her diagonally across the ball fields at the School in the Glen. One day, when the baby was between eight and nine months, she sang a single noteâ Aaaaahhhh âthat broke into staccato as the strollerâs sixteen-inch tires bounced over the ruts and mounds of the imperfect earth. Mary Beth began to laugh, so much that she had to stop running and catch her breath, and the baby stopped singing and then she began to laugh. Then Mary Beth started up again, and again the baby sang her single, staccato note. And this staccato song became a regular part of the jogging route.
And then, before the baby turned one, the milestones ceased because the baby died.
Mary Beth jogged her regular routeâacross the ball fields at the School in the Glen. Sometimes she had to prompt the baby to sing, but the baby always sang. On this particular morning she sang without prompt, and Mary Beth raced across the fields to the babyâs delight. At the far end was Lyttondale Avenue, which intersected, a half block farther, with Amos Avenue, at one of the Glenâs funky intersectionsâacute or obtuse, depending on your direction. For Mary Beth it was obtuse, and it required her to cross Lyttondale to begin the ascent up Amos Avenue to Woodberry Road.
There was a sidewalk on Lyttondaleâthere were sidewalks on all the streets in Glen Wood Ridgeâbut Mary Beth wasnât on it. She was on the street, running against traffic, one tire in the gutter near the sloped curb, looking for an opportunity to cross. She glanced behind her, over her right shoulder, and waited for a truck across Lyttondale to pass. The truck slowed, and she thought for a moment he might stop and wave her over. A lot of drivers were good about yielding to pedestrians. It helped to have a stroller. But the driver of the truck hesitated, then continued on. Once he was by, she nosed the front wheel out. But sheâd been preoccupied by the truck, frustrated by its hesitation, its slowing and not yielding, and she hadnât noticed the car going up Amos Avenue that was now turning right onto Lyttondale. The blue hood blurred. There was chrome around the headlights. A thud, a jolt she felt in her arms. One moment she was holding the strollerâs handlebar and the next she wasnât. The black bumper grabbed the front tire and dragged the stroller sideways. Then tipped it. The car stopped. The bumper released the stroller. The car waited, and Mary Beth watched, breathless, her arms in front, fingers curled to the approximate, loose circumference of the handlebar. The police report would say the car dragged the stroller thirty feet. It felt like three hundred, like it would take forever for Mary Beth to close the distance, even in her spandex and running shoes, even with her adrenaline pumping. Then the blue car steered around the stroller and sped off. And still Mary Beth couldnât move. The strollerâs green awning looked like a discarded umbrella lying in the street. It was a sunny day. She couldnât see her baby. She couldnât hear her baby cry.
âYouâre still at the school?â Gil said.
She sat on the bench at the School on the Ridge, children running circles around her. A game of tag. It had been some minutes since either Mary Beth or Gil had spoken. He was walking; she was sitting. âItâs crazy here,â she said. âIâm going to get past this line of kids.â She almost called out, Excuse me! for the sake of authenticity, but she didnât wish to call attention to herself.
âSo, Iâll see you tonight,â she said instead.
âEarly. Iâll see you then.â
She closed her phone. Once she would have said, I love you . Three words. She would have made a point to say them.
It was past three thirty now. There was no sign of anyone leaving. She stood and looked for the girl with no arms. She did this from time to time, when she came to the school at dismissal. She put her
And then, before the baby turned one, the milestones ceased because the baby died.
Mary Beth jogged her regular routeâacross the ball fields at the School in the Glen. Sometimes she had to prompt the baby to sing, but the baby always sang. On this particular morning she sang without prompt, and Mary Beth raced across the fields to the babyâs delight. At the far end was Lyttondale Avenue, which intersected, a half block farther, with Amos Avenue, at one of the Glenâs funky intersectionsâacute or obtuse, depending on your direction. For Mary Beth it was obtuse, and it required her to cross Lyttondale to begin the ascent up Amos Avenue to Woodberry Road.
There was a sidewalk on Lyttondaleâthere were sidewalks on all the streets in Glen Wood Ridgeâbut Mary Beth wasnât on it. She was on the street, running against traffic, one tire in the gutter near the sloped curb, looking for an opportunity to cross. She glanced behind her, over her right shoulder, and waited for a truck across Lyttondale to pass. The truck slowed, and she thought for a moment he might stop and wave her over. A lot of drivers were good about yielding to pedestrians. It helped to have a stroller. But the driver of the truck hesitated, then continued on. Once he was by, she nosed the front wheel out. But sheâd been preoccupied by the truck, frustrated by its hesitation, its slowing and not yielding, and she hadnât noticed the car going up Amos Avenue that was now turning right onto Lyttondale. The blue hood blurred. There was chrome around the headlights. A thud, a jolt she felt in her arms. One moment she was holding the strollerâs handlebar and the next she wasnât. The black bumper grabbed the front tire and dragged the stroller sideways. Then tipped it. The car stopped. The bumper released the stroller. The car waited, and Mary Beth watched, breathless, her arms in front, fingers curled to the approximate, loose circumference of the handlebar. The police report would say the car dragged the stroller thirty feet. It felt like three hundred, like it would take forever for Mary Beth to close the distance, even in her spandex and running shoes, even with her adrenaline pumping. Then the blue car steered around the stroller and sped off. And still Mary Beth couldnât move. The strollerâs green awning looked like a discarded umbrella lying in the street. It was a sunny day. She couldnât see her baby. She couldnât hear her baby cry.
âYouâre still at the school?â Gil said.
She sat on the bench at the School on the Ridge, children running circles around her. A game of tag. It had been some minutes since either Mary Beth or Gil had spoken. He was walking; she was sitting. âItâs crazy here,â she said. âIâm going to get past this line of kids.â She almost called out, Excuse me! for the sake of authenticity, but she didnât wish to call attention to herself.
âSo, Iâll see you tonight,â she said instead.
âEarly. Iâll see you then.â
She closed her phone. Once she would have said, I love you . Three words. She would have made a point to say them.
It was past three thirty now. There was no sign of anyone leaving. She stood and looked for the girl with no arms. She did this from time to time, when she came to the school at dismissal. She put her
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