Alterations

Rachel 2005: 53" (height), 25.2" (right arm), 25" (left arm), 24" (waist), 26.5" (chest)

Rachel ran her fingers across the blue arches of her mother’s handwriting, tracing the indents each loop made on the page. She pictured her lanky, fifth-grade self with one arm outstretched as her mother extended a tape measure from fingertip to shoulder with a ballpoint pen balanced between her lips. Her mother’s right thumb and forefinger would press into the nearest tick mark while she let the other end of the white plastic float down to write out the measurement.

Once finished, her mother would fan through the pages of her small, black notebook spanning back to her daughter’s birth. She would coo, “I remember when you were as long as your arm is now,” before ushering Rachel into the car to drive to Jo-Anns.

In the back of the store, Rachel would flip through catalogs of costumes as her mother wrote down makers and IDs. She would use the weight of her small body to slide out the aluminum filing cabinets filled with pattern packets that crunched under her grasp. They would watch as the fabric cutter flipped a bolt until it thunked out three yards, and a pair of Fiskars scissors ran satisfyingly down the center of the cloth. A few weeks would pass and gradually Rachel’s measurements, the waves of fabric, and her mother’s hands would transform her into a butterfly or secret agent or teenage witch.

Rachel’s mind returned to the aisle in front of her drenched in fluorescent lights, and she held the small slip of paper up against the line of notebooks on the shelf beside her. She wanted one close in size. She moved past the notebooks with multi-colored kittens and phrases like “You go girl!” and “Friends 4ever” splattered across them. The last one on the shelf was jet black with faint lines demarcating the pages and a thin ribbon peeking out from the bottom. It would do.

This was the only way Rachel could think to break the news. She imagined handing over the notebook with a page containing only the year and empty spots for a name, length, and weight. She hoped her mother’s nostalgia would override any anger at the accidental part of her daughter’s announcement.

Rachel and Clay had met as counselors at a camp for teens taking advanced algebra. The summer camp bubble accelerated their relationship from small glances on beach trips to late night chats to shared days off. By the start of September they were officially together, Rachel joining Clay’s family for a lavish Labor Day on the Cape. Their senior year of college was a blur of classes and job applications and alternating nights at each other’s apartments. When two pink lines appeared on her pregnancy test, she latched on to the useless whine that they had always been careful. She knew always careful had really meant mostly careful.

Rachel wove through the aisles toward the front of the store, wandering into the health and beauty section to pick out a bottle of sunscreen. Could she still buy the one with the dog pulling down the little girl’s bottoms? Were there special sunscreens to use when you were pregnant? She pulled out her phone to search for an answer.

As she typed, a picture of Clay’s parents interrupted the screen, the name “Mrs. Johnson” a billboard across their two smiling faces. They had exchanged numbers the way mothers want to when they’ve accepted you have quicker access to their child. But right now Clay was with them. Fear flickered across Rachel’s mind as she went to answer the call.

“Oh Clay’s fine. He’s with his dad out back doing whatever it is the two of them do with that new boat of Rich’s.” Rachel felt Mrs. Johnson waving away her husband’s hobbies. “I was hoping you and I could talk.”

“Yes, of course,” Rachel replied as her left hand fiddled with the notebook. “What did you want to talk about?”

Rachel heard a small huff of laughter. They both knew why Mrs. Johnson was calling.

“Clay told us about your situation,” Mrs. Johnson paused waiting for confirmation.

“Yes.”

“And I understand you’ve decided to keep it.”

“Yes.”

“Yes, well, we’ve decided we’d like to offer you some money.”

“Oh,” Rachel hadn’t expected generosity, “Thank you you don’t need—”

“We’re hoping $20,000 will be enough.”

Rachel stopped fiddling with the notebook. She heard the emphasis Mrs. Johnson had placed on enough. She misinterpreted it as a wealthy woman’s ignorance of how far $20,000 could go.

“That’s—wow—thank you. I’m sure Clay has already said this but that is incredibly generous and will be more than enough to get us started.”

“Get you started.”

“Oh, yes, sorry, I wasn't suggesting that you’d provide anything more after that. With Clay starting his job in a few months I figure—”

“No. This money is not for you and Clay. Just you.”

Rachel’s mind churned back to her last conversation with Clay in her apartment. He had suggested they tell their parents separately. Easier in case they got upset, right? You know how parents can be.

Mrs. Johnson started asking where to send the check. Her mother’s house she presumed? Rachel hung up. She furiously scrolled through her recent calls to Clay’s number.

Ring. “Hi this is Clay! I can’t come to the phone right now—”

Ring. “Hi this is Clay! I can’t come to—”

Ring. “Hi this is Cla—”

She dropped the notebook on the ground to type with both fingers. Call me now. She went to his Instagram - blocked. Her hands started to shake as she paced the aisle.

She pictured Mrs. Johnson telling Clay about the call. He was probably sitting right there. “She’ll take the money,” she’d assure him. His fatherly responsibilities would pass away, and he could be free. It was all he really owed her, this premature inheritance.

As tears blurred her vision, she fumbled for a travel size tissue packet from a basket on the end cap. Its “open here” sticker remained glued to the middle as she tore into it. She ripped out tissue after tissue, stuffing the used ones back into the edges of the plastic.

She looked back at the notebook on the floor. What would she tell her mother now? She had expected to say, Don’t worry. Clay will be there.

She bent down to retrieve the notebook and aimlessly made her way to the self-checkout kiosks. She ran the bar code of her crumpled tissue packet and the sticker on the backside of the notebook over the red light of the scanner.

As the machine processed her purchase she looked up into the mirror of the security feed. She wondered how often she would look down at her child to see a version of this face, reddened eyes and tear-stained cheeks. She wondered how often she would see Clay's face looking up at her.

Before today her mind had reveled in the time leading up to the birth. She had imagined Clay helping her document her expanding stomach, his photos charting the shared growth of her and their child.

Now her mind was only preoccupied with the time after the birth. She pictured her mother winding the measuring tape around her child’s little legs and arms. She envisioned taking on the responsibility of jotting down the numbers, trying to decipher how much they echoed Clay’s and how much they were an iteration of her own.