Issue 37.2

Catch

by Kathleen Furin

Lynette sat, hands folded one over the other, tucked right into her lap. She had found that if she kept them folded together like this she could barely feel how they ached. Once her hands had been slender and competent. Now they drooped useless, swollen and dry. Lynette pressed them into the faded yellow quilt. She really wanted her purple blanket, the one that was tattered but cream-soft. Shawna must have thrown it away. Lately Shawna was throwing a lot of things away, trying to do it discreetly but somehow managing to get rid of the only things Lynette cared about. They had stopped discussing the inevitable out loud, Lynette鈥檚 steepening decline, the selling of her home, the move into a nursing home. But the way Shawna cleared things out, sneaking, scraping, an anxious mother bird in reverse, only accelerated when the conversation stopped.

The purple blanket Lynette wanted was given to her by a client whose baby had been breech. No one wanted to deliver her at all, let alone at home, and Lynette hadn鈥檛 been too sure either, but when the woman said she would do it alone if Lynette didn鈥檛 help her; well, she felt she had no choice. She鈥檇 still been fairly green, then, green but confident, and she had been certain almost all along that the breech was a rumpling, butt first instead of head, safest and easiest of all breech presentations. But at the birth she got that tingling feeling she got sometimes, pay attention, be careful, something is not right, and sure enough the first thing to emerge was a tiny, bluish foot. Lynette had held her breath, trying to remember what they鈥檇 learned in clinicals; 鈥hands off the breech, hands off the breech,鈥 鈥 had they ever even talked about footlings? 鈥 and in a moment the other foot emerged. Then a butt with a squirt of fluid, a torso, one arm, another. Neither Lynette nor the woman had panicked in that instant before the head, streaked with blood and cheesy vernix, had squirmed out. The baby was fine, the mother beyond exhilarated. The mother made the blanket; a garish, purple tie-dye; out of fleece she鈥檇 dyed herself.  It had been buried in the linen closet for years, but when Lynette pulled it out, maybe five, six years ago, it had become her favorite. But then Shawna took it, said she needed to clean it. Lynette was fairly certain she wouldn鈥檛 see it again.

Lynette listened out for Shawna now; she was late. Often at this hour Lynette was dozing already. But she hated to be asleep when Shawna came, so she fought the urge to close her eyes. Sleep was another constant for Lynette and Shawna to fight about. Shawna couldn鈥檛 understand Lynette鈥檚 odd hours, how she loved the fluid intimacy of the night. How happy it made Lynette, still, to be up late, remembering. Remembering the rushing out at two, three a.m., grabbing her birth kit and some extra towels and bananas on her way out the door. Women almost always delivered at night, if nobody interfered, and even though it had been years since Lynette had caught a baby her sleep patterns had stayed disrupted. One of her favorite things to do was to creep outside late at night, sit on her tiny porch and wait for the night noises to die down, the crickets, the trickles of conversation, the blare from someone鈥檚 TV. Lynette would watch as one by one the lights in the houses around her would flicker out. She would own the night then, just as she had when she鈥檇 gone speeding off, late late, into a row of houses in the city, perhaps, or down a lonesome dirt road in the middle of nowhere. She was the only one then, doing home births, and she worked with women in a six-hour radius covering four states. Sometimes Lynette drove in silence. Sometimes she put on talk radio. At other times she would blast music, whatever was on the radio, whatever the kids had left in the car. It was only Lynette, and that ineffable presence she always felt, driving to a birth. Something guiding her, not only towards the birth but through it, so somehow she鈥檇 know the cord was wrapped before she even needed to check, she鈥檇 know the baby was posterior, she鈥檇 know this woman was a bleeder. It was that presence that she was seeking now, in her late nights out, but she couldn鈥檛 explain this to Shawna. She was listening, in that utter silence, for that thing that came with the babies.

Shawna was such a disappointment. It was not hard, now, to admit that. Before the kids were grown she used to wonder about when you knew you were done as a mother, when you could step away and look at your project, your children, with pride or dismay, remembering the good, the painful, the things you knew you should have done differently.  She saw now that this time came quicker than you ever could have imagined, that the regrets cut deeper, that you couldn鈥檛 even take credit for the right things, the good. She remembered Shawna at just five, still chubby with baby fat, wide-eyed, soft-cheeked, coloring quietly while Lynette did her pre-natals. Shawna was obsessed with watching birth videos then, and Lynette let her. Shawna used to talk about the day when she would get to catch the babies. The day which had never come, as Shawna had pursued her own passions and Lynette hers, the two of them somehow moving next to each other, parallel, yet always, ultimately, on their own.

