Inner Circles

**This story holds themes regarding miscarriage, please read at your own discretion**

“I heard that she was going to name it after her dead mother–”

“I heard that she was never pregnant to begin with–”

“I heard that her husband didn’t want it–”

“I heard that his family wouldn’t let her marry him, so she planned the pregnancy–”

"I heard that this isn't even the first time–"

“I heard that he’s already left–”

“I heard that she–”

“I heard–”

“I–”

Lindsey wasn’t sure she heard anything at all. Just the mumblings of women with sagging bellies and breasts, who had already nursed their children into adulthood; already donned make-up that was seven layers too thick with rouge a bit too bright. 

Auntie Marla’s house was filled with all of her late mother’s belongings: hand-crocheted doilies, an old wooden china cabinet chock-full of every piece that Lindsey’s other Aunts hadn’t wanted. Old butter trays that sat on the table, empty. Christmas decorations, Easter decorations, Halloween, and Fourth of July were scattered on different shelves because they were “festive”. They were meant to “lighten the mood” her aunt always said, but all Lindsey could think about was cleaning out the house after her aunt finally kicked it.

“I heard she didn’t even marry him,” said Carol, a woman with bleach blonde hair cut into a pixie. It was so stiff with hairspray that Lindsey was nearly convinced anti-gravity devices were real. Lindsey turned the gold band on her finger, wondering if these women made their hair too puffy because it was one of the few parts of their bodies they could still control.

Auntie Marla’s best friend Sherry excused herself from the conversation with Carol and Pattie –a woman in her seventies who always managed to find an uglier shirt than the last. Sherry walked over, elegantly for how old she was, though Lindsey still hadn't quite pin-pointed her age. She looked to be in her late sixties, but that was the funny thing about older women, there was always something else going on when age was mentioned. Suddenly a dish just had to be cleaned, there was a friend across the room that they hadn’t seen in ages, the powder room called for immediate use. Birthdays were strictly prohibited, unless it was Lindsey’s of course. Because Lindsey was young, she had nothing to be ashamed of, she had youth! Even when she was little and lacking a mother to tell her not to ask “rude” questions, Lindsey had kept them to herself. That didn't stop her from needling, but some answers weren't meant to be sewn.

She didn’t want to know why Auntie Marla's face always shifted back to those same pitying smiles. Sherry and Carol, Felicity, Lisa, Pattie, and Jane, they always smiled the same way, as if her existence were an entertaining, but heart-wrenching tragedy. She wondered if her mother would have smiled that way after her father left. It was thoughts like this that she was sure made Sherry smile when she approached. Except this time, Lindsey knew Sherry saw a girl who couldn't become a mother, just as her own mother had abandoned her too early.

“Darling, we were all so sorry to hear the news,” she said, kissing Lindsey’s cheeks, “How far along were you?”

“Thirteen weeks.”

“Oh, it must be so devastating for you and Henry, where is he by the way?” Sherry glanced over Lindsey’s shoulder as if her husband would somehow materialize. 

“He had a late meeting with Rick. You know how it is.”

“Yes, I’m sure I do,” Sherry’s eyes narrowed, and Lindsey wondered how long it would take before someone invited her to a divorce party in her honor. Not for her of course, because that would be rude, because they would never suggest such a thing, she and Henry were made for each other, and he was such a nice boy, and he looked so handsome in his crisp button-up, and his family had to be so happy that Lindsey was their blushing bride.

“Sherry, you are positively glowing,” Lindsey said, “not a day over, let me think, forty?”

Sherry tittered, “guess again, sweetie.”

“Thirty-seven, then,” Sherry playfully slapped her arm and walked away, muttering about bringing “the poor dear” a cup of tea.

“I heard there was another woman–” Some of the women in a distant circle gasped and glanced Lindsey’s way. She walked over to where Kittie sat, her wheelchair pushed up to the table.

“How are you, my dear?” The oldest by far, Kittie had white hair and wrinkles that she didn’t try to hide. Maybe she gave up a long time ago, but something told Lindsey that she’d never cared to begin with. She wore a green sweater that brought out her eyes, and earrings that made her lobes sag. Lindsey could see the holes stretching, and wondered what it would feel like for her skin to stretch too, for a baby to finally grow big and strong inside of her, making her skin weak because she finally had something worth changing for. Something that could graft her into a new person, a new existence of motherhood that she'd never had.

“I wish they would talk about something else,” Lindsey fussed with the fabric of her shirt, just below her navel.

“That bad?” Kittie asked.

“I think by now they’re planning a funeral for an evil twin who supposedly stole Henry from me,” Lindsey laughed a dry sort of laugh.

“Is everything okay with Henry?”

“He’s been having a hard time at work is all.”

Kittie looked out at the room full of women, circles forming circles forming circles. Conversation groups that circled, bodies that circled with fat, chatter that circled around blatant rudeness, and a single young womb that wouldn’t circle the way it was supposed to. 

“I heard that she’s dying, but she didn’t want anyone to know, so she planned a fake pregnancy–”

“I heard that her mother miscarried three times before having her–”

“I heard that her mother never wanted children–”

“I heard that her mother-in-law poisoned her–”

“I heard that her sister-in-law is an addict–”

“I heard that mothers are dying more often these days–”

“I heard that Marla never wanted custody of her–”

“I heard that Lindsey never wanted a child–”

“I heard that she was going to name it after her dead mother–”