I wonder if Chris were alive, would he have the same reaction, or would he have thought I’d finally gone off the deep end? I wait for the subject to change. Eventually, one of the women starts talking about Mother’s Day Out programs. I listen as they volley suggestions back and forth. I check on Jackson a few times and then move to throw away a wet wipe.

When I do, a batch of silver stars explodes across my vision’s smeared black veil. My ears ring. I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. I attempt to sit right back down, but my body won’t cooperate. My legs hyperextend, then bend, and I crumple foot-by-foot. A collective gasp escapes from the group. I am up one moment and down the next. My cheek cracks against a rock that’s wedged into the rubbery earth.

Everything goes inky. I allow myself to be pulled under. Visions clash in my mind: Chris, Jake, my mother, Jackson, the red tie being carried away by the wind. I surrender to it, to how right it feels to be still and give in. Children’s voices screech and whine—a reminder of reality. Bells trill in the distance.

My baby.

I open my eyes, roll to my back, and blink into the bright sky. My sunglasses must have flown off. I reach for them, but my fingers close on air. I finger the spongy knot on my cheek and sit up. The playground turf burns under my legs.

“Give her room,” Jess says.

“Did she just faint?”

“Someone call nine-one-one.”

Park mothers fret over what to do, their voices thin and muffled, like I’m trapped underwater. I sit up, my palms hot against the scorched rubber. Finally, I locate my sunglasses and clutch them to my chest. The sharp tang of blood fills my nostrils. I touch my face again. This time, my fingers come away slick.

I blink until the fizz-pop of stars fades, but the ringing in my ears sticks. I yawn, wiggle my jaw, try to get them to pop.

Jess’s sturdy hand hoists me onto the bench. I reach for my tri-fold cane and my diaper bag. Both are right where I left them.

Jess taps my shoulder with a bottle of water, which sweats onto my bare thigh. “Drink.”

The plastic seal cracks apart, and I drain the bottle until it crinkles in my fist. I attempt to recount what just happened: I stood and then fainted.

“That’s a nasty cut,” Jess says. She almost sounds impressed. “We should wash that out.”

“I will.” I make no attempt to move or hunt for the first-aid kit in my diaper bag.

After questions and murmured concerns—the second time in a few days—the other mothers disband. The air thins, and I try to clear my head.

What just happened?