Lynette knew it was her own fault. Births had always taken precedence, even over her own children, but she hadn鈥檛 fully understood what that would mean, how angry it would make them. She had an inkling the time she missed Shawna鈥檚 school play. Shawna was ten then and skinny and sullen, and the truth was Lynette had been so caught up in the birth that she hadn鈥檛 even remembered the play. Listen, listen, that primal power, attending births the greatest high in the world. She鈥檇 come home around midnight, sweaty, exhausted, and found a note in her underwear drawer when reaching in for fresh pajamas. 鈥淚 hate you,鈥 it read, words scrawled over an image of a scribbled cat with a big scowl. In tiny letters, under a crooked paw, 鈥淵ou were the only mom not there.鈥
Lynette took Shawna to Sweet Dreams the next day, bought her whatever she wanted. 鈥淭ell me about the play, sweetie,鈥 she said, licking at gobs of sugar and fat. Shawna licked at her cone, raised a shoulder, looked away.  鈥淵ou missed it,鈥 she finally said, pulling off a sprinkle. Shawna hated pink sprinkles, and would always pull them off, a habit that irritated the hell out of Lynette. By the time the pink sprinkles were off the cone would be a gooey, disgusting mess. Lynette sometimes pretended they only had the chocolate kind, but today she pressed her annoyance down deep, tried to make up with her daughter. 鈥淲hat about Noah Goldberg?鈥&#虫9诲; Lynette asked. 鈥淒id he throw up again, like last year?鈥&#虫9诲; Shawna pushed at her pile of pink sprinkles, crushing them into a paste on the swirling grey formica.  鈥淣o, Mom,鈥 she finally said. 鈥淣obody threw up.鈥

鈥淭here鈥檚 a moment, in a birth,鈥 Lynette said, needing Shawna to know what she knew. She looked at Shawna鈥檚 finger, with the shredded hangnails lined up diligently around the pale nail, the skinny finger pressing against the pink paste, and continued. 鈥淭here鈥檚 a moment when everything gets suddenly quiet. Even the mother. She may have been moaning, howling as she shifted around, but just suddenly everything will go still. Almost like that moment, in the dawn, right before the sun rises.鈥 Last summer, at the beach house, they鈥檇 watched the sun rise almost every day. It wasn鈥檛 really like that; on the beach you could hear the waves, and the calls of the sea birds; but it was the closest thing Lynette could think of. 鈥淚f you listen for that moment you鈥檒l know exactly when to put on your gloves. You鈥檒l know exactly what to do, almost like an invisible hand is guiding you. Then the mom will get loud again and before you know it, we have a baby. Some people think the baby has a soul from the moment it was conceived. Not me. I鈥檝e seen it, Shawna, I have. In that moment of almost unbearable stillness, the soul slips in.鈥

Lynette bit her lip, to keep herself from saying more. Her friends often told her she shared too much with her kids, was too open, they knew too much about adult things. And it wasn鈥檛 only that she didn鈥檛 always know how to be. It was also that she knew that she was responsible for this rift between her and Shawna. Even though she knew that Shawna would never understand still she hoped that if she could find the words to explain it then maybe it could make everything better. It wasn鈥檛 the being a mother that was so powerful, so important; being a mother was mundane, exhausting, unsatisfying. It was the catching of the babies, the pulling them into the world. Few people, other than midwives, understood this. Few people understood why her work always came first, even before her own children. So how could she possibly expect her own children to accept that they would never be the first, most important thing?
Shawna stared at the table. Lynette realized that the cat note was an unusually expressive action for Shawna. But this talk wasn鈥檛 helping, it wasn鈥檛 repairing whatever was broken between them. Shawna handed the remnants of her cone, frizzed with napkin and melty vanilla, to Lynette. She put on her headphones. Lynette sighed, letting her mind drift to the mystery of the babies, the magic of catching. There were no exact words for it. The soul slips in was as close as she could get.

