The Book of Duels (24 page)

Megan Garriga, 32,

Laboring Mother-to-Be

 

–m
idwife said,
Reach up and feel his head
. He should be here by now, been dilated nine centimeters for more than ten hours and I’ve paced and squatted and showered, bathed, puked, and danced with Michael and rocked on the ball while breathing breathing breathing—
It’s hard work, it hurts like hell, and I can do this, it’s hard work, it hurts like hell, and I can do this
—he should be in my arms already yet I’m still surprised when my fingertips go inside and trace the wet curve of the not-yet-crowning scalp—he’s there, he’s really there, and I feel triumphant, strong for the next wave, so I lean back in this pool of water, my arms and legs straight out, floating, my feet spongy and fish white and wrinkled and I am weightless—a storm is blowing outside and I want to fall asleep but my body begins to flex again and I rise to meet it, squat and set myself ready for the work—I lean over the round edge of the vinyl tub and I am naked in front of people I barely know, modesty a luxury that passed hours ago, and now I lock eyes and hands with Michael, his voice smooth as he tells me that he was born in a storm just like this one and I am seized suddenly and want to crawl out of my body—why won’t he crawl out of mine?—Michael’s voice calls me back from the edge, sounding the same as it did years ago when we lived seven hundred miles apart and he wooed me over the phone for hours at a time and I fell in love with him over those wires, stretched bellying between poles, and as long as his voice stays strong and calm I know everything will be all right and I can’t even imagine my baby’s face, only the feeling of holding him, dense and small and warm against me—I bend
my hand into the imagined curve of his tiny butt, his ghost legs curled into my chest—and I look up to find Michael’s eyes and I find them and I want to give him our son in this rainstorm, and I breathe out, the wave receding, and try not to throw up as I burp twice in a row for the millionth time today and the rain keeps pounding the porch’s tin roof and I reach inside again to feel his head but he hasn’t moved a bit, still a full finger’s reach away.

Michael Garriga, 39,

Father-to-Be

 

M
egan’s labored now for more than a day, insanely drug-free, and our heads are pressed together and my arms drape her and we both moan through the pain—hers unknowable to me and mine a mere helplessness—I have manned the stove top all day to keep the pool water warm and it is dusk out and rain bangs the windows and we are in a lull now and Megan’s half asleep and I say,
I was born during a storm like this
, which is an absolute lie, but I don’t know what else to do—I want her pain to ease and it seems like the thing to say and she is naked in the pool on the verge of another contraction, they’re coming one on top of the other now, and earlier I feared she’d lose control in the shower, in the tub, on the bed, on the ball, but she never did though I am on that scattered horizon myself, and I have fed her frozen grapes and Gatorade and coconut Popsicles and the leaves are turning in the wind, their underbellies prone, and she’s pushing again and I moan with her and the windows are streaked with dirt and rain, which run down in a slurry, and stalks and sheets of lightning brighten the sky and she’s draped over the edge of the pool, her breath slowing, and she is pale and glazy-eyed—a great thunder shakes the house and the sky goes bright and the candles all flicker in their stands,
What if she’s electrocuted?
and I hold her against my chest and the midwife, lounging on the couch, says,
Y’all are doing great
, and I want a bourbon so bad and it’s right there in that cabinet but what will the midwife think, what will Megan?

Another wave is on her and we’re breathing again, and
what if, once here, the baby learns what a selfish child I am or, worse yet, what if he rightly hates me—what if, after all of this agony and planning, he’s stillborn, has Down’s, is deaf? How will I deal with that? As this fear washes over me, Megan grabs my wrists and I roll my forehead against hers,
Breathe, baby, just breathe and stay in this moment
.

Baby Boy, Several Hours Later,

Tallahassee Memorial Hospital

 

In an instant all will vanish and we’ll be alone once more, in the midst of nothingness. I will cause breath to enter you and ye shall live.

Waiting for Godot
and Ezekiel 37:5

W
e have always been alone in this dark wet world, floating, but then a strong force urges us toward the light and our head’s crimped against something bone hard and hurting and the rhythm of our life—the old
bum-bum bum-bum
—has lately gone wild like
bumbumbumbumbumbum
, and just now we’ve gone numb and distant moans have grown loud and terrifying, something beyond the great void calling us, insistent, irresistible, and there are convulsions all about us and piercing beeps and loud voices drown out our rhythm, our beat is gone, and we are lifeless when a suction grabs our skull and we feel like we’ll be ripped inside out and the flesh tears about us and we head into the light, water spilling over our skin, and I am separated from we and I burn in light and my body is so heavy my lungs will collapse and something sucks my nose and lungs and I am screaming to drown out the deafening noise about me, my eardrums set to burst, my lungs will implode and the light sears my eyes even as I shut them, a red red burning through, and I am dying, no doubt, I am dead and I scream,
Help, help, help!
but who is there to hear—then I smell a sweetness, a rich odor, and open my eyes and all is blurry and there’s a hazy angel before me, wings of the whitest gauze spread before me and the smell is intense and I go to her and
open my mouth to say something, anything—her skin is warm on my freezing skin and there’s our old heartbeat again—
bum-bum bum-bum
—and the wings fold about me, enshroud me, and I open and close my mouth, hungry to live, and that smell overtakes me and calms me, the sounds have receded to one soothing
shhhhh
and my mouth wraps around a nipple and all is quiet again, warm and safe with us, in this motherly heaven.

Occupational Hazard or
Ars Poetica
: Shoulder Angel v. Shoulder Demon

The Last Temptation of the Author, Right Here, Right Now

So I’ll meet you at the bottom if there really is one / they always told me when you hit it you’ll know it / but I’ve been falling so long it’s like gravity’s gone and I’m just floating.

Drive-By Truckers