Xhenet Aliu - Brass

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.