Only one time had the soul not bothered. Her only dead baby, in all those years. The birth went on and on 鈥  the silent moment never came. She waited for it.  Listened in like always. It wasn鈥檛 exactly like she could see or even hear the babies鈥 souls; no, it was more of an impression, a feeling, a soft touch on the back of her neck, a swirl of gold or green, a melody perhaps, a simple bass note. A 鈥渓istening鈥 was the only way Lynette knew to describe it. At that birth the mother never got silent because the baby wasn鈥檛 there. It was the only birth since the footling in which Lynette really wasn鈥檛 sure what to do.  She often encouraged the mother, in that powerful part of the labor, to keep the focus on meeting her baby, her new baby that would soon emerge, but since she was suddenly certain this baby was dead she did not want to give the mother false hope. The labor went on, and even though she had a heartbeat on the Doppler until the very end she had known still that this baby was not going to make it. The mother pushed for over three hours, and Shawna had begun to think it may be time for a transfer 鈥 a tricky issue in this state, where home birth was neither legal nor illegal 鈥 when suddenly the mother cried, 鈥涣丑, oh, oh no,鈥 and the lifeless body slipped out, purple-black. Lynette had the resuscitation kit ready, but it was useless. She stayed with the mom for ten hours after the birth, cradling her raw grief, her bloodsweatspittearsmucous, in her own two hands. Nowadays there would have been a lawsuit but at that time this mother was nothing but grateful. Lynette had gone on to deliver all three of this woman鈥檚 subsequent children at home, calmly and competently. Whatever reason that baby had for not coming was its own reason. Before this experience Lynette had thought that losing a baby would be terrifying. But it wasn鈥檛. Not at all. It was horribly sad, but not scary. She had done everything she could. There was no reason to be scared.

Just as she wasn鈥檛 scared now, waiting for Shawna, staring at her hands on the yellow quilt. The realization had dawned on her recently that what she was doing now was waiting to die. She had thought for many nights that she was listening for the powerful silence of birth noises. It made a kind of sense to her that she鈥檇 been mourning pieces of herself that had been left behind earlier in her life. Vitality. Not only of the babies and their new powerful mothers. Her own. She knew, now, though, that she was not listening for the birth sounds but rather for the thing that would call her out of this life.  It was almost the same thing that was calling the babies in, but not quite.  She wanted to know exactly what it sounded like, needed to be sure when she heard it. She鈥檇 had people die, when you live long enough there is no avoiding that, but aside from the baby she鈥檇 never been present for a death. Even Steve; his heart attack had been at the office, and on April 15th, tax day, which made for a good joke when they鈥檇 felt like they could joke again. It bothered her, that she didn鈥檛 know what Death would sound like. What she wanted now was to sit in the night, wrapped in a purple quilt, listening for the thing that would call her away. She was ready.
Not Shawna. Shawna was terrified of death. She was also terrified of losing Lynette. 鈥淵ou can鈥檛 lose what you never had, Shawna鈥 a voice said inside of her, sometimes, a voice filled with remorse and guilt, but then she considered that might be all the more reason for Shawna to not welcome her loss. With Lynette dead, all hope of a normal mother-daughter relationship would be gone forever. But Shawna couldn鈥檛 express that, wouldn鈥檛 know how to express that, so she put all her anxious energy into being bossy. 鈥淵ou can鈥檛 keep coming outside at night,鈥 Shawna had scolded, the day the morning nurse had come in and been unable to find Lynette. Shawna had hired a nurse for the morning because her own mornings were far too busy, and she didn鈥檛 trust Lynette to start her day alone. The morning nurse would come and help Lynette in and out of the shower, make coffee and toast, leave a little something Lynette could fix herself for lunch until Shawna came late in the day. Shawna had not become a midwife, herself, but an attorney. 鈥淚鈥檓 there for my kids,鈥 Shawna would say sometimes, and while it was true that she worked regular hours, Lynette wondered if she ever noticed how distracted she was, how much more she seemed to care about her cases than her kids. Still. Shawna never missed a class play, made herself available for school trips, baked cupcakes and cookies and knew all the kids鈥 friends鈥 names, which is more than Lynette had been able to do.

Lynette stood to make her way into the house. She had been trying to get around without her cane, but the one knee was just so sore. It pained her to be confined to the house. She鈥檇 always been so active. She especially missed walking in the woods.
The night the baby died she did not go home. She鈥檇 been gone a long time; almost forty-eight hours; yet she needed something other than kids and dishes and everyday clatter. She鈥檇 stayed with the mother and the little dead baby for so long that it was dark again by the time she got on the road. Fortunately, Steve often worked from home, and unless it was tax season he had a lot of flexibility. That was the only way they鈥檇 been able to manage her career.
She鈥檇 driven into the Wissahickon, parking at a place that was a popular entry point for joggers and hikers. It was late, but the moon was big and bright, and she could see the trails easily. It had rained earlier, and the noise of the water still dripping from the trees melded with that of the river, a tiny, quiet rush of a river here. She hiked for a while, reflecting.  She wasn鈥檛 a religious person, mostly because she could see the imperfections, the human error in how we thought about God. It was clear to her more than ever that what she did or didn鈥檛 do really didn鈥檛 so much matter. A baby that was going to make it would fight its way through no matter what, and one that wasn鈥檛, wouldn鈥檛. She had always known this, but she knew it now in a way that was deeper, different, that shifted things inside and out.

