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In all honesty, this entire fiasco is Lilia’s fault.
“You haven’t gotten any maternity photos done yet?” Lilia asks, interrupting a perfectly good Sunday dinner at Alice and Jen’s place with the most ridiculous question Agatha’s heard in weeks.
Agatha, who’s been rubbing the side of her belly as Nicholas wedges what feels like an elbow against her spleen, scoffs. “No. Why bother? I can just have professional photos taken when he’s actually outside of me.”
Lilia had merely given her a Look then, capital “L” and everything, before tactfully changing the subject, and the blasted idea had taken root in Agatha’s brain ever since.
Before, she hadn’t seen any reason in having someone point a camera at her to “celebrate the miracle of life” and all that jazz. Agatha’s been celebrated (read: unnecessarily fussed over) enough by her small, tight-knit circle of friends over the course of her pregnancy—and she’s grateful for that. There’s really no need to do more.
Except.
Someday, maybe Nicholas would want to look through more than just the handful of mostly candid photos captured during the baby shower that Alice had gleefully taken charge of arranging. Maybe he’d enjoy seeing evidence of Agatha carrying him happily, in all her planet-impersonating glory. Maybe he’d like to have more than a few pictures of him, likely to be red-faced and squalling and fresh from the womb, for his future high school yearbook page.
In every photo taken of Evanora during her pregnancy with Agatha, candid or otherwise, she’d looked utterly miserable. Then again, she’d rarely ever appeared otherwise, pregnant or not. Still, Agatha hadn’t been surprised to learn that she’d turned out to be a sickly, colicky baby after being nurtured with nothing but general disdain for nine months. According to Claire Temple, the OB-GYN that had come with Jen’s highest recommendation, Nicholas is absolutely thriving. Of course, Agatha knows better than to assume that any issues with a baby’s health are due to fault on the gestational parent’s behalf. With the exception of certain circumstances, that reductive line of thinking is harmful and irrational bullshit. Still, there’s an odd sense of accomplishment that comes with knowing her boy is growing strong.
After that latest Sunday dinner, Agatha had realized—with a bit of a sickening jolt—that regardless of the fact that she wasn’t feeling much fondness towards the idea of posing for a camera, she desperately needed future Nicholas to know that he’d been deeply wanted and fiercely loved by his mother, every waddled breathless wonderful step of the way.
Which has led Agatha to her current predicament: standing around in the park like an idiot.
What a shocker, the random photographer that Agatha had booked on a whim off of a newspaper ad didn’t arrive at the scheduled time. (There had been something oddly charming about seeing the advertisement in print. She’s regretting her own sentimentality now.)
So: the photographer’s late. Or a no-show. Or possibly lying dead in a ditch somewhere. How the hell is Agatha supposed to know? It’s not like she can magically divine the location of her wayward shutterbug. That’s more of a Lilia Thing, anyways. In spite of being regularly accused of having a god complex by fellow university faculty members and some particularly bold students, Agatha isn’t actually in charge of the vast workings of the cosmos, nor is she ruthlessly puppeteering the divine mechanics of the known universe. Alas.
From the shade of a towering oak tree, Agatha eyes up a nearby bench in thoughtful consideration. Sure, it’s in the sun, but her feet are starting to voice protest over how long she’s been putting her full weight on them. It’s not like her to admit defeat so easily, but maybe she should sit down soon.
“Sorry,” comes a loud voice in the distance, and Agatha turns to see a dark-haired woman sprinting full-tilt across the grass towards her, toned and mostly bare legs working furiously beneath a pair of shorts that look like they’d been sawed off mid-thigh with a dull knife. She’s startlingly beautiful and spectacularly in shape. (This last part Agatha readily concludes from how easily the stranger shoulders a giant black bag, stuffed full to bursting with what Agatha assumes is photography equipment.) Dressed smartly for the crippling summer heat in a plain white tee, her arms are on full and mouthwateringly brilliant display.
Jesus Christ, as if Agatha needed such a visceral reminder of the fact that she hasn’t been laid in ages. (There aren’t a lot of non-pervy people interested in a middle-aged woman evidently cooking up a whole new person.)
“Sorry, sorry, sorry. The train got delayed two stops from here and there was no fucking signal for whatever reason. I ran here from the station.”
