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haven’t slept in a week. Vomit everywhere!” one of the moms explained.
    The other chuckled. “These are the days we’ll laugh over when we’re old and the kids are grown and
their
kids are barfing buckets on their Persian rug.”
    Eden remembered what her mother had said when she told her they were trying to get pregnant a month after the wedding. “I’m glad to see you came to your senses quick. That Mary Tyler Moore was all show. Career girls—drivel. The truth is, everyone wants to live forever. It’s a narcissistic need that began with Adam and Eve in the Garden—to see your seed produce its own. Children mean immortality. Give a man that and he’ll stick by you no matter what forbidden fruit may come.”
    She’d brushed it off as her mother being her usual pessimistic, holier-than-thou self. This was a new era. Women could have it all: a successful career, a perfect household, a devoted husband,
and
a thriving family. And she’d almost proved it. Eden had never expected that her own body would be her biggest obstacle. Jack could have children for years to come—just not with her. Better she left him before he left her for someone young with a belly full of immortal possibilities.
    The cat food lay sideways in the middle of the floor. Eden picked up the tin and spotted a note from Jack atop the phone stand.
E, the girl next door is going to take care of Cricket. We’ll figure out a more permanent solution when I return. Get some rest and I’ll call you from Austin
.
    Love, J
.
    â€œWhat kind of name is Cricket?”
    If they were going to name the dog, she would’ve liked a hand in it. Achilles, Fitzgerald, Cornwall, Manhattan—a conversation starter. Or at the very least, something they came up with together. But then, what did it matter? Soon there would be no more
together
anyhow.
    She crumbled the paper into the pulpy meat tin and tossed it in the garbage. The doll’s head sat on the marble counter, farther down from where she’d left it. It gazed directly at her with a snide smile. Eden held her breath a beat, though she hadn’t meant to.
    â€œDamn it, Jack,” she cursed aloud, exhaling the fear out with it.
    In full daylight, the head was smaller than she’d remembered, smaller than in her dreams. Maybe four inches wide and six from crown to neck. Chipped to balding at the crown, the painted hair around the face still parted perfectly in wavy dark locks, giving way to a peachy forehead and rouged cheeks, loved off in patches; tired eyes were rimmed with dirt, the right one black, the left one olive, the harsh break just above it. Eden wondered why they were so oddly painted.
    She picked it up, and something within clinked. The piece of porcelain from the chip, she figured, and turned it upside down to try to jiggle it free. When it wouldn’t fall out, she worried she’d break the whole thing—shaken baby syndrome. So she let it be and wet a paper towel to clean the dirt off. The rose of the doll’s cheeks shone through. The pursed lips gave way to a demure grin. This was loved, she thought, it
belonged
to someone.
    â€œWhere’s your little girl now?” She finished bathing it, then set it on the windowsill so as not to risk it rolling off the countertop.
    Outside the kitchen window, Cleo’s ponytail bobbed up and down in the communal backyard. Eden shielded her eyes with the blade of her hand as she exited. The vegetal smell of warm summer dirt was nearly overpowering, a familiar scent from her childhood in Larchmont. She’d grown detached from it while living in the city.
    The dog scampered through the rows of white-tipped basil blooms, snow peas hanging like green icicles, verdant fountains of lettuce. Hestopped every few paces to smell a flower or eat a leaf. When he saw Eden, he left the garden and bounded to her feet, licking her bare toes.
    â€œWhat on earth,” she