Lynette hiked until she came to a quiet place, a little up a smallish mountain, and settled herself at the base of a large, old tree. The roots of the tree pushed up and out, making a welcome V. Lynette pressed her butt down into the spaces between the roots, pressed her back against the tree. She wanted to become the tree, to just melt into the tree, to feel the tree鈥檚 strong trunk as her very own spine. She could still hear the river, down and below her, could hear the trees whisper among themselves as they danced in the dark. The baby would be back, she knew that baby would be back, it was merely a blip on the never-ending cycle, life, death, rebirth, life, death, rebirth. She pressed her hands into the sticky mud, willing herself to be utterly still, as still as that perfect pause, that soul moment. But even though she felt at peace, hands muddied, cold and raw, it didn鈥檛 come. It was something that only came with birth.
Lynette sat until the sun rose. She rose with it, stiffly, wiped her hands on her jeans, turned and followed the path back down to the river, followed the river out of the woods and into the parking lot, followed the cobblestone road to her home. Steve had already left with the kids, but there was a frittata in the oven for her, a note; call me when you wake up. She had never met anyone who really understood her calling but Steve had come close. When they鈥檇 first started dating he had been thrilled by her profession, her passion, the way nothing would stop her. Home birth was legal in only one of the four states she caught babies in, and he was impressed by her daring. Once they had the kids and the house he urged her to be cautious, but he never tried to stop her, although his resentment grew year after year. She thought sometimes that they were a perfect example of the thing you love the most in someone later becoming the thing you most despise. She had not wanted to marry, had tried to discourage Steve, had told him she didn鈥檛 ever want kids of her own. 鈥淭he children of the world are my children,鈥 she鈥檇 said, laughing, but somehow it had happened anyway, the wedding at St. Pete鈥檚, a luncheon in her mother鈥檚 backyard, her missed period, Shawna, then Danny, then Joey-Jack. Joey and Danny came one right after the other and always seemed to need each other more than they needed her. They had none of the obligation, resentment, or need for her that Shawna did; once they were weaned they were on their way, playing with balls and guns, then sneaking cigarettes and condoms, and finally now with kids of their own.

After she鈥檇 found her place in the woods she frequented it more and more often, always alone, always at night. It was startling to her what a different world the Wissahickon was at night. During the day it was a large urban park, filled with joggers and bikers and mothers with toddlers feeding the ducks. At night it became a wild place, a lonely place, her place. She would make her way to her tree and sit. She would sit until she was sure she was no longer Lynette but a part of the tree, her eyes blinking out from its wizened trunk. One night four drunken teenagers came upon her. They were boys, loud and rough. One of them was singing and one of them was snapping branches off trees as he walked. She wasn鈥檛 afraid for even a minute, although they鈥檇 startled her at first. They passed right by her, so close she could see the freckles on one kid鈥檚 cheeks, the pierced lip of another, and they never even saw her, never even shot a glance in her direction. Another time, on a night with just a sliver of a moon, a raccoon walked right up to her. She sat, not moving when the raccoon came out of the brush. It sniffed around her for a minute, then pressed its nose right up under her chin. Lynette still didn鈥檛 move. She could smell its damp, mossy scent, and its eyes looked almost like the eyes of a just-caught baby, fresh, wise. They looked at each other for a minute, maybe more, and then the raccoon shambled on. She never saw it again.

鈥淢om?鈥&#虫9诲; Shawna called now. 鈥淢om?鈥&#虫9诲; Her heels clattered across the hardwood floors. Lynette tried to stand, but Shawna stopped her. 鈥淣o, no, sit,鈥 she said. 鈥淚 have a late meeting tonight, so I can鈥檛 stay, but here鈥檚 dinner.鈥 Dinner for Shawna was usually take-out, even for her own family. Everything tasted too rich to Lynette, who just wanted bread, a little bread with jam, some fruit, maybe a yogurt now and again. Shawna whipped out chicken and some mashed potatoes, dished spinach onto a plate.

鈥淣ow eat,鈥 she said, standing over her mother. Lynette picked at the spinach; too much cream.

鈥淚t鈥檚 delicious,鈥 she said, not wanting Shawna to see how her hand shook when she raised it to her mouth.  鈥淭hank you.鈥

鈥淗ave you been outside again?鈥&#虫9诲; Shawna asked.

