and Sunshine took hold, wouldn’t let go, gained two ounces. From then, that was where she lived, at Tara’s breasts. They didn’t stay big very long—two weeks maybe—but Tara knew from her book that size has nothing to do with how much milk you’ve got.
She has tasted it, squeezed a little out with her fingers, licked it off the corners of Sun’s mouth when she’s taking a break. It’s watery and sweet, very different from the formula Sandy and Wanda give their babies. My body makes milk, she thinks, over and over. She can’t get over it, that she can create something they sell at the Grand Union. Her body works.
Sandy has her son on a feeding schedule. A bottle every four hours, a pacifier in between. Wanda feeds Melissa when she cries. Tara just holds Sunshine always, and when Sun begins to root around in the fabric of her shirt, when she makes this little kissing sound, Tara gives her a breast. She has no idea (Sandy asked her this) how many ounces it all adds up to. Tara drinks two quarts of milk a day, never eats any chocolate or onions or potato chips or TV dinners, anything like that. She tries not to get upset, because when she does (when her mother talks about putting Sunshine up for adoption, for instance) she can feel her glands tightening up, feel the milk stop and the hard little lumps begin to form again. Tara just walks out of the room now, when her mother begins to talk like that. She’s not about to expose her milk to harmful vibrations.
She has read about milk banks—places where nursing mothers donate extra milk, expressed with a suction pump—for mothers who can’t breast-feed. If there were one of those milk banks around here, Tara would like to contribute. Everybody always said how skinny she was, how pale. Now she knows how powerful she is, really. She forgets, sometimes, that she doesn’t have milk actually coursing through her veins, pumping through her heart. That’s what it feels like. That could be why she’s so white.
Here is something wonderful. There is some kind of brain in her breasts that knows just when to open the dam, let the milk flow. It’s so sensitive that Tara can be flipping through a magazine and come to a Gerber’s ad or something, and her milk will begin to drip. One time when she was sitting by the Laundromat, some woman’s toddler got her hand caught in the door of the dryer and began to scream. And Tara’s breasts—both at once—shot out twin fountains. Sunshine was asleep in the laundry basket at the time, so there was no mouth to catch it, and the milk just dripped down the front of Tara’s shirt, some of it making a wet place on the sidewalk. Tara didn’t care if people saw her (as they often do) walking home with two round wet circles on the cloth over her breasts. She’s proud.
Sal has been in the back room five minutes, taking inventory, and Jill is getting impatient because it’s time to check her pregnancy test. Tara came in for a Coke a few minutes ago and Sandy stopped by to find out what happened. Wanda has been in too, getting something out of the candy machine. One thing’s for sure—if Jill is pregnant, she will never get fat like that.
They will have a June wedding. She would like to have it in a church. She thinks of Virgil in the lavender tuxedo he wore when he took her to last year’s prom, with a ruffled shirt and cuff links. Sandy will be matron of honor and Ricky Edwards, whom she used to baby-sit for, can be ring bearer. Jill will carry sweetheart roses and baby’s breath.
They’ll get an apartment in the new development out by the lake, with wall-to-wall carpeting and color TV. She’ll work for another three months or so, to save up money for the layette. Sandy will probably give her a shower. Mark will give Virgil a bachelor party before the wedding too. The guys will tell jokes like the ones she has seen in Virgil’s copy of Playboy. She doesn’t mind.
She wishes Virgil would grow a beard. It would make him
She has tasted it, squeezed a little out with her fingers, licked it off the corners of Sun’s mouth when she’s taking a break. It’s watery and sweet, very different from the formula Sandy and Wanda give their babies. My body makes milk, she thinks, over and over. She can’t get over it, that she can create something they sell at the Grand Union. Her body works.
Sandy has her son on a feeding schedule. A bottle every four hours, a pacifier in between. Wanda feeds Melissa when she cries. Tara just holds Sunshine always, and when Sun begins to root around in the fabric of her shirt, when she makes this little kissing sound, Tara gives her a breast. She has no idea (Sandy asked her this) how many ounces it all adds up to. Tara drinks two quarts of milk a day, never eats any chocolate or onions or potato chips or TV dinners, anything like that. She tries not to get upset, because when she does (when her mother talks about putting Sunshine up for adoption, for instance) she can feel her glands tightening up, feel the milk stop and the hard little lumps begin to form again. Tara just walks out of the room now, when her mother begins to talk like that. She’s not about to expose her milk to harmful vibrations.
She has read about milk banks—places where nursing mothers donate extra milk, expressed with a suction pump—for mothers who can’t breast-feed. If there were one of those milk banks around here, Tara would like to contribute. Everybody always said how skinny she was, how pale. Now she knows how powerful she is, really. She forgets, sometimes, that she doesn’t have milk actually coursing through her veins, pumping through her heart. That’s what it feels like. That could be why she’s so white.
Here is something wonderful. There is some kind of brain in her breasts that knows just when to open the dam, let the milk flow. It’s so sensitive that Tara can be flipping through a magazine and come to a Gerber’s ad or something, and her milk will begin to drip. One time when she was sitting by the Laundromat, some woman’s toddler got her hand caught in the door of the dryer and began to scream. And Tara’s breasts—both at once—shot out twin fountains. Sunshine was asleep in the laundry basket at the time, so there was no mouth to catch it, and the milk just dripped down the front of Tara’s shirt, some of it making a wet place on the sidewalk. Tara didn’t care if people saw her (as they often do) walking home with two round wet circles on the cloth over her breasts. She’s proud.
Sal has been in the back room five minutes, taking inventory, and Jill is getting impatient because it’s time to check her pregnancy test. Tara came in for a Coke a few minutes ago and Sandy stopped by to find out what happened. Wanda has been in too, getting something out of the candy machine. One thing’s for sure—if Jill is pregnant, she will never get fat like that.
They will have a June wedding. She would like to have it in a church. She thinks of Virgil in the lavender tuxedo he wore when he took her to last year’s prom, with a ruffled shirt and cuff links. Sandy will be matron of honor and Ricky Edwards, whom she used to baby-sit for, can be ring bearer. Jill will carry sweetheart roses and baby’s breath.
They’ll get an apartment in the new development out by the lake, with wall-to-wall carpeting and color TV. She’ll work for another three months or so, to save up money for the layette. Sandy will probably give her a shower. Mark will give Virgil a bachelor party before the wedding too. The guys will tell jokes like the ones she has seen in Virgil’s copy of Playboy. She doesn’t mind.
She wishes Virgil would grow a beard. It would make him
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