Julia Fierro - Cutting Teeth

“Don’t worry,” Tiffany said calmly, “I’m an expert. ’Member? My granny was a fisherman’s wife.”

“No, please. Wait.”

“Take a deep breath,” Tiffany said, and, fluidly, pinched the fishhook, twisted it gently, and removed it from his flesh. He closed his eyes, and yellow spots danced across his lids.

When he opened his eyes, she had his finger up at her lips and the warmth of his blood was mingling with the warmth of her mouth, and she was sucking, his finger moving in and out of her blood-tinted lips, her tongue darting at the tip like a fish nipping at bait. She moaned, or at least he thought she did. “Oh God,” he whispered, then her hand was in his pants, and he was lifting her so she sat on a shelf, a rough wooden plank. Her dress tore as a Disney princess music box fell to the floor, leaking slow, tinny sounds.

Together, they tugged at the straps of her dress, fingers fumbling over fingers, and he pulled her breasts free — they were his, the breasts of his dreams and his fantasies, so many long showers spent thinking of these breasts as he jerked off until the steam made the paint buckle on the bathroom walls, and the real things surprised him, their softness, their scent, their salty taste as his tongue reached for her nipples, so pale he couldn’t tell where the nipple ended and the breast began, then she was saying something, directing— from behind —and he flipped her over, and pulled her dress up and kicked her feet apart— yes! she cried — and he slid his hand between her legs and then slid his wet fingers over his dick and he was inside her with one thrust, his belt buckle hitting the cement floor with a clang, and she was saying— do it do it do it fuck me —and he had a hand on her back, and the blood from his finger was spreading into the green silk like it was tissue paper, and he tasted something sweet on his tongue like sugar water, and it wasn’t until he came with a spasm that knocked a piggy bank off the shelf, the painted clay shattering at his feet, that he realized he had breast milk on his lips.

“Once upon a time,”Levi repeated after her, his voice slow and dull with exhaustion.

The baby twisted inside her when it heard its big brother speak. Levi’s head was in what little lap Susanna had left. She knew she smelled like vomit and anxious sweat and pee — she had lost control of her bladder when she’d looked out the window facing the water and seen the blue lights of the police boats sweeping the shore.

Levi didn’t seem to mind the smell. He’d buried his head in her lap and asked for a once upon a time story.

“Shhh,” Susanna hushed, wiping her nose on the back of her hand. “Shhh,” praying that her stampeding pulse would relent. The baby, she thought. Don’t hurt the baby.

Too much worrying not good for mommies, Tenzin had told Susanna, her palms pressed together, her eyes brimming with concern, before taking Harper, Hank, and Wyatt back to their beds. And worrying not good for mommies’ babies either.

“Once upon a time,” Susanna whispered, “there were two mommies.”

“A mama and a mommy,” Levi mumbled.

“Quiet, Lee. Please. You listen to the once upon a time story and make the pictures in your head.” She coughed up a mouthful of phlegm and the baby kicked in protest. “Yes, a mommy and a mama. And two little boys. In a big white house in the country. With green shutters. And apple trees and berry bushes. Even a tree house.”

“With a pirate-scope!”

“A telescope. Yes, sweetie. And a puppy. Maybe some chickens. Fresh eggs for omelets. Mama will make a garden for us, ’cause we need some spinach and chives to cook up in that omelet.”

She stroked the back of Levi’s neck where the skin seemed impossibly soft. Don’t think of Dash’s beauty mark, she told herself. That smooth patch of skin she’d kissed a hundred times since he’d been cut out of her. Don’t you think it, Susanna, don’t you do that!

“And a baby,” Levi said.

She bit her lip to stop the sob from climbing out. Bit down until she felt her lip split.

“And a baby,” she said. “You and Dash will be such good big brothers to your baby. You’ll teach him to talk, and play cars, and build Legos…”

He interrupted her, “Nah, Mama. It a girl baby. Me and Dash, we want a girl baby.”

Outside, a wave smacked into the deck and Susanna felt the floor tremble under her swollen feet.

“That’s so sweet, baby,” she said and leaned over her stomach to kiss his forehead. He tasted salty and it made her think of the sea, of Dash in the sea, his little body slammed into the sandy bottom, explosions of pebbles and a storm of bubbles, and she thought she was going to vomit and sat up too quickly, Levi’s head bouncing off her lap and into her belly. The baby jerked one-two-three times. A temper tantrum, Susanna thought, and almost laughed. She’d tell Allie and Dash that when they returned. They’d like that.

“Mommy wants a baby girl too. It’s funny.” Levi giggled. “She says she wants to dress it up. Like a dolly.”

“She did? Mommy really said that?” The baby rolled and jabbed Susanna so low, she imagined a tiny hand reaching out her cervix.

“Pink stuff,” Levi said, then yawned big. “Pretty pink stuff. Girl stuff.”

“Shhh,” Susanna hushed again, this time for the baby. She rubbed her belly, and after one last ripple of movement, the baby— she, Susanna thought — quieted.

“Once upon a time,” she began again, “there was a mommy and a mama, and two boys, and a baby girl, and they lived in a big white house in the country. With green shutters. And apple trees. And berry bushes. And a tree house.…”

Tiffany could feelhim dripping out of her. Leaving her.

There was the whisper of cloth tearing. “Shit. I tore my dress. I love this fucking dress.”

Rip was hunched over, breathing heavily, holding on to the shed wall.

“We have to get out of here,” he said. “Where the hell is everybody?”

“Still looking, I guess,” she said, ruffling his thick hair. “Don’t worry. They’ll find him soon. The cops are down there. There’s nothing we can do.”

“What?” He stood. “Find who? Hank? Is it Hank?” He gripped Tiffany’s shoulders, too hard. “Tiffany, tell me what’s going on.”

“Hank is fine, silly,” she said. “It’s Dash who’s gone missing. Just disappeared out of his bed while we were all downstairs. Poof! They’re all down there. On the beach. With the cops. Looking.”

Rip pushed past her, threw open the door, and was gone. Part of him was still dripping down her legs. All his future babies, she thought, dying as soon as they left her warm cove and hit the cold night air.

She stepped on something sharp on the driveway and when she lifted her foot, she stumbled and her hand reached for but then slid off the hood of a car, slick with dew. She lay on her back, the pebbles biting through the thin silk, and lifted her foot. A piece of broken pot. She yanked it free. Where were her shoes? Oh who cared? She was a sprite. A Midsummer Night’s Dream . Sprites didn’t wear shoes.

Tiffany stood and tra-la-la-ed up to the deck, trying to regain the feeling she’d had earlier, of being a fairy fantasy in her green silk dress. As she turned the corner, the sea wind hit her, pressing the dress tight against her body and making her nipples harden. She found a cushion speckled with black mold and carried it to the chaise lounge, where she lay, her legs open to the silver blanket of sea stretching all the way to the blinking lights of Connecticut. Just like Gatsby’s light.