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Show Motherlunge a novel 110 Also in these four months, the baby grew. It went from stapler-length to legal-paper length. Its eyelids creased. Its bones extended towards each other and fused, co-branded. In these four months, Pavia became the sort of pregnant woman with the high, round belly-the sort who also packs well for work trips, of which there were several during the time period in question. Her belly pushed out the front of her work blazers like a sleek accessory, ergonomic, something on which she could rest her wrists during presentations to briefly ease the slight weight of her laser pointer. She was working very hard. And her hair was growing longer and thicker; it was growing darker and more shiny. "Don't let me do it. Don't let me get the Mommy haircut," she told me repeatedly, "A big body with a tiny head...a human dollop. No." Pavia was letting her hair grow and grow. And when she let it fall down around her shoulders or tucked it behind one ear as she read the morning newspaper and her cheek showed-smooth as a child's, pink from sleep and 45% increased blood volume-she was more beautiful than ever. "She's a Madonna," Cassandra said after she met her the first time. "She's gorgeous. And, you know, she's also got that same calm vibe." She nodded, gathering conviction. "I mean, the Virgin's always so serene, so clear..." Cassandra slowly spread her hands on either side of her own midsection, "...she's always like, 'Behold.'" I beamed at her "You think?" Pavia did seem more settled, if incurious, lately. But that was a good thing, a taking-care-of-business thing. The old Pavia. |
