A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood - Part 8

 

I rushed to Alvin's playpen. He had worked himself into a full-blown wail now, face red with the effort. I lifted him awkwardly.

"Shh, it's okay," I murmured, bouncing him gently, "What do you need, little guy?"

I felt a now-familiar soreness in my chest. Right. That. Could I do it again? Could I really be this woman, even just for a day?

"Alright, alright," I said, half to myself, half to Alvin, "Let's get you fed."

I settled into the living room couch, holding Alvin close. I pulled the shirt to the side, and brought him to my breast again. He latched on, and I gasped at the sensation, at the connection. 

"Okay," I whispered, "Okay."

I stared in wonderment at my breasts, at myself, at the sheer impossibility of it all.

I had breasts. I really had them.

I couldn't quite believe it. Even as Alvin nursed, even as I felt the pull and the ache of it, the disbelief overwhelmed me.

I tried to reconcile what my eyes were seeing with the life I had known just yesterday. Was I actually breastfeeding a baby with my own body? Was this truly me now? This body that had always seemed like a distant fantasy? 

It was real. It was undeniable. And the reality of it was dizzying.

I felt a strange calm washing over me. The initial shock was fading, replaced by something else—a connection, maybe. An acceptance. The panic that had gripped me since waking was loosening its hold.

I stroked Alvin's cheek with my finger, marveling at how tiny he was, how perfectly formed. Had my own children been this small? I remembered holding them, of course, but not like this. Not with this same body, this same perspective.

"What am I going to do?" I whispered to him.

He blinked up at me, untroubled. To him, I was just his mother. He didn't know any different.

I felt a buzz from somewhere in the house. A cell phone. Maggie's cell phone.

I gently laid Alvin on the couch, surrounded by pillows, and went searching. I found it on the kitchen counter, screen lit up with a text.

The lock screen showed a text from "Amy (Sis)": *Don't forget to bring Mom's recipe tonight! Rob said you'd handle the wine.*

Amy. So that was her sister's name. I stared at the notification, my thumb hovering over the screen.

The phone unlocked with FaceID.

Relief washed over me, quickly followed by guilt. I was invading Maggie's privacy on every level possible. But what choice did I have?

I clicked on her photos, unable to resist. There were hundreds of pictures of Alvin, from newborn to now. Rob featured prominently too, sometimes grinning at the camera, sometimes caught unaware. There were selfies of Maggie—of me—smiling in various locations, often with Amy or other women I didn't recognize. Friends, presumably.

There were photos of her pregnant, her hand resting on her swollen belly, her face glowing. Photos of her in a hospital bed, exhausted but radiant, holding a newborn Alvin. Photos of family gatherings, holidays, vacations to places I'd never been.

I found myself lingering on a picture of her and Rob on what looked like their wedding day. She was stunning in a simple white dress, laughing at something he'd said. They looked happy, genuinely happy.