The woman—Rio, Agatha recalls, feeling strangely dry-mouthed, squints at Agatha oddly.
“You look a little flushed, are you okay? I’m sorry for making you wait out here in this weather. You’re Agatha, right? Do you need some water? Juice? A snack?” Agatha snorts at this, and Rio’s pretty mouth stretches into an amused, mildly self-deprecating smile. “Okay, now that I’m hearing it, the snack bit might’ve been taking things a step too far. I’ve never really been around a lot of pregnant people before, sorry.”
“Stop apologizing,” Agatha finds herself saying, which is actually entirely unlike her—she’s never been one to turn down some warranted groveling. But something about the idea of needling this woman makes Agatha feel as though she’d be kicking a puppy. Or a small child. It must be the hormones. Whatever. “So. Is this your first gig?”
She’d feared as much, in all honesty, but what’s done is done. At least the woman looks enthusiastic about being here. That's almost more than Agatha can say for herself today. There’s a slim chance this won’t turn out to be a total disaster after all.
“No. I’ve shot for a decent number of people before, usually for graduations or birthdays or things like that. I have done one maternity shoot before this, but that was, um.” Rio cuts herself off, rubbing sheepishly at the back of her head with one hand. Agatha motions for her to continue. “It was for a dog. A pit bull, actually. Real sweetheart. She had eight healthy puppies soon after.”
“Wonderful,” Agatha replies, voice desert-dry in spite of the small smile she can’t fully suppress. “Glad to hear that I’m in good company.”
“I’d like to think so,” Rio smoothly replies. Then some of the humor leaves her, though her expression remains warm. “Are you ready?”
Agatha lies like a rug.
“Absolutely.”
“This isn’t working,” Agatha sighs, dropping her fake smile not even a full five minutes later.
“Okay,” Rio says, lowering her camera agreeably. “What makes you say that?”
“It just—it feels fake. Awkward. I don’t know.”
A raucous whoop from a nearby group of teenagers tossing a frisbee around makes Agatha wince. Rio’s head tilts sideways as she regards Agatha with a thoughtful gleam in her eyes, honey-brown and liquid in the abundant sunlight.
“You don’t seem too comfortable being photographed in public. Do you think you’d be more at ease at home?”
Agatha shrugs.
“I thought the whole point of these photoshoots was to be all…” She waves broadly, as if the gesture alone might be explanation enough. Unfortunately, it isn’t. “Y’know. Symbolic, or something. Celebrating the ties between nature and new life. Good job, uterus. Let’s all stand in the grass and say ‘hooray!’”
The corners of Rio’s mouth twitch upwards in poorly hidden amusement.
“The point of these kinds of photos is to celebrate you and your child in a way that is meaningful to you, however that may be.” Agatha would typically be bristling at this point. Teeth bared, figurative hackles raised. She hates being lectured. That's why Agatha's more than happy with her job as a professor—that way, she gets to do the lecturing. But Rio manages to verbalize her thoughts without a hint of condescension. Then she follows it up by raising a quizzical brow. “Do you have a nursery set up yet?”
Agatha does.
From the moment she’d made the decision to pursue motherhood, she’s been painstakingly carving out space in her life for her future child. She’ll be damned if even a single second goes by without Nicholas knowing exactly how cherished he is and always will be.
“Yes.”
“Would you be comfortable allowing me into that space with you for our shoot?”
What is it with Rio and her need to tiptoe around Agatha’s comfort? Normally, being handled with kid gloves would make Agatha scowl, but… Oh, whatever. She’s just being nice. Professionally nice. Right now, Agatha’s the size of a small moon and moving with the speed of a geriatric tortoise. Rio probably should be careful with her. There’s no point in dwelling on a little bit of casual politeness. It doesn’t mean anything.
“Sure.”
“Cool. Did you drive here? Do you want me to drive us there?” Agatha squints, and Rio backtracks. “I’m a careful driver, I swear. And I—I don’t mean to give off the vibe that I think you’re incapable of driving, seriously. I mean, you obviously got here in one piece somehow. Wait, that sounds bad. Okay, I’m not trying to suggest that you aren’t a good driver too. Of course you are, it’s just—”
In a rare moment of uncharacteristic benevolence, Agatha decides to take pity on the poor, rambling soul standing before her.
