“Shh,” I say to Zoe as I set the indigo lid aside, “don’t tell your father about this,” I say. Out of the corner of my eye, Willow reaches out and touches fabric, but then withdraws her hand quickly, as if afraid she might break something or make it dirty. I have this sudden vision—a clairvoyant image—where some adult slaps Willow’s timid hand away from something that she desires. She withdraws, her eyes downcast, feelings hurt. “It’s okay,” I say, pulling out the most luxuriant thing I can find and placing it in her hand, watching as she runs her fingers across the vertical ribs as if she’s never felt corduroy before. She lifts it, cautiously, to her face and rubs a cheek to it, a pair of maroon overalls with flowers on the bib.

“What is all this?” Zoe asks, pulling a velvet dress with a taffeta skirt—size 2T—from the bin, her mouth falling open when she spies the obscene number on the price tag. “Ninety-four dollars?” she asks, ogling the thirty-six inches of fabric no one ever wore, the midnight-blue color and elephantine bow and, somewhere in that bin, pricey tights to match.

“And that was ten years ago,” I say, adding, “or more,” remembering those days I sauntered into boutiques in the Loop during my lunch break and purchased a romper here, a bodysuit there—on the sly—telling Chris, if ever he asked, that the outrageous debit on our credit card bill was for an expectant coworker or an old college friend, ready to burst forth with child.

“Were these...mine?” she asks, reaching for a pair of floral bloomers that accompany a summer dress. She holds them up before her and I think, How do I explain? I could say yes and leave it at that. But then of course there are the price tags, evidence that these garments were never used.

“My hobby,” I admit. “Like collecting bottle tops or sports cards,” and the girls look at me as though I just climbed out of a spaceship from Mars. “They’re hard to resist,” I say, “when they’re just so cute,” holding up a pair of furry booties and offering them as proof.

“But...” Zoe begins, having inherited her rationality from Chris, “I never even wore them,” she says. “Who were they for?” she demands to know. I eye Zoe and Willow, their eyes staring at me questioningly. Good cop, bad cop, I think. I find it impossible to stare into Zoe’s big brown eyes—both cynical and demanding all at the same time—and admit that they were for Juliet, that even after the doctor said I could have no more children, I continued to pine for children, to envision an imaginary world where Zoe and Juliet coexisted, playing with Tinkertoy sets or Little People on the living room floor, my belly fat and round with number three. I refuse to admit that the notion of an only child left me feeling bilious and cold, the home—where I always envisioned an overabundance of kids—lonely, even when Zoe was there. Even with Chris. My family, the three of us, felt suddenly insufficient. Not good enough. There was a hole. A hole I stuffed full with Juliet, with ambitions and expectations and a bin full of clothing she would one day wear.

In my heart of hearts, I convinced myself that she would arrive, one day. That day just hadn’t come yet.

But I interrupt Zoe’s rationality and say, “How about we see if we can find something for Ruby to wear,” and the three of us begin pulling at the bin with a renewed purpose, though the sight—and the smell: an uncanny blend of upscale boutiques and optimism—of the clothing reminds me of the gaping hole inside my womb.

Or of that place where my womb used to be.

We settle on the maroon overalls, a white jumpsuit beneath with a scalloped edge. I watch as Willow undresses the baby, then tries to force the jumpsuit over Ruby’s malleable head. Ruby lets out a wail. She protests on the floor, kicking her legs in defiance. Willow moves with hesitation, with apprehensive hands. She stares at the jumpsuit, at the neck hole that appears far too small for Ruby’s round head, and then tries to force it on, forgetting altogether to allow clearance for the nose, to get it over her mouth quickly so the baby can breathe.

“Let me do it,” I say to Willow, the words coming out more abruptly that I intended them to do. I feel Zoe’s eyes on me, though I refuse to make contact. I shift into Willow’s position and, stretching the elastic of the jumpsuit, slide it over Ruby’s head without hesitation. I snap the buttons of the crotch closed, sit her up and snap the buttons up the back. “There now,” I say, as Ruby’s fingers settle upon the gold chain that dangles from my neck, her eyes lighting up like a Christmas tree. “You like that?” I ask, taking the bright eyes and the big, drooling, toothless smile as a yes. I set my father’s gold wedding ring in the palm of her hand, and watch as her pudgy little fingers begin to squeeze. “That was my daddy’s,” I say, and then I focus on the task at hand, sliding the maroon overalls over the jumpsuit, a pair of white lacy socks over her rapidly moving feet. Ruby squeals in delight, and I press my face into her and say, “Coochy, coochy, coo,” the kind of nonsensical gibberish babies adore. I all but forget that Willow and Zoe are still in the room, watching as I blow raspberries on the exposed parts of Ruby’s skin: the insides of her arms, the nape of her neck; I overlook the horrified look on my preteen’s face as I speak fluently in baby talk, the type of skill, like riding a bike, that one never forgets how to do.

“Coochy, coochy, coo,” I say, and it’s then that Zoe rises to her feet, unexpectedly, and says, “God! Enough with the baby talk already,” in that high frequency, falsetto voice only an adolescent girl can attain, before waltzing down the hall and slamming the door to her room.

WILLOW

“What was Miriam’s medical condition? Was she schizophrenic?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know.”

Outside the single, barred window, the one placed too high on the cinderblock wall, the sky is turning colors: red and orange quickly displacing the blue. The sentry in the corner yawns, a long, drawn out, exaggerated yawn, and Louise Flores looks at him sharply and asks, “Are we boring you?” and he stands suddenly at attention: chin up, chest out, shoulders back, stomach in.

“No, ma’am,” he replies and the jagged woman eyes him until even I begin to blush.

What was wrong with Miriam, I didn’t know, but whatever it was, I was pretty sure it was Joseph’s doing.

“You said that Miriam would take medicine on occasion?” Ms. Flores asks and I nod my head, yes. “What kind of medicine?”

“Little white pills,” I say. “Sometimes another one, too.” I tell her that the pills made Miriam look better, made her feel better and get out of bed for a while, but if she got to taking them too much, they just put her back in bed again.

But Miriam was always tired. Whether or not she was taking the pills.

“Did Joseph ever have her to a doctor?”

“No, ma’am. Miriam didn’t leave.”

“She didn’t leave the house?”

“No, ma’am. Never.”

“Why wasn’t Miriam medicated all the time?”

“Joseph said if God wanted her well, he would make her well.”

“But sometimes Joseph gave her the medicine?”

“Yes, ma’am. When Ms. Amber Adler came.”

“The caseworker?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Where did Joseph get the pills? If he didn’t take her to the doctor?”

“In the medicine cabinet. In the bathroom.”

“Yes, Claire, but how did the pills get there, if there was no doctor? You likely need a prescription for such medication. A pharmacy.”

I say that I don’t know. Joseph would tell me to fetch them, the little plastic baggies—she stops me there: “Plastic baggies?” she asks, and I say yes, and she scribbles something down on that notebook of hers beside the word z-e-a-l-o-t which I’ve been reading upside down for half an hour now, and still have no idea what it means. He’d pull some pills out and force Miriam to take them. Sometimes he had to pry her mouth open while I popped in the pills and then we’d wait, for as long as it took, for her to swallow. Miriam didn’t like the pills.