Free The Mother Garden by Robin Romm

frigid gray. She broke her front tooth in a car accident when she was twenty and the dentist smoothed the jagged edge. When they first began living together he would look at her offhandedly when he was watching television and the sight of her, all weird angles and paint-smeared jeans, would send a watery rush through him. He rests his head on her chest for a while, then gets up to take a shower.
    He comes back to the bedroom to pick up the egg.
    â€œYou don’t have to do that anymore,” she says. But he finds that he wants the egg with him.
    On the train, Uri shuts his eyes and focuses on a shape. It’s something India does that he thinks is dopey, but it seems to work for her. He picks a circle. Once it’s lodged in his mind, he tries to let his thoughts fall away. Then he asks himself how he’s feeling. The circle is black, then it slowly turns silver. It bends into a sperm shape, then bends back. The train’s crowded; Uri’s holding onto the rail. He’s bad at meditating. At the next stop, a very pregnant woman gets on and a young man stands to let her sit. The woman glances at Uri and gives him a bland smile. He turns away and imagines her standing up, a big puddle of water forming beneath her. The nasal sound of her bleating in pain. He imagines the way she will smell as her insides start to come out—blood, mucus, chains of membrane—and the coffee he drank on an empty stomach sloshes miserably.

    Blithe is wearing a dark pantsuit and somber barrettes; Uri takes this as a sign that she has an investigation out of the office. He’s right. She comes by at nine-thirty to tell him she’s going to Fairfield to look into a race complaint at the city’s sanitation facility.
    â€œDid you work out the egg thing?” she asks.
    â€œYeah, it’s all fine,” he says. She bites her top lip and taps a finger on his door frame.
    â€œCan I come in for a sec?” she asks. She closes the door behind her. “I just wanted to check in with you about last night. I mean, it seemed like you left in a rush, and—well, I guess I like you and I just—I didn’t mean to freak you out.”
    It’s absurd to see her in a suit now that he’s seen her almost naked. It’s a little like her satin bra and panty set are etched on top of the blazer and trousers. A panty phantasm. And what’s more, the older she tries to dress, the younger she looks.
    â€œBlithe, I’m married,” he says. She looks briefly stunned.
    â€œOh God,” she says slowly. “I’m a horrendous idiot.”
    â€œNo,” he says. “No one’s an idiot.” Blithe puts her hand on the doorknob. “Can we be friends?” he says, giving her the hangdog, boyish look he hasn’t given anyone in years. The words linger around the office like a fart and Blithe looks at him coolly. She opens the door and leaves.
    The miserable attorney calls again to screech about money. Uri says he’s sorry, but he thinks he’s coming down with the flu and needs to reschedule.
    Three o’clock comes slowly. It has taken all his energy not to call India’s cell phone to tell her to forgo the appointment. He tells himself that they still have a ways to go; she’s not pregnant yet and if it’s not meant to be then she won’t get pregnant and they can maybe get another egg or a dog or just volunteer at a preschool.
    The trains are delayed and India is already in the examining room when he gets there. The receptionist, a pear-shaped woman with thinning hair, takes him to her. India’s got a piece of waxy paper draped over her lower half. She’s on her back on the table with her feet in stirrups. He has the egg box with him and he sets it down on top of India’s folded clothes. Before he can say anything, the nurse raps on the door and enters. She’s tiny with a severe hairdo.
    â€œI’m Nurse Practitioner Wu,” she