Caul Baby by Morgan Jerkins (read any book .TXT) 📕

again, wondering where she might be and if she too thought of her at any time.

17

Amara wasted no time in putting the word out amongst her innermost circle that she intended on running for district attorney, and the feedback she received was unanimously in her favor. She never expected that getting the support would be the easiest part, but she knew that soon, journalists would dig into her history, which is why her office’s public relations got involved. Their constant interrogations about her time in college, romantic affairs, and family background were increasingly laborious. Is there anything that we should know about that might hurt your campaign? Are there any pictures and/or videos of you floating around—maybe from undergrad or law school—in compromising situations? Have you joined or attended any meetings of organizations that could potentially be controversial? Have you been vocal about Palestine? Are there any family members who are “radicals”? Anything at all? Amara’s answer was no. The answer was always no. She gave a list of all of her activities throughout her education, yearbook pictures, and the contact information of all her closest friends. There was nothing about Hallow. Both she and Landon had made sure of that. But no matter how much Amara had hidden, neither she nor any doctor could forget her body’s history.

To be safe, Amara booked a routine checkup with her gynecologist, and as he was lubricating the speculum, she said, “Doc? Can I ask a question?”

“What’s that? Deep breath in.”

Amara complied and gritted her teeth once the speculum was inserted. “Can you tell things by looking at a . . . cervix?”

“Polyps. Cysts. Discoloration—”

“I didn’t mean that. I meant . . .” She lowered her voice. “You can tell that I’ve . . . had a baby before, right?”

“Oh, of course! You can always tell by looking at the cervix. Plus it’s in your file.”

“And that file is strictly confidential, yes?”

“Strictly confidential.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“But these things can get out. Can I see your notes?”

“Ms. Danville, you always get a summary for each of your visits within twenty-four hours, provided we don’t have to conduct any sort of tests. You can sit up now.”

Amara sat upright and said, “You sure it’s strictly confidential?”

The doctor laughed while discarding his latex gloves. “I don’t have my malpractice insurance for nothing.”

Amara dropped her shoulders and remained on the examination table with one hand resting in the palm of the other on her lap. She knew exactly what was happening—her nerves were getting the best of her.

“If I may—”

“Yes?” Amara responded.

“I know what’s going on. I read the report this morning while coming into the office. It’s exciting.”

“Report? What report?”

The doctor pulled out his phone from his pocket and showed her a Daily Beast headline with her image as the header. It was a good photo of her. She was either speaking at the annual conference for the National Black Prosecutors Association in Chicago or giving another fruitless speech about diversity and inclusion at some East Coast law school. They all tended to blend into one another. Her hands were held out in front of her and she was midsentence, her mouth open and eyebrows arched. Her nails had been filed to fine, round shapes, and from the angle that the photograph was taken, the light hid the gnawed skin around her cuticles, a nervous tic she tried to suppress by applying thick tape around her fingers so she wouldn’t bite them. When her eyes finally scaled the headline, she gasped: Is Amara Danville Running for Manhattan District Attorney? Sources Say Yes.

Amara hopped down from the table and hurriedly redressed before the doctor had time to exit the room. Before she had a chance to call the office to explain that she would be away for most of the morning, her boss suggested that she work from home for the rest of the day in order to avoid the media circus. In the meantime, he and the interns would field press calls and respond with “No comment” until further notice. Good, she thought. She had to make a few calls of her own. One of them would be to Landon, whom she had not seen for a while. If she tried to estimate how long it had been since Hallow was born, the sadness and shame would set in, and she would stop trying to remember. She and Landon had exchanged niceties over the years—brief calls and text messages, updates about the family, church announcements—but that was all. As a matter of fact, while showering for the second time before noon, she thought about the last significant time they’d shared together and realized that it was on All Hallows’ Eve. He was the only one she wanted to talk to now, and luckily for her, he agreed to meet her on her terms: at her apartment and with two chopped cheeses—one for him and one for her.

When the doorbell rang, she looked through the peephole and saw a man with fine, silvery hairs in his beard that shone in the light.

“Landon?”

“Yes. Girl, you better open up this door.” He faced the lens, and his smile filled her with shame again.

She invited him in then quickly fastened every bolt on the door. Afterward, she wrapped her arms around his neck and leaned her weight onto his chest.

“Whoa, whoa, girl. Jeez, how long has it been since we met up last? Five? Ten years?” He gently grabbed her to stand her upright. “I want to get a good look at you. Wow. Look at you.” He then looked over her shoulder at her spacious living room with floor-to-ceiling windows and an exposed brick wall and said, “You definitely made something of yourself.”

Amara recoiled. “I’m doing okay,” she said. “Please.” She directed him to the island in her kitchen, where there were two seats available and two glasses already filled with water.

“Thank you.” He took his glass and guzzled the water in one sitting.

“I can get you some more.”

“That would be fine.”

When she turned her back, Landon