Elisa Albert - After Birth

Hi , I say.

Four days ago , she says, not looking up.

So small and tender, shockingly close to nonexistence. It’s a whole lot like the dying. It’s almost exactly the same. Inspires quiet. I worship babies, it occurs to me. This is what worship does: fucks you all kinds of up.

She gestures at the space heater. Sort of bad timing .

How are you? Redundant; I have eyes.

Um. I’ve been better. I’m okay? She’s asking: am I? Her hair is wild.

Will and the guy are standing at attention, like they’re at a funeral for someone they barely knew, no idea what’s required of them.

Then the guy remembers to introduce himself.

I’m Bryan , he says.

Baby daddy? Boyfriend? Relative?

Ari.

Will.

Hi. Cool.

Will leads the way to the basement. Their footfalls thud on the stairs.

Midwife went home the other night, a few hours after. Said she’d stop by again, see how we’re doing. Haven’t heard from her, though. Left a message. She picks up her device and sets it back down.

You had him here?

Yeah , she says, like duh.

Where’s your family? Or whatever. Are they coming? I feel faint, standing over her. A hundred feet tall. And claustrophobic, like when I was a kid, with the panic attacks. A war zone, this: life and death doing a maddening polka on your soul.

She laughs. Laughs and laughs, shakes laughing, tears up, downright glittery. My family. My family! This is the funniest, oddest idea she’s ever heard. My family! She sighs gratefully, happy for the laugh. Laughter the great transfusion.

Ah , she says, calmer now. My family . A bit less crazy-eyed, a pinch more present. She stares at her animate bundle. Shakes her head, grins, bugs out her eyes like a soap actor’s interpretation of nuts.

My family!

I sit.

One night, late, almost morning, maybe counted as morning, couldn’t say for sure, my mother was next to me on the couch while I nursed.

How do you know if he’s getting enough?

He’s getting enough.

How do you know?

You just know.

Well. We always knew. We used to microwave your formula.

I sighed, closed my eyes, hoped she might not be there when I opened them again.

What? We didn’t know. It fills them up better! He’ll sleep longer. Oh my God, you know what else we used to do? Benadryl. What a gift that was. Knocked you out for hours.

She giggled and glanced around at the chaotic mess: was the basket full of clean laundry, or was it dirty? The bowl in which I’d eaten that morning’s oatmeal, getting crusty. Dirty dishes stacked in the sink. She raised her brows.

Kill you to tidy up a little?

Don’t start with me, Demerol bitch.

What? You might feel better if it wasn’t such a pigsty around here.

I stared out the big window, arms tense around Walker. Didn’t want to be that way around him, no flash of anger.

Sorry, monkey , I whispered. It’s okay. How much of the rest of my life would I spend thusly assuring this poor moppet that “it” was “okay”?

Incidentally, you have no right to speak to me that way.

That’s how she was: hard and mean until you responded in kind, then wounded, self-righteous.

Soon he was finished on the left side, big boy. I lifted him up, held him close, delicious soft hilarious drunk face, patted his back, and put him to work on the right. We passed weeks this way, he and I, submerged, disoriented, in a twisted sort of contentment. Now I yearn for that time, want to lie with him connected and safe. Memory’s a ridiculous bastard.

This is my son , I said, gazing at him to be spared her. This is Walker. Isn’t he beautiful? The big eyes, so liquid and good. You couldn’t help but smile, be filled with the presence of whatever the hell we can all agree on.

That’s an idiotic name. Where did you even come up with a name like that? What does that even mean?

It’s Old English. It’s a great name. Hello? Walker Percy? Walker Evans? She was a lover of books and culture, at least.

You should have named him for me.

I said nothing.

I mean, really.

I wanted this to be a good thing , I hissed. A fresh start. A new thing . My heart raced. Walker started to cry. I put him up over my shoulder the way my favorite nurse had shown me, pat pat pat rub rub rub. It’s okay. It’s okay it’s okay it’s okay it’s okay it’s okay it’s okay . Bluffing.

She cackled.

Riiiight. Hey, how’s the dissertation coming, Little Miss Fresh Start? You look hard at work.

Fuck you.

Nice.

This is work.

Walker spit up, looked greatly alarmed, settled back down. Sorry monkey sorry monkey it’s okay monkey shhhhhh. Will you hand me one of those rags?

I was forever in need of someone to hand me something.

Take a shower! Change your clothes. Jesus. Make yourself something to eat. Any opportunity to fall apart, this one. Have you looked in a mirror lately? What is the big deal, here? Get it together. Honestly.

I just had a fucking baby is the big deal you dead cunt.

She began to moo at me, cracked herself up.

Mooooooooo. She got pretty hysterical, and then was gone. Without ever having handed me one of those goddamn rags.

Shhhh monkey, shhhh it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.

I write to Crispin and Jer about their busted boiler. Crisp replies:

goddamn motherfuuuuuuuck it all to hell. alright, over it, do whatever u have to do. don’t skimp. thought that bitch’d last one more winter. thanks, punky. sorry. miss you. ate a pizze last night u would have had a stroke over. jer sends hugs and is getting fat.

Punky is because I told him I was obsessed with Punky Brewster as a kid.

Turns out the old boiler was installed in 1975. Will and a guy from the superstore are almost done replacing it.

Bryan’s in an armchair, staring at his computer. Still have no idea what his role is here.

Hurts just to look at Mina’s tits, so swollen. She winces when the baby latches. This is the part no one talks about, the part that feels suspiciously like a secret. Sorry: a part. And secrets are by nature shameful. Pisses me off, watching her struggle and wince like that.

Look at the teeny-tiny baby , I tell Walker, who nods solemnly and is off again to empty the bottom kitchen drawer of its contents, hurl them one by one to the floor, and put them all away again. So long as he’s not in mortal danger.

I bring Mina a glass of water.

She thanks me as though such kindness is going to push her over an edge.

Fuck, my tits hurt so much . They’re enormous, her tits, big and hard, like implants.

The baby’s name, she’s pretty sure, is Zev.

I’m sitting with it , she says. It feels right. Doesn’t it?

Naming something is almost impossible. Zev sounds pretty good to me. Sometimes I think: Walker!? What the fuck? But when you’re used to something it stops mattering, by definition.

I like it , I say. It’s a good name.

She dabs some ointment on the left. Bryan looks up from his screen to watch.

It’s Wolf. Feels right. It jives. I looked at him when he came out, after all my howling, and there he was . She does a soft, melodious howl. Right? Right, little wolf? I could call him Wolf, I guess. If Zev is too, like, “oooh look at me I’m so Hebrew-y.” Maybe Wolf is better .