Rafael Yglesias - Only Children

Only Children

Rafael Yglesias

For my sons,

MATTHEW AND NICHOLAS

A T LAST, she felt The pain. From out of the universe the hurt arrived: rumbled into her belly, radiated to her pelvis, crashed into her spine, and dissolved, a terrible acid, into her bones.

And then it was gone.

Nina rose from the bed slowlyfor weeks she had had to rotate herself one way, then the other, in order to gain enough momentum for risingand waddled out of the bedroom.

Once in the hallway, she heard Eric on the phone. He was at the center of an electronic carnival. Besides using the phone, Eric had his eyes on a television broadcast of a baseball game, its volume muted, while the stereo softly played his current obsession, Handels Messiah. To achieve these multiple sensory gratifications, Eric had stretched the phone wire from the kitchen wall unit all the way out, across the living room, so he could sit on the couch while chatting, his eyes on the television, his ears perfectly positioned to hear the stereo balance.

She followed orders. Quietly, although the bend down to the liquor cabinet made her want to groan, Nina took out a bottle of bourbonEric, his senses already overloaded, didnt notice her and sneaked into the kitchen. She sighed and rested for a moment before getting a glass. Her eyes lit on the wall calendar above the cutting board. Today, June 10, was circled in red, by a pen whose ink had long since dried up. Its psychosomatic, she said to herself. Nobody delivers on their due date.

She poured a shot. The amber liquid looked revolting. She sipped it, felt her tongue rebel against the harsh taste, and, to get it over with, quickly tossed the rest back.

She stood there for a while, thinking nothing, waiting. When she gave up her attentiveness to her insides, she realized with dismay that she had forgotten to notice the time. Mild dismaya familiar feeling of regret at her own inefficiency. Not that she thought herself scatterbrained, simply lazily irresponsible, letting everything go until the last minute. Perhaps that was why this promptness

Again it came. The worlds colors intensified; its shapes wavered. She grabbed the countersqueezed for the reassurance of permanence. Her bloated body seemed ready to explodestopped upthe imprisoned pressure hardening fiercely. If it werent for the stabbing pain in her back, it wouldnt be so bad.

It was gone. Check the time. She wasnt wearing her watch; the battery had run down months ago, and she hadnt gotten around to oh, well. She looked at the little clock built into the kitchen stove: eight-thirty. Since it was the middle of the afternoon, she knew that was wrong.

Nina walked laboriously back into the bedroom before it occurred to her that it didnt matter whether the clock was set right, she only needed to check the length of the intervals. Her impression was that it hadnt been very long between the first and second. Also, the shot of booze hadnt made them go away, ruling out whats his names pains: false labor. Now that she was at the radio clock beside the bed, how much time had gone by since the attack at the counter?

Ill have to tell Eric and let him keep track. Hell bring out his stopwatch and video camera, she warned herself. Hell hover and fret and pack and take out manuals and check outside to see how available taxis were. It was a nightmare really, the combination of her lazy disorganization and his nervous disorganization.

Who the hell was Eric talking to? He had spent the entire nine months on the phone. On the phone or out with friends. She hoped. Not that he wasnt involved in the pregnancy. His repeated living room concerts of the Messiah expressed just how dangerously fascinated he had become.

Were kids, hed say, supposedly joshing. What are we doing becoming parents?

Most people have children in their early twenties. Were not precocious, shed answer, meaning that since they were both over thirtyhe was thirty-one, she had had the joy of turning thirty while six months gonethey were mature enough to attempt parenthood.

Im kidding, hed answer, hugging her, or trying to, and then put his big hand on the basketball she had swallowed. Is he or she moving?

No.

Im sure its a girl, Eric would always say, convincing her that he wanted a boy desperately, so much so that he thought saying the opposite would prevent a jinx. His constant wondering made her wish her doctor, Marge Ephron, had ordered amniocentesis. Ephron hadnt, however. Eric claimed that if Nina had had the procedure, he wouldnt want to be told the sex ahead of time, but Nina knew he couldnt enjoy a self-imposed suspense.

The pains were false, she decided, feeling very comfortable and warm from the shot of alcohol. She hadnt had a drink since the first month, and this little bit was having a field day with her sober system. She felt pleasantly smashed.

You must be having a ball, she said to her stomach out loud. That startled her. She never talked to herself. Eric did. It spooked her the first time she overheard him: mumbling to himself late at night in his study, hunched over the stock graphs, talking his gobbledygook: Its priced at only half book value, the P/E is low.

Baby must be bombed, she decided from the dormancy below. Maybe the drink killed him. Yes, him. The restless kicking, the four reversals of positions (according to Dr. Ephron, baby was breech at the latest examination) meant it was a boy. His fathers son. If it were a girl like her, she would be enjoying the dark and sleeping peacefully. No, it was a little male in there, watching television, playing music, and talking on a tiny blue telephone. Excuse me, he could be saying. Gotta run.

Was that a pain? This one seemed to originate with her, building slowly, no invasion from the heavens. Her middle constricted. She felt more coming and began to rub in the motion she was taught and do her breathing. For a moment or two, it worked. The pain seemed elongated by the breaths but also diminishedand then suddenly her back was breaking, something was coming out through her spine. Damn! she said aloud, and tried to roll onto her side. Maybe I have to take a crap, she hoped.

Whats up? Eric asked. He stood in the doorway and she noticed his height, almost six and a half feet, his kinky hair barely clearing the top.

Ill never get his son out through my little vagina, she despaired. Now there was only a faint trace, a shadow, of the stabbing in her spine. I think its started, she answered.

For a moment Eric looked blank. His big brown eyes, set wide apart, were usually warm and welcoming, slightly baffled while he listened, but now they stared ahead dumblya cartoon characters eyes.

She rolled herself up into a sitting position. I havent timed them, she said, sighing.

How many? he asked, his voice squeaking a little.

Three

Three! Why didnt you tell me?

I think. I dont know. Youd better keep track of the time.

Did you call the doctor?

You were on the phone.

Honey! For this I wouldve hung up.

Its too early to call anyway.

Eric remained fixed in the doorway, staring. He looked shocked, as though he had never expected this to happen. What did he think she was going to carry the Goodyear blimp inside her forever? When are we supposed to call?

I forget, she said. She straightened herself with a groan.

Is that a pain?

No. Ten minutes apart.

Thats when we go to the hospital?

Is that what it is? she asked quizzically.

No, I was asking.

No, I call at ten minutes. I think thats what it is. She decided to lie downbut she couldnt move. She suddenly felt convinced that if she kept still, the pains wouldnt come anymore. But I want them to come, she argued to herself. I want to get this over with.