Together, we taught our children how to pretend.
And do you know what? If I had been as flexible as Mary, everything would’ve turned out fine. But I was not flexible, and over those years those years those years those years those years those years—
Pause, Natalie. Take a deep breath. Try again.
Over those years my brain began to whine and smoke from the pressure, until finally it snapped in half like a twig.
There really was no other option.
You believe me, don’t you? That there was no other option?
Doug was on board with the idea, and then he wasn’t. He couldn’t believe we sold the car. Came to visit one day and saw Caleb digging a hole for an outhouse. Said we had lost our fucking minds. But by then, it was too late. The hole we had dug—too big. And so he reversed slowly down the hill and never visited us again.
And my mother—we weren’t speaking much by then. By the time she realized what was happening—she was—and we were—
“It happened slowly,” I say. “The transition. The—believing. It happened so slowly, and then—”
And then?
What then, Natalie?
“And then I found out I was pregnant again, and everything changed, and I realized I had to leave.”
There’s a long silence in the room.
“I couldn’t,I can’t,give birth in this place again,” I add firmly,looking around at everyone. “The last time …” I trail off, suddenly sick.
The last time. The last time with Maeve. Was. Terrible.
“Oh, Mom.” Clementine sighs.
“Are you saying—” Caleb shakes his head. “Are you saying you think you’repregnant,Natalie?”
“I’m saying Iampregnant,” I say. “And I need to—well, I need to get rid of it.” I pause, letting the full weight of their shock sink in. They must both be so shocked, hearing their mother talk openly about the need for an abortion. How modern of me.See, darling? Look at this old dog with her new trick!“I know it’s awful. But I just—well—I need to get rid of it. And soon. I must be twelve weeks along by now.”
“Mom,” Clementine says, “you’re fifty years old. You’re not pregnant.”
Now it’s my turn to fall silent.Come again?
“It was unbelievable that we could have Maeve,” Caleb mutters softly. “Andthatwas ten years ago.”
Yes. Right.Sorry!So many compartments in my mind, so many mirrors of myself grinning back at me, it’s hard to keep track of—I can’t always find my—
Maeve, sweet thing, is ten years old. Yes. That’s right. That sweet girl,my little shadow,is—how would a modern woman say it?My daughter has learning deficiencies. My daughter is developmentally challenged. My daughter was born blue in the face, not breathing for minutes, and my husband is not a midwife, and I am not a doctor, and so we wasted precious time screaming at one another, a dead child on the floor between us, untileight-year-old Mary thought to breathe into her little sister’s mouth.
“I will not give birth here again,” I say a second time.
“You’re not pregnant, Mother,” Clementine says. “You’re going through menopause.”
There’s another long pause. Then Mary says hesitatingly, “What’s menopause?”
Someday you won’t be able to have children.
That was what my mother said of menopause when I asked her about it as a young woman. At the time, the thought panicked me, made me sick with fear, and so she reassured me that this time of decay was a long way away for me; that I had plenty of time to have plenty of babies.A whole life ahead of you.
Well. Here I am, on the other side of a whole life. When I was a child, and I was forced to imagine a world where an adult woman couldn’t have children, I felt a terrible heaviness in my chest, a crushing sadness. But now that I’m here, I feel very light. Like a weight that settled onto my shoulders as a child has finally, decades later, been lifted.
Welcome to the afterlife.
