Elisa Albert - After Birth

I remember a succession of terrified, kowtowing brown women: yes Miss Janice, okay Miss Janice, I so sorry Miss Janice, oh Miss Janice yes I so sorry . She’d give them a raise whenever they survived an abusive episode, then ultimately fire them over something insignificant. A parade of crying brown women ran from our apartment. Some gave me kisses on their way out. Spanish benedictions; I was their little pobrecita . One pressed her lips to my forehead.

Sweet girl, sweet girl, bye. I be praying for you.

It’s true, too, though, that Janice made chocolate chip cookies once in a while, and let me lick the batter off the beaters, so she wasn’t all bad.

She wore tiny gold hoop earrings. She once got a perm (big mistake). She loved the movies. She relished her movie popcorn like nothing you’ve ever seen relished. She consumed culture. Saw every exhibit. Was passionate about everything. Read every book. I understood early that I’d find what I needed in books, if not in her. She gave me that.

But the baby. The baby. I am not saying enough about the baby. Walker. Him: a person! My son. His own person. Swell little guy. Sunny super-lovely love of a guy. If I kill myself, maybe he’ll grow up to be a poet.

In the first days I suffered spontaneous letdown, which sounds like a fascinating psychological disorder but really means there was milk absolutely everywhere. Sopping wet all of the time. Constantly shoving cloth diapers down my shirt. A big old leaky funereal fountain, that was me. He’d latch onto one side, and the other would just spray. I had to start nursing him lying down so gravity could slow it.

He wouldn’t sleep. I felt convinced that the surgery had damaged him, ruined his chances for a happy way in the world. He was always hungry. He needed to be held, he needed to nurse. He shat his diaper, he pissed his diaper. He cried, he needed to be held, he needed to nurse. Endless need. I did not understand how there could be no break. No rest. There was just no end to it. It went on and on and on. There was no end. And I couldn’t relinquish him to Paul, not for a minute, because he was mine , you see, mine, my baby, my responsibility, mine alone. I had to stand guard over him, make sure he was safe and okay and breathing and loved and fine and very close at hand. There was an agony that bordered on physical when he wasn’t in my arms. Every cell screamed No! Murder! Where is he? Hold him close! Hold him tight! Don’t let go!

Way more physically exhausting than I could have imagined. Just the sheer physicality of it, especially agonizing after surgery. Was the baby difficult because the mother was having a difficult time, or was the mother having a difficult time because the baby was difficult?

He refused sleep. Sleep, why wouldn’t he sleep? When might he sleep? We needed to sleep. All of us, sleepless. Lie down now and sleep. Nothing made sense. Sleep. Sleep. Sleeeeep.

So it was that, after a tearful phone call to my father— an extra pair of hands , I begged, we just need an extra pair of hands here —he and Sheryl parked themselves in the living room, held the baby, took endless photos of themselves and each other holding the baby.

A few times they took breaks to berate us about circumcision.

You’re making a terrible mistake , my father said, addressing himself mostly to Paul. And to me: you have no idea what it’s like to grow up in boys’ locker rooms .

We’ve had enough with the knives for now, Dad, thank you.

Sheryl was likewise appalled. They have no respect! Millions dead in the camps, and they can’t be bothered to circumcise their son.

My father shook his head sadly. It’s the one thing even barely observant Jews can respect .

Don’t bother, Norm. She’s just doing it to get a rise out of us. He’s going to have to do it later, when it’s incredibly painful.

Paul, usually generous and silent around them, piped up. Actually it’s been shown to be incredibly painful for an infant, too .

Oh bullshit! Sheryl’s face could not convey displeasure. Or pleasure, for that matter. One tiny snip and they don’t feel a thing, it’s so quick .

We disagree.

Well, of course it means nothing to you. It’s not your heritage .

I sat there trying to nurse, half hiding myself in shame and abasement. My father was obviously uncomfortable with my exposed tits, wore a stupid transparent look of disgust, and left the room whenever possible to avoid looking at me.

Sheryl lost herself in her device. The kettle was on for tea. The kettle began to scream.

A woman in a room has as many people to take care of as the number of people in that room , Marianne once wrote. I underlined it.

Water’s boiling , Sheryl noted, but didn’t move.

Fall’s given way entirely now. The trees are bare, and daylight’s deeply unsatisfying. Tried to get away with one more day wearing just a sweatshirt and am freezing my ass off.

Walker’s at Nasreen’s, I’m working the co-op. Midday you got your retirees, your local fucked-up art kids, your welfare folk, your moms from the suburbs, because organic is best.

I take a break and have a cup of tea by the info desk. I keep thinking I’ll make friends here, but something’s wrong with me or something’s wrong with this place or both, because I have made not a one.

Walker cried again today when I dropped him off at Nasreen’s. I fail him and fail him and fail him.

Few feet away a brand-newborn in a carrier on the ground. Its mother is trying to make a decision about bananas. Folded-up kitten, blinking, blobby. Rosebud. Raw.

Who can relax with that thing nearby? My jaw gets hard, extremities cold. Knot in my shoulder, have to remind myself to breathe. It’s weird when people jiggle and coo those balls of undercooked human. It’s weird to see them in public. Turn off the lights! Turn down the music! Get on your goddamn knees, beg pardon, avert your eyes, face to the earth, pray.

When I see pregnant women, I want to take them by their shoulders and shake. I mean shake . Are you ready? No, not have you decided on your child’s name and gender and aesthetic! No, not do you have every possible medical procedure lined up! I mean are you ready!? Like spiritually, bitches. Spiritually.

Finally, at wits’ end, desperate one cold early evening, I knocked on Crispin and Jerry’s door with newborn in the sling. Paul was at office hours, late. Paul was always somewhere, doing something. Paul was still a part of the world. Paul was still in possession of his body, mind, spirit. It felt like he was avoiding me. I had begun to hate him a little because I wished badly to avoid myself, too.

They’d always been friendly, Crispin and Jerry. A pie when we moved in; a polenta casserole when we got home from the hospital. I thought I’d say thank you in person for the casserole, which was so very delicious.

When Jer opened their door he was laughing at something Crisp was saying. Their house was bright and warm and smelled, I am not joking, of fresh bread. Rickie Lee Jones was doing a particularly jazzy number on the stereo.

His face fell the second he saw me.

Are you okay?

Thank you for the polenta. I forgot your dish, I’m sorry. I washed it.

That’s okay. You’re welcome. Want to come in?

I don’t know, I’m kind of losing my mind? A foreign keening in my voice. Walker asleep on me, bundled in my coat.

Come in, sweetie.

I’m sorry. I just need. I don’t know. Can I just hang out here for a little while? I don’t mean to bother you guys. If you’re busy. Because our house is… I’m just kind of losing my mind? You know what I mean? Are you guys, like, super busy?