Page 71 of Our Year of Maybe

THE FIRST FEW MONTHS AFTER Luna was born, she terrified me. She was so small, so delicate. I was afraid to even hold her. Tabby and Josh had enough help, anyway, with Luna’s four grandparents. It was easy for me to fade into the background, slip across the street to Peter’s whenever Luna tested the strength of her lungs.

It’s an entire year and a half after she was born that I’m alone with her for the first time. Thursday night after winter break, Luna and I stare each other down for a solid couple minutes after Tabby and Josh leave. She’s only just begun to string words into phrases, so it’s not yet possible to have a real conversation with her, to ask her what she wants to do. I peek outside. No rain, and it’s been a mild winter so far. We only get flurries and slush every other year, and every time, the entire city panics.

“How do you feel about going to the park?” I ask, careful to keep my voice from sliding into baby talk. Tabby and Josh are careful not to talk to her in that high-pitched voice people reserve solely

for infants and puppies. Tabby told me normal speech is easier to understand and helps language development.

“Yes, please!” Luna says. At least she’s a very polite eighteen-month-old.

I button her into a tiny coat and throw on my dance sweatshirt and a chunky scarf. On our way to Meridian Playground, she walks on her own, babbling to herself.

We play together on the slide until exhaustion from dance catches up with me, and I let her run around on her own while I park myself on a bench nearby. When I pull out my phone, I have a message from Montana. It’s a link to a video, the final project she choreographed last year. I hit play and turn the volume down, watching the dancers move in a way that’s both graceful and athletic, like most of the pieces Montana choreographs. You can make this too, she writes.

I mull over a few different responses before sending back I hope so with a dancer emoji. When I look up, Luna’s got her fists buried in some bark—and it looks like she’s chewing on something.

I spring to my feet, dropping my phone on the bench. “Luna? What are you eating?”

She turns to me, showing off a mouth smeared with blue. In her hand is a chunk of sidewalk chalk.

“Luna, no! You can’t eat that!” I lunge toward her, but not before she smashes the rest of the chalk into her mouth, swallows it, and offers me a very blue grin.

I drop to my knees in the bark and place a hand on each of her little shoulders. I only glanced away for a few seconds. A minute, tops. I pick her up—God, she’s heavier than she looks—and plunk her onto the bench next to me. Grabbing my phone, I ask Google, “Can you eat chalk?” A list of potential symptoms freaks me out enough to call Poison Control. I find the number online and, thank God, someone picks up after the first ring.

“Poison Control.”

“Hi, um, my niece ate a piece of chalk?”

“What’s your name, ma’am?”

“Sophie.”

“Sophie, calm down. We’ll get through this, okay? I’m Diane.”

“Okay. Diane. Thanks. Hi.” Breathe. I wrap my free arm around Luna to keep her from squirming off the bench.

“How old is your niece?”

“One—one and a half.”

“And she ate a piece of chalk?”

“Yeah. Sidewalk chalk. It’s, um, blue.” I let out another shuddery breath. I’m sure she doesn’t need this last piece of information, but I feel compelled to add it.

“Fortunately, a small amount of chalk is nontoxic,” Diane says.

“What exactly is a small amount?”

“Even if she ate an entire piece of it, she should be fine. Can you give her some water?”

“Um—” I didn’t bring any with me. “I can, yeah.”

“Great. Then what you want to do is watch her closely for any signs of lethargy or tummy troubles, like vomiting or diarrhea. If she exhibits any of those symptoms, you take her to the ER for further evaluation, okay?”

“God, I feel like such a fucking idiot. Sorry. Sorry for swearing.”

“It’s okay. I’ve heard worse. And this happens more often than you might think. Little kids are incredibly good at getting into things they’re not supposed to. Your niece is going to be okay, Sophie.”

“Thank you. Thank you so much.”

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