Lynette looked up at Shawna, hesitated. Why couldn鈥檛 she talk to her own daughter? She had never imagined they would be this distant, that it would be this difficult to talk about the things that mattered. But she didn鈥檛 need to answer; Shawna knew. She shook her head at Lynette.
鈥淢other. Please. It鈥檚 chilly. Please stay in. I鈥檒l put on something for you, some Jeopardy? Tommy wants to know if you can make it to his game? I can bring the chair for you. It鈥檚 Sunday.鈥

Lynette nodded. Of course she could go to the game. The only time she saw her grandsons was at their games. They鈥檇 run over, peck at her cheek, 鈥淚鈥檓 playing forward today, Grandma!鈥 run back into the game. She鈥檇 have to squint at their numbers to remember who was who, but usually by the end of the game she was asleep anyway. She鈥檇 heard her son-in-law, Bobby, complain about this. 鈥淲hy do we drag her to these games when all she does is sleep through them?鈥&#虫9诲; he鈥檇 ask. 鈥淪he鈥檚 my mother!鈥 Shawna would hiss, and Bobby would help Lynette dutifully out of the car and onto the field, easing her into the sturdy camping chair he鈥檇 pull from the trunk.

Although she鈥檇 never seen a live raccoon again, once, when she鈥檇 gone to her spot, Lynette had found a dead one half-buried under a huge log, carcass of tree sheltering carcass of animal. She hadn鈥檛 seen it at first, hadn鈥檛 noticed it at all. But she鈥檇 sat so long the sun had begun to rise, and in the orangey pink she suddenly saw a tiny, five-fingered claw. It was strange, that she had sat with a carcass all night and only just noticed it. Its discovery felt to her like stepping slowly into a warm bath, heat on your feet and ankles, then your thighs, then before you knew it you were wrapped in warmth and could just sink back. She didn鈥檛 want to touch the raccoon, but she needed to see it. She wondered if it was the one she鈥檇 met. There was still a stingy swath of fur around the claw, and bits of bloody flesh right at the base of the spine, but the raccoon had otherwise been picked clean. She could see the spine unfettered, perfectly symmetrical, bits of bead and bone, like a treasure you鈥檇 find at the bottom of the sea, and she remembered a stanza from a children鈥檚 book she used to read at bedtime, to the kids, about the different months of the year. November鈥檚 said

鈥the beauty of the bone
Tall God must see our souls this way,
and nod,鈥&#虫9诲;

and Lynette found herself nodding now, saying yes yes yes to the raw glory of this creature which had passed.

鈥淚 have to get you into bed, Mom,鈥 Shawna interrupted. 鈥淚 have to run.鈥 Lynette nodded. This had become a nightly battle, only Lynette had so little fight left. Shawna knew it was hard for Lynette to get out again, and liked to have her 有料盒子视频 tucked in before she left. Tonight Lynette didn鈥檛 resist, didn鈥檛 even ask about the purple blanket although it was on her mind.

鈥淣o TV though, ok?鈥&#虫9诲; she asked instead. She hated the staticky blare, didn鈥檛 understand why people found it comforting. 鈥淚鈥檒l just read.鈥

鈥淵ou can鈥檛 read, Mother,鈥 Shawna sighed. It was true. The letters swam together and gave her a headache. She rarely even tried anymore.

鈥淚t鈥檚 OK,鈥 Lynette said. 鈥淚鈥檓 tired.鈥 Maybe tonight she would just sleep, and that would be OK, and tomorrow night she could go out and listen for the sound, the sound that would call her out. She wished she could tell Shawna, about her place, her need for silence. But even if she told her and Shawna wanted to help her how would she do it? Walking was so difficult now, she鈥檇 never appreciated her body when it had worked the way it was supposed to, never appreciated how loosely her hips moved, how her knees bent, how fast she could go. It wasn鈥檛 only her knees now, her hips, too, ached constantly. She pictured them suddenly, in Bobby鈥檚 car, her and Shawna and Bobby and the grandkids, smushed in the back with their iPods and their baseball caps, complaining all the while, Bobby ushering her out of the car and onto the trail and then what? He couldn鈥檛 help her all the way to her tree. Shawna would be sighing and checking her Blackberry and the kids would be pinching each other and Bobby would be sweating and huffing and shooting secret, hateful glances at Shawna. And even if they did get her to her spot, then what? 鈥淛ust leave me here to die,鈥 Lynette would say, and Shawna would roll her eyes and say 鈥淢other, please鈥 and Bobby would whisper 鈥淚 told you so鈥 and Lynette would want to sit and die and the boys would shout and trample everything and Tommy would need to pee and Timmy would want McDonald鈥檚 and Shawna would have a meeting and they would drag her back down the hill and into the car and there was just no way that could ever happen, now was there?

But even as she told herself it couldn鈥檛 happen Lynette was determined to find a way to make it happen. She was craving Death. She wanted to be like the raccoon, to find an old, yeasty log to crawl into, to find it and crawl into it and be welcomed by bugs and molds and the funny magnificent light that forced its way in through the cracks in the log, to get there, to lie there, to just let go.

