understanding what I wanted, but my body was completely my own. I knew how to glance up at a man for just a second and then look away. I knew the weight of my hair and how it would fall against my neck when I turned my head. I knew the way my hand looked holding a glass and how my shoulders looked when I stretched. Through movement I could bring people toward me or make them turn away. I understood the way I worked, but in six months all of that was gone.
My breasts were the first to defect, swelling over the neck of my dress, as if trying to warn me of what was ahead. They were followed out by my stomach. Every day it was harder to ignore, harder to think this child did not concern me. It kicked and pressed against my back, my sides. It went back and forth like a Channel swimmer. I was a tenement building, a place to live. It made me hungry and tired and sick. It made my hair thick and my skin pink. At night I would lie on my back and run my hands tentatively across the great expanse of my skin. It wasn't my own life anymore, it was a life splintered off from mine. It would grow beyond me. It would need so badly to grow it would leave my body and go into the arms of that good mother who would raise it, watch over it, turn on night-lights, wait for its cry. It would reach for her breasts instead of mine.
"Why won't you talk about it?" Angie said to me. She was sitting on her bed cross-legged, her stomach resting in her lap. She was crocheting a baby cap, but she never looked down at her hands. She knew the movements in her sleep. The needle dipped mechanically in and out of the thin pink yarn.
"There's nothing to talk about."
"Look at yourself, Rose! Don't you ever look in the mirror? Don't you ever look down? God, sometimes I think you must take your baths with your clothes on, if you don't mind me saying so. This is supposed to be a happy time. The baby picks up on that, all your thoughts, everything. It goes right to her. Right along with the blood and the food and that stuff. You've got to act like you're excited about this. I mean, if you're not, then fake it or something."
"If the baby knows what I'm thinking, then don't you think it would know if I was faking it?" I was brushing my hair, which had become somewhat of an obsession with me. The consolation prize for the end of beauty was that my hair had become as thick as a horse's tail and nearly as long.
"It's not that specific and you know it. You've just got to act pregnant every now and then. Knit something, do something." Her crochet hook kept up its rapid pace. She never slowed down for a minute. She'd already made a dozen sweaters, tiny socks, embroidered the collars of sleepers with rosebuds ("For my Rose of Sharon," she would say). "Right now, I'm her mama. I'm all she knows in the whole world. I've got to do right by her. What do you think?" She held up the pink cap, which dangled from a strand of yarn. "It's so much more fun now that I know she's a girl. I can get the colors right. Do you like this one?"
"It's nice," I said.
"I'll make one for you."
I shook my head.
"Jesus, you don't think you could send your baby girl out into the world with a few things?" Angie was putting together a box which she planned to leave with the head nurse at the hospital. I did my best to never think of Angie's baby not surviving, never getting to wear those clothes. If I thought about it, I found I couldn't talk to her at all, about anything, for fear of it coming out somehow. I could not stand to think about it.
"I'm sure that anyone who went to the trouble of adopting a baby would go to the trouble of buying clothes for it," I said. "I'm not keeping it. I'm not going to fool myself." Angie's face darkened and she wrapped her hands tightly around her work, pressing it into a ball. "Oh, God. Don't look like that. Honey, all I'm saying is you do what's right for you and I'll do what's right for me."
But it was too late, she was already crying. It wasn't a bad thing.
My breasts were the first to defect, swelling over the neck of my dress, as if trying to warn me of what was ahead. They were followed out by my stomach. Every day it was harder to ignore, harder to think this child did not concern me. It kicked and pressed against my back, my sides. It went back and forth like a Channel swimmer. I was a tenement building, a place to live. It made me hungry and tired and sick. It made my hair thick and my skin pink. At night I would lie on my back and run my hands tentatively across the great expanse of my skin. It wasn't my own life anymore, it was a life splintered off from mine. It would grow beyond me. It would need so badly to grow it would leave my body and go into the arms of that good mother who would raise it, watch over it, turn on night-lights, wait for its cry. It would reach for her breasts instead of mine.
"Why won't you talk about it?" Angie said to me. She was sitting on her bed cross-legged, her stomach resting in her lap. She was crocheting a baby cap, but she never looked down at her hands. She knew the movements in her sleep. The needle dipped mechanically in and out of the thin pink yarn.
"There's nothing to talk about."
"Look at yourself, Rose! Don't you ever look in the mirror? Don't you ever look down? God, sometimes I think you must take your baths with your clothes on, if you don't mind me saying so. This is supposed to be a happy time. The baby picks up on that, all your thoughts, everything. It goes right to her. Right along with the blood and the food and that stuff. You've got to act like you're excited about this. I mean, if you're not, then fake it or something."
"If the baby knows what I'm thinking, then don't you think it would know if I was faking it?" I was brushing my hair, which had become somewhat of an obsession with me. The consolation prize for the end of beauty was that my hair had become as thick as a horse's tail and nearly as long.
"It's not that specific and you know it. You've just got to act pregnant every now and then. Knit something, do something." Her crochet hook kept up its rapid pace. She never slowed down for a minute. She'd already made a dozen sweaters, tiny socks, embroidered the collars of sleepers with rosebuds ("For my Rose of Sharon," she would say). "Right now, I'm her mama. I'm all she knows in the whole world. I've got to do right by her. What do you think?" She held up the pink cap, which dangled from a strand of yarn. "It's so much more fun now that I know she's a girl. I can get the colors right. Do you like this one?"
"It's nice," I said.
"I'll make one for you."
I shook my head.
"Jesus, you don't think you could send your baby girl out into the world with a few things?" Angie was putting together a box which she planned to leave with the head nurse at the hospital. I did my best to never think of Angie's baby not surviving, never getting to wear those clothes. If I thought about it, I found I couldn't talk to her at all, about anything, for fear of it coming out somehow. I could not stand to think about it.
"I'm sure that anyone who went to the trouble of adopting a baby would go to the trouble of buying clothes for it," I said. "I'm not keeping it. I'm not going to fool myself." Angie's face darkened and she wrapped her hands tightly around her work, pressing it into a ball. "Oh, God. Don't look like that. Honey, all I'm saying is you do what's right for you and I'll do what's right for me."
But it was too late, she was already crying. It wasn't a bad thing.
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