knot in my stomach that is both caused by Aimee and one I cannot untangle without her.
A mother’s intuition is different from other gut reactions. It’s something that cannot be tested until you have children of your own. I didn’t expect mine to be strong, because I’m too logical to listen to some vague “feeling.” But I also didn’t expect that intuition would never find me. Over eight years into motherhood and I don’t “know” things the way Aimee does. I’ve seen her look at Clara across a table and dash away for a bowl to place under the girl’s chin the very moment she throws up. Meanwhile, I had witnessed nothing more than Clara eating, playing, and laughing. What did Aimee know that I didn’t? What gene does she have that I’m missing?
Aimee knew I wasn’t telling her the whole story about Beckett, but she has no idea how much more I’m not saying. That’s why I welcome the existential argument she and I are having in the hallway of this astrologer’s house. When we’re talking about C-sections and fate, I don’t have to hold back for fear of what I’m missing that should be obvious.
“Are you suggesting we’re all here acting out some predetermined script, like dinner theater?” I scoff.
I don’t believe in destiny, and even if I did, scheduling C-sections for my work is not toying with the universe. The mother has as much free will in the date and time as I do. Life is made up by a series of concrete choices.
“I’m asking if the past determines our futures. And I’m asking Rini,” Aimee says.
We both look to Rini, who has a playful smirk pulling at her lips.
“Why don’t we move this conversation to my study?” she says. I wonder if we’re embarrassing her with our petty bickering and she’s trying to hide us.
Rini’s study looks remarkably like my office at work. Two green leather chairs positioned in front of a massive walnut desk. A tufted couch against the side wall. Hundreds of textbooks line the space behind Rini sitting at her desk. It smells like knowledge: woodsy with a hint of vanilla, the scent of decaying paper. Aimee and I sit in the chairs across from Rini.
“I want to try to answer your question. I do think the rise in C-sections will have a lasting impact on society,” Rini says.
“How?” I challenge.
“The Sun is the primary source of consciousness for people born during the daylight hours, while those born after sunset are led by the Moon. Very simply, the Sun represents father; the Moon, mother.”
“And she schedules C-sections between the hours of ten and four,” Aimee says.
“I’m a senior doctor. I can make my own hours.”
“I’m just saying, those are clearly daylight hours, even in the winter,” Aimee says.
This conversation is starting to feel wrong, not like a distraction, but a lure into a trap.
“The result will be a generation for whom fathers will play an increased role—for good or bad. Their absence will be more heavily felt by their children, or on the positive side, their contribution will have a more beneficial impact,” Rini argues.
“Don’t you think that’s because of science? Birth control allows mothers to do more than produce children. And in turn, societal progress allows companies to do more to retain mothers. That doesn’t have anything to do with elective C-sections.”
“So no matter what, in the future, mothers will be less important in their children’s lives? That’s devastating,” Aimee says.
Rini has been carefully watching Aimee and me volley our words, and now her aloof demeanor gives way to a hearty laugh. She’s looking at us in a way that makes me uncomfortable. She wasn’t judging us earlier; she really sees us. That scares me.
“As you know, the first astrological highlight of this weekend is the compatibility reading,” Rini says.
“Adam and I volunteered to go first,” Aimee says.
“I never do this, but what if we compared your charts right now?” Rini asks. She folds her hands over her papers in anticipation. I get the sense she’s as giddy about breaking her own rules as anything else.
“You mean a reading of us?” Aimee says. “That would be so fun.”
“Fun? I’d say inappropriate. We aren’t a couple,” I say.
My face burns with embarrassment.
“Compatibility is not limited to romantic relationships. In fact, I do Zoom consultations with Fortune 500 C-suites,” Rini says.
“So, what, you get people fired for being the wrong astrological sign?” I ask.
“There are no bad astrological signs. I guide them to better empathy and communication.”
“Farah, loosen up,” Aimee says. “You aren’t going to charge the group for this, though, right? Margot would have a fit.”
“No, and it won’t even be a full experience. But watching you two, I am utterly fascinated by your dynamic. Do I have your permission to merge your charts?”
Aimee nods her head with furious excitement. What am I going to do, say no? I mutter my consent.
“I always say our friendship was fated,” Aimee adds.
Aimee and I clicked at her first OB appointment almost ten years ago. I was four months pregnant, six weeks ahead of her. We bonded over our very different experiences of early gestation. She was tired; I was energized. She craved sweet; my mouth watered at sour. That first appointment lasted over an hour and neither of us wanted it to end.
I regretfully informed her I would be on maternity leave when she went into labor, but in the end it didn’t work out that way. I was going stir-crazy during the day with the baby and returned to the office on a limited schedule after six weeks at home, and chance would have it that Aimee’s was the pained face I saw the first time I returned to a birthing suite postpartum. Everything in my life felt upside down—my body, my daily routines, my marriage, even the whole experience of delivering a child felt different. Standing at the bottom of Aimee’s bed, I roared with her during every tension-filled push as the baby’s heart rate dropped. I was deeply invested, as if my own birth plan was unmedicated labor and delivery with no medical intervention, which, incidentally, it had not been.
When I shouted at Aimee that she could do this, I was talking as much to her as I was to myself. I actually welled up with emotion as the baby crowned. By the time she released in a warm whoosh, a single tear streamed down my face. Thankfully no one was looking at me in that moment, but it was a first I haven’t repeated since. It’s not simply at work that I contain my emotions; it’s who I am. I didn’t shed a single tear when my own sons were removed from the womb. That day brought something out in me that hadn’t existed before, though time has proved it was more Aimee’s influence than happenstance. She has an effect on me, more than I care to admit, as evidenced by the fact that we are now randomly getting an astrological compatibility reading.
