An Elephant's Memory

Tap. Tap. Tap.

I hear the sound, but do not register it, too busy staring into the mirror, searching my bloodshot eyes, trying to locate myself in there. I press my hands into the cold porcelain sink so hard that my wedding band is pinching my finger.

The figure in the mirror berates me.

“How could you have forgotten? What kind of mother…”

The word makes me freeze. The woman in the mirror and I are both unsure how to continue.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The door to the bathroom jostles as someone tries the handle. I turn and stare at it, startled. I had forgotten where I was. My eyes pan over the bathroom with its grubby tile and empty toilet paper dispenser. I turn my eyes back to the mirror and take myself in, as if I were an outsider.

I am dressed in cashmere and linen; my nails have been perfectly manicured, and my hair is glossed. Before I stepped into the bathroom, my makeup was done. I do not look like someone who cries in gas station bathrooms.

It’s just that I was delaying going to my mother-in-law’s house, stopped in to get a soda, and saw the date behind the register posted on the wall, and felt the tears building behind my eyes. I left the soda on the counter and rushed to the bathroom.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Harder this time. More urgent.

“Take a breath.”

I try to stop crying so I can leave with a little dignity. I take the advice given on the other side of the door and take a deep breath.

My phone dings—a text from you.

where are you?

Your words conjure up the scene: you standing on your mother’s porch overlooking the bay, martini glass in hand. You don’t notice how blue the hydrangeas beside you are. None of your family ever seems to witness the beauty that surrounds them. You checking your watch, brow furrowed, wondering where I am, not because you care about me, of course, but because your mother will be raising her thin penciled-on eyebrows at you as if to say, “I told you so.”

You will be furious when I arrive. I knew that when I stopped for the soda.

I text you before I lose my nerve.

Today would have been her third birthday.

I have broken the unspoken rule that we do not talk about our daughter, the one who never took a single breath. The daughter you refused to name, even though every grief book said it would help. Our daughter, Olivia.

The door slams against its frame as the person on the other side yanks on the handle.

My heart is pounding with anger, sadness, annoyance at whoever is smashing the door on the other side. At you, at myself, at Olivia.

I turn on my heel, striding through the dirty room and open the door, almost knocking over the child on the other side. The small girl looks at me with disdain and rushes into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

A very pregnant woman standing in the hall lets out a deep sigh.

“Sorry. She had a long day at school. She needs a snack; that’s why we stopped.” The woman gestures to the bag hanging from her wrist, filled with chips and mini donuts.

I am so startled by her enormous pregnant belly that I stare at her a beat too long before rushing to my car.

As soon as the door slams shut behind me, I press my forehead to the steering wheel, taking deep breaths.

In. Out. In. Out. In.

I need to leave, but my stomach is clenching at the thought of starting the car and driving the remaining ten miles to the house.

In. Out.

On the day that they vacuumed our dead daughter out of me because she refused to pass on her own, as if she was clinging to me (or perhaps I to her?), I heard your mother tell you she thought I had gotten pregnant to trap you into a quick marriage and then killed our daughter as soon as the ink was dry on the page. She accused me of murder.

Just because my family didn’t have money like yours. And you, my husband? You just sat there. Silent.

She stole my grief at losing my daughter and called me a murderer. I pretended I was sleeping. I buried the memory.

Tears and snot are running down my face again, my chest heaving. My hands grip the wheel as if it is the only thing holding me to the earth.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

I look up, startled.

The little girl from the bathroom is standing outside my car window holding up my phone. I must have left it on the sink.

I roll down the window and reach for the phone, unable to stop the deluge of tears.

“Thank you so much,” I croak.

The little girl looks uncertain, then holds up a finger as if to tell me to wait, then sprints towards a rusty minivan two spots away. I reach into the glove box, pull out a pack of tissues, and blow my nose while I wait for whatever this girl plans to bring me. Her mother, sitting in the front seat, raises her eyebrows at the child but shrugs.

The girl sprints back to me, a stuffed elephant in her arms.

“Here,” she says, shoving the toy through my window. I hold the elephant in front of me, staring at it. It is so soft and small. I feel a compulsion to hold it to my chest, to bury my face in its small belly, to act like I am the child.

“My mom was worried; I bring her everywhere with me, but I think you need her more than I do. Sorry for rushing you in the bathroom.” She looks down at the ground and scuffs the toe of her sneaker in the dirt.

“Oh, that’s okay,” I say, trying to sound lighthearted, as if I do not still feel tears dripping down my cheeks.

When I go to hand the elephant to her, she runs to her car. Pulling the door open, she spins on her heel and rushes back to my car window. I laugh through my tears and hold the elephant out to her. She shakes her head.

“I just wanted you to know her name is Olivia. Take good care of her for me. Promise me you’ll give her a happy future?”

Her voice cracks a little as she says it, but she is smiling.

I nod at her. She gives me a thumbs-up.

Her mother gives her a hug when she climbs in.

I look down at my phone. You’ve texted.

Claire, where the FUCK are you?

I think of the porch, the bay, the unappreciated flowers, your mother’s condescension at everything I say. I press the elephant to my chest, holding it close.

Not coming tonight. I can’t keep doing this.

I type the address of Hidden Hills Trailer Park into my GPS and pull out of the gas station parking lot.

Olivia and I are going home.