Brass Page 24

  I rolled to my side. The pain bit back, gnashing at whatever parts of my insides it could reach. My spleen, it felt like. Or my liver. I never could remember what went where. The baby had taken over my whole middle and pushed all the organs aside anyway.

  I clutched my thighs. My sweatpants were soaked through. The comforter was too warm, my body rejecting it after months of acclimating to the cold.

  I wanted Bashkim. Or Mamie. Or neither. Pull yourself together, Elsie, you don’t need Bashkim or your mother to shit. I used the wall as a brace to pull myself to my feet and looked back down at the demon bed, surprised it had even been able to support my weight, the thousand pounds of it I had to be carrying. But I was on my feet now, well on my way. I slid across the floor as slow and smooth as I could, but the pain still washed over my back in steady, hard waves. After what felt like a decade, I was closer to the door, and then in another year or two I was at the door, and then I was down the hall, at the bathroom. When I made it inside, I wanted to plant a flag down, declare it mine.

  I closed the door behind me and dropped onto the toilet so hard I expected it to shatter into a million porcelain pebbles, but it just rocked a little on its bolts and took on my weight. I waited. The pressure was building but nothing was moving. I waited.

  Something was moving. I gasped because something was moving fast and hard inside of me. My insides were about to drop out of me. I put my hand to my crotch to hold it in, but I was too late. My insides were right there, pushing hard and ready to fall.

  It wasn’t my guts. It was a hard stone. I’d swallowed a boulder and it was going to pass.

  It wasn’t a boulder. It was the head of my daughter, trying to peek into the spacious world outside her tiny walls.

  “No,” I told her. I held her back. This wasn’t going to happen now. I’d carried her around for so long like Atlas carried his globe, an eternal punishment. Eternal. One that would last forever. I wasn’t ready for it to end. I wasn’t ready for her, not ever. “No,” I said again, softly. I didn’t have enough air in my lungs to pump out a louder sound. I moaned and sat still. If I didn’t move, the baby wouldn’t, either. I’d sit here forever. I’d take my meals here. I’d invite Greta for Christmas.

  She moved again. She’d gotten a taste of air and didn’t want to go back. Or she wanted to stay in there but the walls were closing in on her. I had to convince her to stay inside, where it was warm. I had to help her out or she’d be crushed.

  I had to do nothing. She called the shots. She pounded on the walls of my stomach like she was ringing a brass knocker. Let me in. No, actually, let me out.

  Fine, I told her. Fine. Just let me up and I’ll call a cab. I’ll get downstairs and Yllka will walk us out the door.

  Here’s fine, she said. I’m not picky. Look who I’m being born to. You think I have airs?

  It doesn’t have anything to do with that. I don’t know how to do this. I didn’t go to nursing school. I barely made it through high school.

  You watched that episode of Nova, what’s the one? “The Miracle of Life”? Didn’t you read a book or something?

  I skimmed. And it didn’t look like this. The Miracle of Life, all the illustrations, none of them looked like this.

  Anyway, what’s to know? Mammals do it all the time. Remember when the neighbor’s cat had kitties, right?

  Tippy? The whole litter died.

  There’s no point in arguing, I’m coming whether you like it or not.

  She pushed hard but I held her back. I wouldn’t be able to for much longer, though. I felt her dropping lower, swimming to the edge.

  She was going to come. All along I’d known that without ever once believing it. Other people’s babies were things swaddled in soft blankets like little puff pastries in pastel wrappers, but I thought of my baby as something that lived inside of me and ate my food and made me ache from the inside out. She’d seemed content enough in there. I would’ve been happy to trade places with her.

  It’s hard out here, you know, I told her.

  It’s no great shakes in here, she said.

  “Ah,” I said aloud. She was pushing again. “Okay,” I said. “Okay okay okay.”

  I slid to the edge of the toilet seat and walked my hands down the side of the sink and the wall behind me until I was on the ground. The chill of the linoleum sent a fresh volt of pain through my spine, but after a minute the cold felt good against my back. The wetness on the floor made it feel colder and better. I turned to see if the tank was leaking, but I saw instead that it came from me.