The next day she called Danny. 鈥淗ey, Mom, sorry I haven鈥檛 been by in a while.鈥 Danny chuckled. Danny never came by. But if she could get him to, maybe he could drive her to the woods. 鈥淐an you stop by soon, honey?鈥&#虫9诲; she asked. Danny was her only hope; Joey lived in Japan. She could hear Danny hesitate, then, 鈥淯mm, sure, Ma, soon,鈥 he said, and Lynette hung up the phone and felt like crying and called again three times but got the machine each time and knew, now, more than ever, that it was only her own karma, coming right back at her, can you do this, Mommy, can you do that, watch me Mommy, watch me, watch this, Mommy? Mommy? Mom? and her maybe, soon, not now, later, next week, next month, next summer鈥.

脦娄

Lynette realized, several nights later, that although she could never make it to her spot, it didn鈥檛 mean she couldn鈥檛 make it to a spot. Even in the darkest hours of the night now her own neighborhood was much too loud. A dog would bark, cars would drive by at all hours, sometimes blaring music. The stillness was harder and harder to find. Yet there was an entrance to the Wissahickon just four blocks down from her house. It wasn鈥檛 the prettiest part of the Wissahickon, and the trailhead was littered awfully, but it would do. If she could go at night she was certain she could find the beauty she had found in her own spot. She had to go, she was called, it was a calling, just like all the midwives always said.  She had no choice now, with no one to help her, no one who understood. Negotiating the steps would be the hardest part.

Lynette pressed her weight against the rail and balanced herself with her cane. She half-slid down, one heavy step at a time. The steps seemed so much farther apart than they were supposed to be. She tried to tell herself she could hear the sussle of the river but of course that was impossible. She pushed herself, down, down, down. When she reached the bottom of the steps her knees were throbbing, and she had to lean against the railing for a while just to catch her breath.

She clumped along. Her cane really wasn鈥檛 sufficient, a walker would have been much better, but her cane was all she had. The sidewalks were cracked and ancient, making the walk even more difficult. She tried switching her cane from hand to hand. Even though it was November and the night air was cool she found herself sweating, stifled under Steve鈥檚 old wool sweater. She decided to pull it off, she could just leave it right here on the sidewalk. She eased herself down onto somebody鈥檚 stoop, pulled the sweater over her head. She felt much better without it, and realized she would feel much better without her nightgown on either. The problem with the nightgown was the buttons, there were so many and her hands shook as she tried to undo them. She finally managed to get enough undone that the gown would go over her head. The night air felt wonderful on her bare chest and back, but when she tried to stand again she just couldn鈥檛 do it.  鈥淛ust breathe,鈥 she told herself, 鈥渏ust breathe,鈥 just like she used to tell the birthing women, only they had an incredible combination of power and vulnerability and all she had was vulnerability, there was no life-force to draw on here. Still. She thought back on all the births, so many that after a while they of course blended together, one into the next into the next, the primal cries, 鈥渨ater buffalo noises,鈥 her apprentice had called them, the shouts, the heavy swaying, the babies鈥 coos and cries. The women had loved her, had gifted her with jewelry, art, breads and butters and handmade boxes. The women had loved her and she had loved them, even now if she went out she was sure to run into one of them, 鈥淟ynette!鈥 they鈥檇 exclaim, 鈥測ou delivered my Johnny! Remember?鈥&#虫9诲; and Lynette would nod even though she didn鈥檛 remember now, not really.  She remembered things like the time they had set the placenta aside and later it was gone and then they found the cat hunched in a corner, chewing on it like a tigress. The woman who鈥檇 birthed in a circle of drumming men. As magic as each moment had been now they all blurred into one long sound. She had to listen, needed everyone and everything to just shut up, like she would tell Shawna and Danny and Joey-Jack when she was on three hours of sleep and one of them wouldn鈥檛 stop screaming or poking or pinching, mouths always open, unending maws of need.

鈥淏谤别补迟丑别,鈥&#虫9诲; Lynette said out loud, and she pressed her shaking hands into the stoop, her neighbor鈥檚 stoop, tilted her weight towards her toes. What would her neighbor think if she came out and saw Lynette like this? Lynette almost smiled. She thought of the things she had done wrong and the things she had done right. On balance, her right things probably were a little slightly more than her wrong things, even when you factored in that she had been a bad mother, a bad wife. She deserved a good death, the death she wanted, in an old moldy log filled with incandescent light. This thought gave her the strength to stand again. She took a few more steps.

