Chris Offutt - The Same River Twice - A Memoir

“Good good good good good good.”

Its face emerged in profile between Rita’s legs. Circled around its neck was a pale fleshy cord like a snake. The doctor cut the umbilicus, which flipped onto Rita’s stomach as if sentient and alive, settling slowly into her deflating skin. From the vicinity of her pelvis came a strangled sound.

“There it is!”

“It’s out! It’s out!”

The doctor placed a wet mounded lump on Rita’s stomach, aimed at her breasts. The baby didn’t look like what the books had described. There was no cheesy substance, and the head wasn’t elongated. The thing was gray and wrinkled as old meat. It didn’t move. In that moment, I was sure that it was dead.

“My baby,” Rita said. “My baby, my baby.”

A tubular arm wiggled from beneath its head and stretched into the air, bending at the elbow, tiny fingers moving in a clutching motion. Just as quickly, the arm retracted. I leaned closer-no tail, a full head of dark, bloody hair. It looked like an Aleut after a vicious alley fight, with puffy eyes and scuff marks on its cheeks. The hands were fisted at the ready.

“Boy,” said a nurse. “It’s a boy.”

She scooted him forward and guided his mouth to Rita’s nipple.

“Sutures,” the doctor said. “Bring extra fast.”

A nurse gathered the baby and carried it to the far side of the room. She weighed him, measured his length like a fish, and ran her fingers in his mouth.

“Good palate,” she called. “All ten fingers and toes. Nine on the Apgar.” She turned to me. “Watch this.”

She held him beneath his armpits and slowly lowered his feet until they touched the surface of a sterile table. A leg lifted in an immediate step.

“Only humans do that at birth,” she said. “It’s my favorite part.”

She laid him on the table, rolled him in a blanket like a burrito, and offered him to me.

“He can’t be with the mother while she’s having surgery,” she said. “It wouldn’t be safe.”

I took him stiffly and we stared at each other. His eyes were deep blue, his hands gigantic. A cleft in his chin astounded me. I identified myself and welcomed him. He’d become pink but remained quite mute, his vision locked to mine. It occurred to me that he knew mysterious things. I could see an awareness that was at once exhilarating and frightening. I wanted him to speak, to tell me everything. What he’d just experienced was fresh in his mind, soon to be buried except for nightmares. We stared for many minutes, passing unknown information back and forth through the conduit of his initial sight. I cried and sang to him. Nine months of fear spiraled away. His birth was my rebirth. Paternal terror was simply ignorance. The baby knew everything there was to know.

I became aware of an eerie high-pitched moan, a battlefield keening. The doctor sat on a stool between Rita’s legs. Rita writhed on her back, head swinging side to side, her hair a constant dark motion. Two nurses held her arms. For an hour she moaned, receiving ninety-four stitches. At the last second of birth our baby had lowered his shoulder and forced his way into the strange world of light and space.

I carried him to his mother but Rita was in a private zone of pain and joy. The nurse motioned me away. I made the mistake of checking the doctor’s work. Her smock was bright red, the sewing finally complete. The doctor dipped her hands into the bucket and lifted what appeared to be a plastic dry-cleaning bag. She turned it inside out, gauging viscosity and content. I thought of augury, of pagan belief in the potency of the amnion. Satisfied, the doctor dropped it and red water splashed the floor. My knees felt weak and I was very scared of dropping the baby. I imagined my arms to be iron bars.

A nurse took the baby and presented it to Rita, She was cooing like an animal. I dug through the duffel bag and drained the tiny bottle of emergency whiskey. I sat in a chair, staring at the living symbol of life, Isis and Ra, woman and child.

The doctor reappeared in fresh clothes. A nurse sponged Rita and draped her in a clean gown. Everyone was smiling. Another nurse asked me his name. Over the sound of conversation came the baby’s cry. Rita’s nipple had slipped askew. She adjusted it and everyone listened to the baby’s quick breath, the suckling sound, the tiny mewing of life.

My son is three months old and on my back, strapped in a red harness. Today is the first day of spring, his first visit to the woods. His chubby legs bounce against my back. Seventeen years have elapsed since the last locust outbreak and the forest floor is full of finger-size holes. The earth has given the insects to light. Their drone rises and falls around us like distant chain saws. Rita is home, grateful for some time alone. Our son sleeps between us in the bed, and at night I arrange myself in order to hold his hand.

Flocks of starlings migrate along the river. The softwoods bud, the hardwoods wait. My family and I talk more often on the phone. Dad inquires about the “son of my son.” I ask him what he wants the kid to call him. “Grandfather,” he says. “That way he’ll always know there’s someone grander than his father.”

My mother wants to know who he resembles and I tell her he looks like himself, realizing later that the same phrase is used to describe a corpse lying in state. We live far away from them. I grew up not seeing my grandparents and have always regretted the loss. Now it would seem the pattern repeats.

The load on my back weighs nothing and everything. I stop to shift him, and feel a vine on my leg, around my boot. It is a tiny garter snake. Behind its head is a yellow stripe the size of a wedding ring. I pick it up gently, knowing that children accidentally kill them through gleeful handling. I turn my head to my son and hold the snake over my shoulder. His little fingers float toward it, pull back.

The river is high from flood to the north. Rita and I are always sleepy. Six weeks after the birth, our doctor sanctioned making love, but our son interrupted us the first few times. It seemed fitting somehow and I didn’t mind the halt. I was worried that Rita would feel different to me, that birth had transformed her passage. Her breasts had already become utilitarian, functioning independent of aesthetics. Making love to a maiden is one thing, to a mother quite another. When our son slept, Rita and I molded together, pressing as much flesh against each other as possible. My fears shed as easily as autumn leaves in rain. Nothing had changed except everything.

I come to a downed tree and remove the pack containing my son. The pack has an aluminum bar that folds forward so it can stand alone. It is bigger than him and he slumps sideways, listing like a trawler. I straighten him and he slides the other way. No matter how I try, he cannot sit straight, but his eyes the color of mine never leave my face. I sit cross-legged before him. The woods are heavy around us. The equinox signals the beginning of life and crop, of nesting birds and mating animals. I want to explain everything. I want to tell him what to do, and more important, what not to do. I give him a leaf which he calmly tastes. He can’t learn from my mistakes, only from his own.

I think of all the things I want to tell him, and say nothing. According to my father, I come from a long line of bad fathers, improving with each generation. The birth of my son has made me a middleman, nearer to death and to life, closer to my father. With courage and work, my son will become an adult one day. Amid the trees and birds, I realize that despite the obstacles I set myself, I have somehow become one myself.

I press my forehead to the forehead of my son. His tiny brow is warm. I can see his fontanel pulsing with life. Daddy loves you, is all I can think to say. Like all sons before him, he says nothing. The woods enclose us like a tent. The river flows beside us and touching it means touching the sea.