  Was that my water breaking? I asked.

  No, that already happened, the daughter said. What you’re lying in is piss.

  It’s water. The floor is dirty. That’s why it looks yellow.

  It’s piss.

  I shuffled a few inches on my back toward the towel rack. I must’ve looked like a cockroach turned over on its side. I pulled the towels to the floor and stretched one flat, then lay on top of it. I balled the other one up and wedged it under my neck. They were Yllka’s towels, which she’d lent us. She washed them in the sink once a week with bleach and dish detergent and the fibers reeked of both. She was going to kill me.

  Should I call Yllka for help?

  How’s she going to help?

  She could call someone.

  Call who?

  An ambulance.

  You’re not having a heart attack, you’re having a baby. You want a doctor to charge you thousands for something that’s going to happen with or without him?

  Yes. I don’t want to be alone.

  You’re not alone.

  “Shit,” I said. “Ah.” She pushed again.

  God, are you coming or what?

  It’s a tight squeeze. Settle down, I’m doing the best I can.

  “Yllka,” I gasped. It was pathetic. On TV women screamed and flailed and kicked their husbands. I couldn’t stand up or let out a proper yell.

  “Yllka.” I tried again. It was loud enough this time to bounce off the shower walls and land back in my ear. “Yllka.”

  I heard nothing else, no stairs creaking under the pumps Yllka wore from sunup until bedtime.

  Don’t worry about it. She’d only make this whole thing harder. Too many hands in the bathroom. She might even kick us out onto the street if she saw the mess this is going to make.

  She’ll help us. I need help. I’m not going to be able to do this once you’re a crying wiggling monkey in my arms.

  Another wave of pain washed over my back. I rolled onto my side and pulled my knees in toward my chin.

  Quit it, I said. I can’t take this.

  I’m not doing it, you are, she said.

  I’m not. I’m trying to stop it.

  You started it and the only thing that’s going to stop it is the end. Hang in there.

  I can’t.

  You can.

  We lay in silence for a while, spasms shaking my back into convulsions every few minutes. It was cold. I was sweating. I wanted to shackle myself to the radiator and burn myself like Joan of Arc. I was guilty. Let me face my maker.

  Stop being so dramatic, she said. You’re not going to die. It hurts for me, too.

  It does?

  I’m in a vise here.

  I’m sorry. I’ll try.

  I’ll try, too.

  We both pushed but nothing happened besides a fresh batch of new hurt.

  “Ow,” I said. I was crying. Crying from sheer physical pain, which I hadn’t done since I was ten or eleven. I thought it would be a refreshing change but it wasn’t.

  I’m not ready yet, I told her.

  I could see now that the lines that swirled through the ceiling tile weren’t solid but tiny little dots that looked like ants marching in perfectly ribboned rows. I thought I saw them moving, marching, but it was probably my own shivering that wobbled the dots into movement. I preferred the ants. They seemed like company, like a squad there to cheer me on.

  Can we try again? she asked
after a few minutes.

  I didn’t answer at first.

  Can we?

  I opened my mouth and let out a sob. A thin line of snot trailed straight into my lips.

  I’m disgusting, I said.

  You’re having a baby. It’s messy. Can we try?

  Yes.

  I pushed again. I wailed, a cry vibrating my clenched lips.

  It felt like she’d shifted in there, but she still lay inside of me.

  I thought you said you were coming, I said.

  I am coming, she said. I’m trying. I can’t fit through.

  There’s only one way out.

  No shit. I’m looking right at it.

  Don’t get snotty.

  I’m sorry. It’s a habit.

  You’re not even born yet. How can you have habits?

  What can I say? I’m my mother’s daughter.

  Under my hand, my stomach felt hard and rough as a rock ledge at a quarry. She was all turned around in there. She was kicking and twirling.