脦娄

鈥淒anny, you have got to get over here.鈥 Shawna鈥檚 voice. 鈥淚 don鈥檛 care! Of course we鈥檒l sell the house, but she is going to need round the clock care and I can鈥檛 do it alone. I won鈥檛 do it alone!鈥 Lynette could hear Shawna鈥檚 sniffles, the click of her heels as she paced. Lynette did not open her eyes. Her hip burned, encindered, wrapped in something tight. She tried to move, found it was impossible. She felt sticky tape on her arm, and pressure, could hear a faint TV.  A hospital. Lynette remembered taking off her nightgown, the cool feel of the air around her, then what? A rock? A car? A fall? She closed her eyes again.
鈥淥h, Mother, please, just wake up,鈥 Shawna said later, much later. 鈥淲ake up, Mom! I鈥檝e spent my entire life chasing you, and now that you鈥檙e finally caught I have no idea what to do with you.鈥 Lynette kept her eyes shut still. It sounded as if Shawna was crying again. She could feel Shawna鈥檚 hand on hers, the one attached to the arm without the tubes. She could feel Shawna rubbing at her papery skin, kneading at her wide distended veins. Mostly she could feel fire in her hip.

鈥淒o you remember that time, Mom, when I was in kindergarten and that boy on the bus wouldn鈥檛 let me get off?鈥&#虫9诲; Lynette remembered, but why bring this up now? The sixth grader had put up his arm and blocked Shawna from leaving her seat. The bus had pulled away from their stop with no Shawna. Lynette, waiting there for Shawna, had raced after the bus at top speed, screaming at the driver to stop. The mortified bus driver pulled over and Lynette came onto the bus and pulled Shawna away from the boy. Later, even though they were home and Lynette held her close Shawna still wouldn鈥檛 stop crying, The world was not safe. Her place in it it was not safe. Lynette had pulled her into her arms then and let her nurse. The milk had been warm and sweet and Shawna hadn鈥檛 wanted to stop.

Lynette hated this story. It embarrassed her. Maybe because the only thing she had ever really understood was how the body worked.  But she had let Shawna nurse. 鈥淩emember, Mom? You were still nursing Joey-Jack, and you said, 鈥涣丑, honey, I will never be enough,鈥 and you pulled me into your lap, until I fell asleep鈥hen I woke up I heard you yelling, and I looked out the window and there was the boy, standing there. He was looking down but he said sorry loud enough for me to hear. You were so mad. He looked so small next to you, and I wasn鈥檛 scared anymore. You came in and made mac鈥檔鈥檆heese from scratch. You let me help you grate the cheese鈥..鈥

There was a slam and a swoosh of curtains then and the doctor came in and still Lynette kept her eyes shut. She could hear their voices, surgery, rehab, physical therapy, hear them planning her future as if she wanted one. After the doctor left Shawna cried and Lynette slept and later Lynette felt Shawna鈥檚 hand again, rubbing her own hand which lay like sandpaper against the sheet.

脦娄

鈥淚 just want to die,鈥 Lynette told Shawna, weeks later, when she was out of rehab already, ensconced in the skilled nursing facility. 鈥淭ake me to the woods.鈥 Shawna just shook her head.

鈥淗ush, Mother.鈥

鈥淧lease, Shawna. Please. I鈥檓 ready. I just want to die.鈥

鈥淢other, stop. Stop talking like that.鈥 Lynette had been asking her for strange things lately, the djembe a client had given her, old earrings, a handmade frame with a picture of a baby she鈥檇 caught. The house had been sold and most of the things she was asking for were gone. Lynette wasn鈥檛 sure why she was asking for them. She thought maybe she needed strength, thought strength to live could perhaps be pulled from these few precious things. She was desperate to go, to get out, out of this place and out of this life. All she wanted was woods. She remembered where she had been going and why, she remembered the night air on her skin and that was all. She had been told she had fallen, the guy who delivered the New York Times had found her crumpled body, her steady cane. Here it was loud and everybody shouted at her and called her honey and made her sit when they wanted her to sit and stand when they wanted her to stand and whatever meds they gave her only made her feel worse.  When she took them everything around her blurred and her mouth felt like it was filled with feathers, blue feathers, every time she took those pills she remembered the Halloween costume she had tried to make for Shawna in third grade. It was supposed to be a peacock, but in the end it just looked like a bedraggled bird, even though Lynette had come straight home from a birth and worked on it until the sun rose. The pills put blue feathers in her mouth and made her want to sleep and there was always a roaring in her ears, a roaring louder than the TV that ran constantly. Lynette knew that there was a thin silvery line between life and death, that they were different sides of the same blade, and that hers was turning now, but much too slowly. As a midwife she had always thought it was strange that they lived in a world where only life was affirmed, where life was sacred and death was not. Death was there, all around them, all the time.  Why was it such a bad thing to want what was going to happen anyway? But no one understood, they just shook their heads and said 鈥測es honey, of course honey, time for your meds honey, do you want to watch The View?鈥&#虫9诲;

One night Lynette sat alone, waiting for Shawna. A tall nurse in blue scrubs came in with her meds.

