Quickies

She knew the baby was expecting her mother. Leslie was usually up nursing her by now, singing that song, the one Molly had always sung to all of her babies, even the lost one. Molly hummed it to herself, remembering the words, "Hush little baby, don't say a word, Momma's gonna buy you a mockingbird…"

Leslie's words last night crowded into her head. "He loves me-he's the only person who has ever loved me!"

How can she believe that?

She had tried to love Leslie, but she understood more than ever-young mothers often make selfish choices. Going out to bars, meeting men and drinking had all once taken precedence over Molly's own child. She knew that now. It didn't matter that she'd been clean and sober and alone these last eight years. Leslie remembered the mother who slept on the couch until noon and forgot to get her up for school. That was the mother she thought didn't love her.

Molly got up, knowing she would have to call in to work and figure out how to feed this motherless child. Raising a baby by herself at forty-two couldn't be much different than raising one alone at twenty-two.

Looking around, she saw that the room was just a nursery now-Leslie's clothes, the suitcase she had come with three months ago, everything else that belonged to her-all gone. Except the baby.

When Leslie showed up on her doorstep just after Jessica's birth, swearing she wasn't going to stay long, she just didn't have anywhere else, Molly's heart soared. This little girl, now nestled under her chin, was a second chance.

Things seemed perfect then, waking up to a house filled with people-noise again, rushing home from the restaurant with dinner for them in Styrofoam containers. She remembered longing all the way home to hold this soft, warm baby, to let Grandma Molly's necklace dangle in front of her tiny outstretched hands, to nuzzle her neck and make her laugh.

Never mind that Leslie spewed hatred at Molly at every turn. Never mind that Leslie swore that this was the last place on earth she wanted to be. Never mind that most nights, Leslie left the baby in her crib to go out on a date, using Molly as a built-in babysitter. Really, she didn't mind.

This was her second chance-a chance to show Leslie that she was loved.

Never mind that Leslie rejected her again and again. Instead, Molly just poured as much love as she could into her little granddaughter.

The baby's hunger got the best of her and she began to make small mewling sounds, rooting with her rosebud mouth for a nipple. Molly didn't want to be this baby's mother-she wanted to be Leslie's mother, and she wanted Leslie back, to mother her own baby. Jessica belonged to her mother, just as Leslie would always be hers, wherever she was on this bright summer morning.

Molly headed toward the kitchen to see if there was any stored breast milk in the freezer. Leslie pumped her milk so she could go out on with her friends or on dates.

Molly, concerned about the concentrated efforts of the baby in her arms to find food, found a plastic bag with stored milk and removed it with one hand, balancing Jessie on her shoulder with the other.

It was only when she closed the freezer and started for the sink that she saw the note flutter down to the floor. It hadn't been there yesterday, before or after their argument, and when she peered down at it, she saw that it was written in Leslie's large, girlish scrawl.

"Maybe Mommy's coming home soon, Jess," Molly said under her breath, not believing it even as she carefully bent to retrieve the note.

It was from Leslie, and it contained news that she didn't think she could ever come to terms with. She didn't know if Leslie would ever come to terms it, either, even

twenty years down the road. Did anyone ever come to terms with the choices they made when they were young? She wondered.

"Poor Jessie," Molly whispered as the baby cried, protesting the plastic nipple.

Molly rocked and rocked, wondering if the world of hurt she lived in would ever end.

* * * *

Leslie stood under the hot shower, her breasts heavy and aching, a steady stream of thin, whitish milk running down her belly with the water, uselessly circling the drain. Her tears mixed with it, too, as she leaned her forehead on the tile, sobbing for everything she had left behind.

"Les?" It was Ali's voice from behind the bathroom door.

"Coming!" she called, turning off the water.

She heard him getting ready and smiled. The suit she had chosen for him was a deep, charcoal gray, not quite as dark as his eyes. She used a big, white bath towel to dry off, just patting her tender breasts. Wrapping her hair in the towel, she turned and straightened her dress on the hanger.

He wanted her to wear white-and so it was white, a knee-length, satin and lace combination that made her feel dizzy just looking at it. She couldn't believe she was going to stand beside him wearing it.

"Hurry up," he called, knocking on the door again. "I have to use the bathroom, too."