  I breathed in deep through my nose and hissed the air out through my teeth like I’d seen pregnant ladies do in the movies. This whole performance was an imitation. They should’ve put a warning on those films: Don’t try this at home.

  Are you ready? I asked.

  Yeah. You?

  I shook my head. I don’t know, I said.

  Close enough, she said. Let’s go.

  —

  I couldn’t catch her. She slid onto the towel like she’d ridden a hot metal slide into the sand, as smooth and fast as that. She was veiled in pink but she was purple underneath. The trip had bruised her entire tiny body, or the vise inside had. She vibrated like a car engine that wouldn’t turn over. I waited to hear the noise, the sparks connecting and the engine roaring to life, but she was silent. The baby opened her mouth and screamed silently. I looked into it but it wasn’t a cavern like I expected. I remembered about the jelly inside, that I had to clear it from her nose and throat. I slid my pinkie into her mouth and wiped the jelly away and it was a cork released from a bottle, her voice spilling from her lips like champagne bubbles. Her cries pierced but didn’t carry far. It only looked as if they would be strong enough to tear down the walls around us, convulsive and angry but without the volume to match the rage. She shook so hard. She must’ve been cold but I didn’t hold her, I didn’t wrap her up. I watched her, her legs and arms wiry and frantic. I didn’t know how to pick her up. I’d never held a baby, not since Uncle Eddie had told me to be careful with my newborn cousin. He said an infant’s head was soft and would cave in if you touched it the wrong way. The baby looked as if she would just slip right out of my hands. I would crush her if I held her wrong. She’d disintegrate in my arms.

  But she cried so hard. I knew that kind of cry, that she’d take the chance of being pulverized if I’d just keep her warm. I grabbed the towel that my head had rested on and brought it to her. I wiped her down and began to wrap her but I couldn’t. She was still tied to the placenta, the cord still held us together. Sometimes the doctors asked the daddies if they wanted to cut it, but there were no doctors or daddies around. I scanned the sink. Nothing, just my toothbrush with its splayed bristles and a thin mound of pale green soap melted onto the enamel. I remembered a straight blade in the medicine cabinet that Bashkim kept for close shaves. I tried to stand but I wouldn’t be able to get to my feet without dragging and hanging the baby, so I picked her up. Just like that, one arm bracing her back and head while the other hand pushed our bodies upright. I held the wall, then the sink for support. I saw a brief reflection of the two of us in the mirror and it calmed me a little. We looked okay together, both wet red messes, but okay.

  I reached in and grabbed the blade and laid us back down over the towels, me upright with my legs spread wide and her placed in between them. She shivered when I put her down and began crying. I told her I’d hold her again but we needed to do this other thing first, this thing that was important for I don’t know what reason. I pulled the cord taut and laid it across my palm, a thick veiny root that looked alive on its own, and sliced into it with the blade. I didn’t feel anything. I wondered if the baby did, if this was a thing that belonged to her or to me, but she didn’t flail as I cut, either. I sliced until the cord slipped away from my hand in two pieces, the longer one still on my side, six inches of it dangling from the baby’s belly.

  “Okay now. Shh, shh,” I told her. I wrapped the thin towel around her a few times, a sloppy cocoon that swallowed her entire body and strapped her limbs to her own core. She cried for another minute, her eyes closed. I tucked her into my chest and we shivered together, her cries dying down as my own breathing slowed.

  —

  We lay still for what I guess was an hour, the two of us, on that bathroom floor. I passed the placenta after a while, and it hurt like a second delivery, only this time all it brought was a purple, veiny, deflated balloon left behind after the party ended. It looked like its own living thing, or at least its own once-living thing, something I should have buried and held a service for. I rolled it up in the towel I’d been lying on and threw it in the trash bin.

