Within Arm's Reach by Ann Napolitano

container of yogurt. “I should tell you that I found an apartment over by St. Francis’s. I can’t move in for a few weeks, but I signed the lease and it’s all set.”
    I nod my disappointment. “Well, if that makes you happy, Lila, then I’m glad for you.”
    “It makes me happy,” Lila says, looking anything but happy. “I have to go to the hospital now, so I’ll see you later, Gram. Have a nice chat with Gracie.” In a blur of movement Lila kisses me on the cheek, then is out the back door and I am left alone.
    I am struck by the similarity between my conversation with Kelly and this short one with Lila. Both mother and daughter like all conversations to go their way, with their topics, their themes, and their desired results. They are displeased when someone else takes control. I’m not quite sure what Lila was hoping for from me this morning, but it is clear that I didn’t provide it.
    Still, I’m glad to have a few moments alone with my tea. I need the time to brace myself, because I have found that when I see Gracie now, I cannot help but remember back to when I carried my children, and to remember that time is not pleasant. My pregnancies got harder, and seemingly longer and more enveloping, as I went along. My first pregnancy was perfect. I was filled with energy, overjoyed that I was starting my family and that I had made Patrick so proud. At night I would have vivid dreams about the family I would raise, and about how I would be a more dependable, solid, presentable mother than my own mother was. I was tired when I was carrying Kelly, but still strong.
    Pat was a big baby, however, and weighed heavily inside me. I went into labor early with him, during the same week we buried our firstborn. The delivery was long and exhausting. I was unable to focus and it seemed he would never come out. After Pat, the pregnancies were more work. They came one after another in an endless row. Like my labor with my first son, I wondered if they would ever end. The children took over my body. They filled up my small frame, and squeezed me out. I grew quieter, harder.
    Although who I was became less noticeable as my children developed their own voices, it was always the case that when I did speak, they heard me loud and clear. I ran a tight ship. And underneath the imposed order, and the personalities my children were developing, and the relentless kicks of new life in my womb, I listened to the silence my first daughter left behind, and, later, to the silence of the twins. One boy and one girl who never drew a breath, never opened their eyes.
    I was anxious during my pregnancy with the twins. I was busy taking care of Patrick and the children the entire time, and I slept so soundly at night that I never dreamed. I would wake up every morning with a gasp, flushed with panic. That sense of anxiety stuck with me after the birth. I was a wreck while I was carrying Ryan. Even though I had scorned my own mother for always hiding in a closet during thunderstorms, to my shame more than once during that pregnancy I found myself in the coat closet shaking and praying for this baby to be all right.
    I never spoke of any of the children I had lost. It was dangerous to mention our little girl in front of my husband, but I wouldn’t have even if that weren’t the case. When Kelly or Pat or even Ryan asked about their brother or sisters, I pretended not to hear them. I sent them to their room. I told them to recheck their homework, straighten out their drawers, set the table, take out the garbage, dress the baby. I laid my quiet down all around them. Their father told them stories of Ireland and leprechauns and lads and lasses and green clovers and the blue sea, and I told them to speak only when spoken to. When they were disobedient, I punished them. When they were very bad, I threatened to send them to their father. I demanded their respect. I was, for the most part, a solid, dependable, and presentable mother. I did what I had