“I look like I might have trouble reaching the steering wheel right now?” She offers Rio a sharply bemused smile and allows herself to enjoy the sight of the rising crimson coloring Rio’s cheeks. “No, you’re right. Driving is kind of uncomfortable at this point, so I’ve been taking things slow. If you don’t mind having to fiddle with the seat adjustments, you’re welcome to drive us.”
Once they get to the car, Rio doesn’t just hop inside and start making adjustments. She peers inside, tells Agatha to wait, grabs the lumbar support pillow from the driver’s seat, and jogs all the way around to place it on the passenger seat before gesturing for Agatha to get into the car. Ridiculously, Rio even holds the door steady as Agatha maneuvers through the limited space, keeping Agatha and her bump from accidentally nudging it open further and potentially dinging the next car over as she carefully negotiates her way inside the vehicle.
Agatha, caught wildly off guard and left vaguely disoriented from getting whacked with the Random Act of Chivalry stick, ends up feeling too pleasantly surprised to say anything about Rio’s unexpected actions. She rattles off her address as Rio plugs her phone into the cable lying on the center console. Then they’re leaving the park in companionable silence, heading towards Agatha’s house.
Agatha, who’s never had any issues posing for professional headshots or event photographers, finds herself struggling to relax, even in the comfort of her own home.
It’s absurd.
“Hey,” Rio says, letting her camera hang from the strap around her neck as she approaches. Gently, Rio pries an adorable alien plushie from Agatha’s white-knuckled grasp. (A present from Billy, one of Wanda’s teenaged twin boys. He’d eagerly informed Agatha that he’d be happy to introduce Nicholas to The X-Files as soon as Agatha deemed him to be appropriately old enough to watch it.) Agatha lets her do it, but only because the teeny Martian might otherwise lose its head. “Let’s take a second, okay? I get it. You want this to feel natural, right? Not performative. You want these photos to be real.”
Rio’s… Entirely right.
Fuck. Am I really being that obvious? At a loss for words, Agatha just nods.
“Okay. Bear with me, then. Let’s pretend we just met.”
“No need to pretend there,” Agatha croaks out, trying to inject a note of levity into her words and failing miserably. Rio lets it slide, face breaking into a slight, indulgent smile.
“Right. So we’re off to a great start already. We’ve just met, we’re becoming friends, and you’ve invited me over to hang out.”
“Girls’ night,” Agatha offers, though she’s never before referred to any excursion with her friends as such in her life.
“Yeah. Girls’ night. You’re showing me around, giving me a tour, now here we are. Two friends, just talking. Tell me about him—or her.”
Rio’s smile widens encouragingly as she steps back, waving Agatha on.
“It’s a boy,” Agatha admits, one hand moving to cradle her belly as she feels him start to squirm a little. He always seems to know when he’s the subject of conversation. Once, after Agatha had mentioned this casual observation over lunch, Jen had told her that babies could sense their mother’s emotions from the womb. That he could probably feel her affection for him when she speaks. Her chest warms at the thought, unrestrained fondness for her son brimming over in her veins. “Nicholas.”
A favorable nod from Rio.
“Little Nicky. I like it.”
Agatha’s never considered giving him a nickname, but… This is nice. Nicer than simply shortening it to “Nick,” even.
(Lilia’s called him Nicolò a few times, usually while in the midst of cooing happily over his latest ultrasound photo in a mix of Italian and English. But that doesn’t count, though. It’s another Lilia Thing. There’s no stopping or explaining a Lilia Thing.)
Agatha’s pulled back to the present as Rio continues with, “Victory of the people.”
Agatha’s brows lift at that. Of course she knows the meaning behind her own son’s name, that’s kind of the whole point of getting to name the kid. Why does Rio?
“Etymology is a special interest of mine,” Rio adds, clearly catching onto Agatha’s befuddlement. “I like knowing stuff about people's names. Yours means ‘good.’ It suits you.”
Mortifyingly, Agatha’s eyes begin to water at that.
“Um, thanks,” she mumbles, swiping discreetly at her face, aiming to brush the tears away before they get the chance to fall. “So. Yeah.”