  I wanted to lie still forever but I couldn’t. The baby moaned once in a while and I was afraid she’d cry again, this time not for warmth but for something I didn’t have for her, food or comfort. I knew I had food in me somewhere but I didn’t know how to get it out. Something had already leaked from my nipples but it didn’t look like milk, more like the cloudy white pools that formed off the banks of the Naugatuck River, something that could never sustain life, something that might even kill it off. I had to move eventually. I had to move now, get to Yllka and to the hospital. The baby looked healthy but how the hell was I supposed to know? To me babies looked like a different species altogether, not tiny versions of our own. Nurses would know what to do. They could show me, those clean pink women dressed in white like angels, their hair smelling like shampoo always. I was a girl whose hair smelled of nothing ever. I was a girl who turned something fine into something scratched and broken, even when I swore I didn’t do anything wrong. Every CD I ever owned had scratches pitted in the grooves as soon as I’d released them from their cases. It was a birthright, a reverse Midas touch.

  But look at me, even without the nurses—I held not just a baby but an advertisement for babies. Who wouldn’t want one of these? Those Punnett squares from biology class, the baby was living proof of the bottom right-hand box, all recessive and perfect. Even under the waxy coat and dried blood, she looked nothing like me, nothing like any human I’d seen before. Every step I’d taken so far was a stumble, and yet look what I produced, a genetic fluke, something so better than any of its sources that it was a miracle as grand as the Virgin’s, or else evolution taking place before my very eyes.

  “Ready?” I asked her, but she didn’t answer. I guess somewhere along the journey she’d lost the words.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Luljeta

  You were so close. You almost made it. That’s what you think once you make it inside Houston city limits, five hours and fifty-seven minutes after you parted with Ahmet at a rest stop west of Jackson, Mississippi.

  Noreen—that’s the camper lady’s name, Noreen, and her husband is Jeb, actually Jeb, which you didn’t think was possible, because nobody’s name is actually Jeb, that’s just what people like you call people like Jeb when you think they’re not listening—Noreen put you in the sleeper of their Winnebago and mostly left you alone, just looking over now and again to make sure you weren’t shooting up or dead.

  Later, though, Noreen started asking more questions. First your name, then your age, then if you were running away. You told her Samantha, eighteen, and that it isn’t running away if you’re a grown-up. She asked where from and where to, and you told her Massachusetts and California, respectively, after a stop in Houston to visit a second cousin who up until then you’d only ever known as a Facebook friend. Your cousin was a music producer for some local R & B arti
sts. You didn’t seem to have much in common except blood, but blood was thicker than water, as the saying went.

  “And tar is thicker than blood. What’s that got to do with anything?” Noreen asked.

  “It’s just an expression,” you answered.

  “It’s a dumb one. What were you doing with that kid? He your boyfriend?” she asked.

  You told her you met him online, and you were just sharing a ride to save gas money.

  “That’s dangerous. Meeting up with somebody you met online is dangerous,” she said. “In fact, anybody you don’t know, consider ’em dangerous.”

  “My cousin’s riding with me out to California,” you said.

  “Good,” she said. “We’re not stepping foot inside that hellhole.”

  You had no reason to lie to Noreen, other than taking her advice about treating everyone as a potential threat. But Noreen and Jeb are harmless, disproving their own point. They’re helpful, even. They bring you all the way to the address you had memorized—your second cousin’s, right—which is generous of them. On the way, they fed you half of an Italian grinder, which they called a sub, they let you recharge your phone, they put some crappy straight-to-DVD rom-com on the television, and they did it all without even once acting like they were doing something nice or being particularly kind in demeanor. They just did it, as if that was the thing you did with people you picked up in a rest stop on the side of the road. You think of all the trashy names you would’ve had for them had you passed their camper on the highway, what you would’ve said about their bumper sticker, which managed to be pro-gun, anti-abortion, and anti-Obama in less than six words total, and it doesn’t reconcile with the people you’re looking at, who are not actually total shitheads. You aren’t sure whether the bumper stickers are false advertising, then, or not advertising at all. That complicates things, suddenly, within the four walls of that moving house and especially outside of it. Just how the hell are you supposed to know these things about people if not by the signs they carry?