“Aimee, you’re a Cancer Sun, and Farah is Virgo—that’s a sextile and an obvious match. In addition, both of your Moons are in Libra. But the real magic between your charts is in your North Node–South Node placements.”
“What does any of that mean?” Aimee asks.
“For one thing, Farah, you might feel slightly hurt that Aimee raised such a big, introspective question to me when the two of you had clearly never explored it.”
“Absolutely not. I was surprised, that’s all. She knows I had two scheduled C-sections myself and she never asked me about destiny.”
“Don’t take it personally; she was caught up in the moment. Given more time, she would have come to you with a conversation like that.” Rini directs her attention to Aimee. “Unless you feel she’s too closed off?”
“She is closed off, but I like prying her open,” Aimee says with a smile in her voice. I feel myself flush and scratch my neck to hide the red splotches exploding on my skin.
“You talk about anything and everything, and no matter how different you are, you never feel like you’re talking past each other. You’re always seeking the connection,” Rini adds.
“So that’s not the margaritas?” Aimee laughs.
“Aimee, as you mentioned, Cancers can encourage Virgos to let loose and tune into the flow of their intuition, while Virgos offer Cancers grounding without feeling bound or stuck.”
“That’s so us,” Aimee says.
Rini shuts her laptop and checks her watch.
“I need to get a sound bowl and prepare for my welcome.”
“Aww, that’s it?” Aimee says. “What a tease.”
“She already said it wouldn’t be the whole experience,” I say in Rini’s defense.
Rini closes her folder and pushes her chair away from the desk. Before she stands, she stops herself.
“I know I said that was it, but I can’t leave without explaining your North Node and South Node synastry. It’s remarkable for two best friends.”
I wait for her to elaborate, because the only nodes I know are bean-shaped bits of your immune system.
“Your North Node symbolizes the forward trajectory of this lifetime. It marks the character traits or energy you need to embody to fulfill your soul’s mission. Your South Node symbolizes what some people refer to as past-life karma. The experience, knowledge, and baggage you are born with.”
“And ours are the same?”
“No, they are opposite. That’s what makes it incredible that you’ve found each other.”
“Why?” Aimee asks. I have the same question lodged in my throat.
“Farah’s North Node is your South Node, and your North Node is Farah’s South Node. Said another way: you carry into this lifetime what she needs to learn in this lifetime, and she carries into this lifetime what you need to learn in this lifetime. Not all of us get a guide like that.”
“Friendship soulmates,” Aimee says. She reaches for my hand and I attempt a smile.
“Thank you, ladies,” Rini says as she stands.
“For what?” Aimee asks.
“Letting me break my own rules. That was fun,” Rini says.
Rini opens the door, and outside we hear Eden and Rick. Aimee’s expression sours. She hates both of them, Rick the finance bro and Eden the wellness influencer. They look the part to me, but Aimee is turned off by their new-money choices. Wearing Alexander McQueen on their backs and Stella McCartney on their feet, while carrying Chloé bags, is one of their most disgraceful violations according to Aimee. Rini whisks the fashion victims off for a tour, leaving Aimee and me alone.
As of this moment, the only two people not present for this weekend getaway are our husbands.
“Let’s see what trouble we can get into,” Aimee whispers.
She scurries out of the study and I follow her, forcing myself to say something that sounds like me. The old me. The normal me. The me who had never heard any of what Rini shared.
“Should we go upstairs and claim the best suites?” I ask.
“They’re already assigned,” she says.
Side by side we stand, taking in the view outside the magnificent floor-to-ceiling windows. In the backyard, Margot rests her head on Ted’s shoulder in adjoining Adirondack chairs. They have their eyes closed as they soak in the warm late-day sun. It’s rare for me to see Margot with her husband. It’s sweet. Whenever I’m around, it’s brother and sister, Margot and Adam, who pair off. I was a psychology major in undergrad, and they haven’t invented a label for the dysfunction between those two, even for siblings.
But the Margot distraction doesn’t last long, and the astrologer’s words repeat in my mind. You talk about anything and everything, and no matter how different you are, you never feel like you’re talking past each other. You’re always seeking the connection.
That has been true for the better part of our long friendship. But lately, despite what Rini said, I’ve been silent. Holding back. Like earlier—that’s an easy example. Aimee said the incident with Beckett was scary, and I agreed, but I wasn’t honest about why.
I can no longer ignore Beckett’s impulsivity, especially in light of other behaviors Joe and I have both brushed off: he’s highly distractible, he loses things constantly, he’s prone to epic meltdowns, he has a short attention span. These traits aren’t uncommon in any young child. Especially a boy, Joe says. Then why do I feel like I’m missing something that’s right in front of my face?
That’s the shameful secret I could never share with Aimee—that I don’t know. I don’t know if this is all in the range of “normal”; I don’t know if Beckett needs behavioral support or medicinal intervention, or how to get either without scarring everyone involved because I say the wrong thing in the wrong way. I don’t want to treat him like a patient; I want to care for him like my child. I’m just not sure I know how to do that. My analytical doctor brain overrides any nurturing thoughts I might have.
I’m aware I could lose Aimee if I continue to hold back from her. And I’m withholding much more than my inner monologue around motherhood. The space between us grows with every opportunity to share that I ignore. It could quickly become an uncrossable gulf. But there’s a chance—maybe even a greater one—that if I reveal my secrets, I could lose Aimee anyway. Forever.