鈥淗ello, sweetheart!鈥 he said.  鈥淲aiting up for that busy daughter of yours?鈥&#虫9诲; Sometimes Lynette thought everyone tried extra hard with her, if only because they knew Shawna was a lawyer. He scribbled notes with a green marker on the little whiteboard attached to her bed. 鈥淗ere you go,鈥 he said, holding out a flimsy cup of pills and placing the clear plastic cup of water on her tray.

Lynette looked at him. He looked back, smiling. He watched her as she put the pills in her mouth then leaned over the edge of the bed and spit as hard as she could. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and looked directly at him.

鈥淚 know,鈥 he said. 鈥淚t鈥檚 not easy. I know.鈥  He left the pills she had spit out on the floor and bustled out of the room. He came back in several minutes later with another little cup, stood over her, patted her arm soothingly. 鈥淵ou know you need to take these. They help.鈥

鈥淭hey don鈥檛!鈥 Lynette cried. She pressed her lips together, hard.

鈥淛ust take this one, then,鈥 he said, dumping three pills into his hand and holding out the cup with just the one left, the brownish-red one, why was it such an odd color? Lynette looked at his pale hairy arm holding out the cup. She thought about the blue feathers. The feathers choked, and his arm would choke too, but it was so soft. So commanding. She opened her mouth wide, but instead of putting the pill in she leaned over and bit down on his forearm as hard as she could. The nurse drew in his breath, but didn鈥檛 even shout. He shook his arm and pushed gently at her head but she didn鈥檛 let go until eventually he leaned down and held her nostrils together with a hard pinch. She opened her mouth to gasp in air and he was gone already and then back again, with a needle, and Lynette felt a blur, and later Shawna鈥檚 worried face, 鈥涣丑,&苍产蝉辫;惭辞尘.鈥&#虫9诲;&苍产蝉辫;So strange to see your own daughter with wrinkles, Lynette thought. There was talk of non-compliance, of geriatric psych, and Lynette suddenly knew, knew she would spend the last of her days in a small mean place with a TV always on and a blue feathered tongue and that her soul would slip away, as it had to, as it always does, but not on her terms, that she would never hear the call and would just go, whenever, wherever, no power at all. Lynette sat up and grasped for Shawna鈥檚 face. 鈥淚 love you, Shawna,鈥 she said. 鈥淚 was never enough, but I always loved you.鈥

鈥淪hh,鈥 Shawna said, pushing her mother鈥檚 hands away. 鈥淚 know, Mother, I know. Lie back down, OK?鈥&#虫9诲;

鈥淪hawna, I 鈥..鈥 Lynette started and then trailed off, watching Shawna nod and murmur consolingly even without knowing what Lynette wanted to say, already on her phone, already in another world, her job, her kids, her sad little marriage, fingers flying over tiny letters that winked and buzzed and blinked.
Lynette lay down, compliant. She rolled onto her good side, away from Shawna, who was now returning a call to a client and speaking in an exaggerated whisper. She closed her eyes and pressed her tongue against the backs of her teeth, looking for a place that was soft, forgiving. Decay could start in the mouth, after all. She pressed all around her mouth, but her teeth everywhere held firm. Too firm. Firm enough to bite down hard. Glorious, alive. Unyielding.  She could hear the techs鈥 loud laughter spilling in from the hallway, hear footsteps and the clickety-clack of rolled carts filled with vials and tubes and trays, hear the practically-muted TV and Shawna, 鈥渨e filed that motion on Tuesday!鈥 She held her breath for a moment, let it out in a noisy sputter. If she closed her eyes tighter and breathed just a little deeper maybe she could find her spot somewhere inside her head, smell the mud and the new grass poking and the force of fresh life thrusting its way through the branches of the trees, raw energy pulsing, exploding into tiny spiraled buds. But she couldn鈥檛 do it. It was just too loud. She opened her eyes, reached for a pillow, pulled it over the side of her face. The pillow crackled and sighed against her ear. She closed her eyes, then opened them again, lifting her gaze to the bare white wall.

 

You鈥檙e packing a bag with all the things you might need for a journey. What would you reach for next?

A squirt of WD40.
An infinitely long straw.
A worm.
Old bills and expired coupons.