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Janine was infertile. She was 35, bony, and despondent. Her husband, Lowel, had left her and was filing for a divorce after getting the woman at the bookstore pregnant. The bookstore lady and Lowel were going to get married and raise a family.
He had tears in his eyes when he told Janine. She felt nothing. The inside of her soul by this point had been dangerously scoured and hollowed out. She was the barren seventh child of a large woman that given birth to the frankly unbelievable number of nine children. This left Janine with many brothers, sisters, nieces, and nephews. She was still lonely.
They shunned her because her apartment wasn’t set up to have children. They shunned her because she was the weird one in the family. They shunned her because they felt superior. They shunned her because they were all too busy taking care of their own families.
Janine heard the lack of children’s laughter in her apartment. She heard the uninterrupted short adult conversations she had with her husband. She heard the lack of yelling, crying, and bizarre embarrassing questions over there by the dresser. But most of all she heard the lack of laughter.
Janine was standing frozen in the doorway of the kitchen right now. Hand at her open mouth, broken dish on the floor. Her eyes were staring intently at the hallway floor that led to from the bathroom to the living room.
She was staring at the wet child-sized footprints.
The bathroom door was open and there was steam coming out from behind it like someone had run a bath. What she could see of the mirror was steamed up.
Puddles in the shape of tiny feet tracked from the bathroom door and down the hall.
She heard the whimper from the living room.
Time broke and Janine ran into the living and found him curled up against the radiator shivering. Naked and bewildered, he was hanging onto the warm metal and looking around like he was adrift at sea. He was scared, breathing shallowly and shivering from the cold. He shuddered.
Long dark hair hung over his face. His raven-black eyes darted through the wet strands of his bangs at the unfamiliar objects in the room.
Janine went and knelt beside him and made soothing noises. She took off her housecoat and draped it over his shoulders.
At first he tensed as she put an arm around him but then he softened. Caught between the hard heat of the radiator and the soft warmth of her pajama-clothed flesh, he relented.
Janine hummed. She cradled him until his shaking stopped.
She stroked his hair back from ears that were pointed. He looked up at her with large shining eyes that had no white. They were the black eyes of a cornered squirrel.
He opened his mouth to speak. She noticed that he had too many teeth and that they were pointed like little needles.
Janine didn’t care.
God had delivered her a son.
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He had tears in his eyes when he told Janine. She felt nothing. The inside of her soul by this point had been dangerously scoured and hollowed out. She was the barren seventh child of a large woman that given birth to the frankly unbelievable number of nine children. This left Janine with many brothers, sisters, nieces, and nephews. She was still lonely.
They shunned her because her apartment wasn’t set up to have children. They shunned her because she was the weird one in the family. They shunned her because they felt superior. They shunned her because they were all too busy taking care of their own families.
Janine heard the lack of children’s laughter in her apartment. She heard the uninterrupted short adult conversations she had with her husband. She heard the lack of yelling, crying, and bizarre embarrassing questions over there by the dresser. But most of all she heard the lack of laughter.
Janine was standing frozen in the doorway of the kitchen right now. Hand at her open mouth, broken dish on the floor. Her eyes were staring intently at the hallway floor that led to from the bathroom to the living room.
She was staring at the wet child-sized footprints.
The bathroom door was open and there was steam coming out from behind it like someone had run a bath. What she could see of the mirror was steamed up.
Puddles in the shape of tiny feet tracked from the bathroom door and down the hall.
She heard the whimper from the living room.
Time broke and Janine ran into the living and found him curled up against the radiator shivering. Naked and bewildered, he was hanging onto the warm metal and looking around like he was adrift at sea. He was scared, breathing shallowly and shivering from the cold. He shuddered.
Long dark hair hung over his face. His raven-black eyes darted through the wet strands of his bangs at the unfamiliar objects in the room.
Janine went and knelt beside him and made soothing noises. She took off her housecoat and draped it over his shoulders.
At first he tensed as she put an arm around him but then he softened. Caught between the hard heat of the radiator and the soft warmth of her pajama-clothed flesh, he relented.
Janine hummed. She cradled him until his shaking stopped.
She stroked his hair back from ears that were pointed. He looked up at her with large shining eyes that had no white. They were the black eyes of a cornered squirrel.
He opened his mouth to speak. She noticed that he had too many teeth and that they were pointed like little needles.
Janine didn’t care.
God had delivered her a son.
tags