Maya lived by the unspoken code of being single but yearning for a family. Don’t stare at families. Don’t interact with children. Don’t discuss parenthood. Don’t let others ramble about their kids. And above all, never reveal your desire to be a parent.
A potential partner might be admiring you from afar, captivated by your unique features, seeing you as their ideal match. Only to watch your expression shift from that of an intriguing individual to a desperate incubator, ready to snatch the genetic material of the nearest willing donor to fulfill your empty existence.
Showing any interest in families or children would, to even the most oblivious potential mate, immediately broadcast your frantic, unappealing longing like a foghorn in a canyon.
So it was a rare indulgence for Maya to allow herself to sit before a striking, angelic sculpture and gaze with unrestrained wonder and desire. She had been doing this almost every week lately. The art gallery, housed in a renovated theater, was on her route home on Thursdays, when she finished work early. The exhibition had been running since February, but it was mid-April when she found herself floundering, trying to appear interesting to a society fixated solely on her reproductive status. Attempting to look as though she was, indeed, living her best life, flitting from gallery to wine tasting, savoring every experience, unburdened by responsibility.
The first day she visited the exhibition, she discovered Her. A mother, THE mother. A marvel carved from alabaster, cradling Her infant serenely. Stone had given life, yet she was not. And this figure was a celestial being, no less. She adored Her instantly, though on her initial visits, she hurried past Her, worried that observers would relish the ironic tragedy of the scene; a childless woman gazing up at the ethereal mother of all mothers.
Maya’s childlessness seeped from her pores. It permeated her dreams and knotted her stomach. It was a shame only she seemed to acknowledge. But she had been so acutely aware of it for the past three years, she had thought of little else. She tried to conceal her childlessness from onlookers, disguise it from passersby, but it was futile. She knew that all who saw her, saw a woman, not a mother. All who saw her, with their contemporary views and open-minded attitudes, absolved her immediately, of course. But the flash of absolution was humiliating. She sensed it from everyone she encountered.
Everyone but him. He was lanky and rather plain and smelled of the kind of cologne that reminds everyone of their grandfather. He looked at the sculpture, looked at Maya, then back at the sculpture and furrowed his brow curiously.
“Is she getting you down?” he asked with a gravelly voice that sounded like a retired rockstar who claims that whiskey is what’s keeping him going. “I beg your pardon?” Maya replied after checking her empty surroundings. “Why are you looking at her if she’s making you miserable?” he asked, with a familiarity she wasn’t accustomed to. “Do I know you?” she asked. “Are we just going to keep asking each other questions?” he replied, thinking himself very witty. “I’m sorry, is there something I can help you with?” she replied, annoyed at herself for continuing the exchange she had no interest in pursuing. He squinted and she noticed a hint of charm somewhere around his eyes. “I’ll leave you be. You looked upset but I didn’t think you actually were upset so I was trying to be funny. But… sorry, I’ll let you get back to it”, he said without a single part of his body suggesting he meant to follow through on this promise. “I’m not upset. It’s art. It’s supposed to evoke emotion”, she said, far too defensively.
She felt exposed. He was unsophisticated. He lacked the refinement to absolve her on sight like the others. It reminded her of the time when she, a self-conscious teenager, was asked by a toddler why her face was all bumpy. And how the adults consoled the unharmed child but not her.
“Is it?” he asked with what appeared to be genuine interest. “It’s art”, she repeated authoritatively, feeling she had the upper hand. “I always find the marble ones so eerie. It’s because they don’t have eyelashes. They should use horse hair or something. Or false lashes”, he rambled, seemingly unaware that Maya was winning. “You’ve nice eyelashes” Maya said and brought her hand to her mouth hoping to catch the words before they escaped. “Oh, sorry. I mean people have nice eyelashes. Not you specifically. You too. But, you know, everyone”. He grinned and she fell in love with him momentarily the way she fell in love with everyone with a Y chromosome momentarily these days. “They’re fake,” he said, smiling proudly at his lame joke. “So, why does this make you sad?”
She pondered for a moment. Thought about wanting to be a sculpture, to be frozen, silent, unfeeling. Childless, but nurturing another sculpture. She despised him. She felt vulnerable, she wanted to flee but was clinging to the high horse she hoped he was aware of. She was going to make him run. She had a knack for repelling. “Because I want a child, and she has one” she said, more softly and sincerely than she had intended. “Ah”, he replied flatly.
She waited for him to shift uncomfortably, to glance at his watch, to fabricate an urgent call. She could sense him formulating his apologetic exit. She felt him chastise himself for his tactless lack of perception, for missing the aura of her childlessness. He seemed to be composing himself. The years of social etiquette ingrained in him rushing to the forefront, seeking stable ground after this disastrous misstep. How to politely, calmly, apologetically extract himself from this awkward situation.
“Well, if you think that baby’s impressive, wait until you see the size of the lion some mythical hero has in the next room. Come on, I’ll show you”, he replied, his smile gentler but warmer. She stood up and they went to admire a marble lion.