“Keep going,” Rio coaxes, and when Agatha glances over at her, the camera’s raised, back in the air and ready for action. “I’ll be quieter from now on, okay? Just keep talking. Move around. Do whatever feels natural for you in this space. It’s alright.”
Somehow, this works. Everything just comes spilling out of Agatha’s mouth as she looks around the nursery.
“He’s donor-conceived. And I’m single. I realized that I wanted to be a mom and I knew that I could be a good one.” I will be a good one. Agatha casts her gaze off towards the distance, trying to forget about the camera lens being aimed in her direction. “So I went the IVF route and it took on the first try. Lucky me.”
Lilac walls, accented with pale green floral patterns. Jen had stood in the center of the room while Alice had painted, bossing her wife around with aplomb. Agatha hadn’t been allowed to set foot inside from the hall while they’d been working. They’d kept all the windows in the house open too, upstairs and downstairs, just to be safe.
She's got a fantastic support system. A family, even if they wouldn’t be considered one in the traditional sense. Who cares? Agatha certainly never has—and she never will. Tradition is overrated. She lives to push boundaries.
“Purple’s my favorite color.” Agatha rubs at the side of her stomach. She never thought she’d be particularly prone to doing that, especially in front of other people, but it’s soothing. “When he gets older, and we figure out what his favorite is, we’ll repaint everything. If he wants.”
“Beautiful,” Rio murmurs from across the room, barely audible. Agatha blushes, though she knows Rio’s only talking about the decor. “Turn towards me, just a little bit. Keep your hand where it is, please, if that feels okay to you. And tell me more.”
Feeling marginally less ridiculous than before Rio lured her into opening up, Agatha obeys.
“My friends Alice and Jen did the painting for this place. They’re married. We met in college, along with our other friends.” Agatha rattles off a list of names like she’s playing Jeopardy. “Wanda, Natasha, Kate, Lilia. Lilia was one of our professors back in the day. She’s also Alice’s godmother. I teach at the university now too.”
“They did a great job. I love the little mushrooms. Big fan of fungi. What do you teach?”
Agatha’s focus drifts to the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lining the far wall, close to the airy bay window and its plush built-in seat. Already, they’re crammed with an array of brightly colored children’s books, enough with which to read Nicky a thousand different bedtime stories.
“History, with a focus on the lives of women in colonial times.”
And so it goes.
By the time Rio puts down her camera, they’ve taken pictures all around the nursery. She’s even managed to persuade Agatha to settle into the old-fashioned wooden rocking chair in one corner of the room, which is where things naturally come to an end. Over the course of the photoshoot, Rio’s also successfully prodded Agatha into basically retelling the entire story of her life and her pregnancy.
It’s freakish. Downright occult.
If this whole photography business doesn’t work out, Rio could probably swing a steady gig as an interrogator for the FBI without breaking a sweat.
“You’re going to have to help me up,” Agatha says without a hint of shame. She’s got all the mobility of a beached whale these days, and Rio’s the one who asked her to sit down in the first place. Still, she finishes off her statement with a sincere, “Please.”
Rio’s already reaching out to help her to her feet.
“Of course.”
The usual wave of dizziness washes over Agatha as she stands, a consequence of the extra blood pumping through her body. It’s a little worse than usual, graying out the edges of her vision and causing Agatha to wobble ominously. Rio doesn’t hesitate to brace her with an arm around her waist, keeping Agatha steady as the old tv static-esque fuzziness retreats.
“Take it easy. You okay?”
Agatha nods blindly.
“A little woozy, but it’s totally normal.”
“Hmm. Good to know. Let me help you downstairs, alright?” Rio asks, though the arm she’s got slung around Agatha tightens without waiting for a reply.
“Sure, thank you.”
Vaguely, Agatha wonders if Rio understands that there’s genuinely no need to hold her like this the entire way over to the stairs. Oh, well. What’s the harm in letting herself have some extra support? Besides, weirdly enough, Agatha’s still feeling kind of unsteady. Maybe Rio's earlier suggestion about the juice hadn't been entirely without merit.
“Any time. You ready?”
This time, Agatha answers honestly.
“Absolutely.”