Page 16 - WTP Vol. IX #10

She knew she’d made a mistake when the contrac- tions started. She’d been walking from the kitch- en to her cocoon on the couch, where she’d been working from home for the past month, wrapping and rewrapping her tasks into tight little packages to stash away at the last possible moment. She wanted them to be there waiting for her, safe and untouched, when the twelve weeks were up. All the while, the bulge inside of her grew rounder and rounder.
The shock started someplace deep in her abdomen, then it radiated outward in electric waves down her arms and legs and out through every fingertip and swollen toe. Doubled over in the hall, cradling the bulge in both arms, the first thing she thought of was the steaming cup of tea she’d just poured, how it would grow cold there on the counter.
Lowering herself onto the floor, she leaned against the wall with her knees tucked tight against the bulge and her arms wrapped all the way around, closed her eyes, and waited. When the pain subsid- ed and she realized she could stand, she moved to the bedroom, where she’d built her second cocoon. It would be warmer there, more comfortable. No one was home, but she closed the door behind her. From her phone she typed, “Not feeling well, going to lie down for a bit” in the work chat before col- lapsing into bed.
She didn’t know how much time had passed when
she woke up later on her side, blinded by the set-
ting sun through the open blinds. Her husband was turning the key in the back door. His footsteps on the porch and the quiet beep of the car being locked must have woken her. He opened the bedroom door just as she was lifting herself up to a seat.
“Man, were you just out cold?” He kissed her fore- head and ran his hand over the bulge before turning back to the kitchen to deal with the packages he’d carried in. She heard the splash of the tea being poured down the drain and the soft thud of the tea- bag hitting the sink.
She never told her husband about that afternoon. She never told anyone. She imagined walking in some city park with a friend, holding onto the bulge while her friend pushed a stroller and sipped coffee from a tall cardboard cup. It was summer now, heavy and humid, but she pictured it being autumn in the park, late enough in the fall that a
mosaic of brown, red, yellow, and orange crunched beneath them as they walked.
“Let me get this straight,” said the friend. “You thought you were in labor, and you just, like, laid down? That was your instinct? What did you think was going to happen next?”
“I don’t know. And it’s lied down, not laid.” “I can’t believe you didn’t call me.”
“I don’t know. Haven’t you ever really had to poop, but then, like, didn’t for long enough that you didn’t need to anymore?”
“Tell me about it. I didn’t poop at Jim’s house for the entire first year we dated. I held it in, I shit you not, for an entire year.”
“Well, I guess I thought something like that would happen.”
“Jesus, Kris.”
“I’m not saying it makes sense.”
“Of course now my whole life is covered in poop. I can poop anywhere, any time, with any number of kids knocking down the bathroom door. I consider it a real talent, actually.”
The friend squeezed her hand and they kept walking.
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They hadn’t planned it, but they weren’t exactly sur- prised, either. She supposed she hadn’t really be- lieved that life could grow inside her. Her progressive
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Nothing at All
aLia GeoRGes