The Modern Fae's Guide to Surviving Humanity (4 page)

“Is that Daddy's email?” Nimh asked, boosting herself up to sit beside him.

“It was. Now it's mostly viruses and spam. Is there any way we can convince him to let someone else access the Internet for him?”

“No,” she said, and smiled. “Shall we do something decadent tonight?”

“The salad bar it is,” Dan said. “Do we have something to celebrate?”

“We're introducing a new flavor of Milk-y-shake™ today,” Nimh replied. “I'm not sure what it is, but everyone who's tried the free samples seems to like it. It's pink.”

“Probably cotton candy,” he said, and leaned over and kissed her.

Susan Jett

M
arisol Martinez crossed her arms and winced. No one had told her that the most painful part of childbirth would be the throbbing ache of her breasts filling with milk afterwards. But then, if there had been a baby suckling, relieving some of the pressure, the pain would not have been so bad. Of course, if there had been a baby, she could have happily endured any pain. But Tomás was dead.

This wasn't supposed to happen, not to her. Stillbirths happened to other women; women who watched Hallmark Specials on the Lifetime channel while smoking a cigarette or slamming back another beer. Marisol had done everything right. And yet with all her worrying about the baby's health during her pregnancy, she had never thought to worry that her son wouldn't survive being born.

When a knock sounded at her door she looked up out of habit, not because there was anyone she wanted to see. It was a nurse, one who'd been present at her
delivery and who'd come by since to ask her to donate colostrum and breast milk. Her lilting accent hinted at Gaelic origins, but this was New York. Marisol herself was from Mexico, and two of the nurses present during her labor were from the Caribbean; accents were nothing remarkable in Brooklyn even if this woman's voice rang like glass chimes.

Marisol forced herself to pay attention to the words instead of just the sound of them. “Your milk is precious, you know. If you do nothing it will dry up in a few days. Donating would be a way to honor your son. It might help you get over your loss.”

Marisol hadn't slept in two days; everything felt distant and disconnected. She glared at the nurse. “I'll never get over this.” Marisol waited until the door closed before turning back to stare out the window.

She and her husband had opted for a private room when they'd had to transfer here from the birthing center. But it was far too big for one woman whose only visitors were hospital employees. She contrasted its emptiness with the busyness of the bedroom back in Oaxaca where her mother had spent her lying-in with Marisol's little brother. Every day, relatives and friends had come to cook and clean and celebrate. Marisol had imagined the same would happen here in New York with Raffe's family. But no one came. Even Raffe had disappeared, sometime during the night. Once everyone heard that Tomás had been stillborn they avoided her as if it were contagious instead of a stupid accident with the umbilical cord. Marisol was just grateful she didn't have to share the room with another new mother. A new mother whose child hadn't died.

And how that nurse thought she could care for
someone else's baby was beyond her. How could she give away the milk that should have nourished her son? It belonged to Tomás. And even though he couldn't use it, she couldn't just give it away. They had offered her a decongestant to help dry up her milk, but she had refused. As if the pain of her swollen breasts was penance, as if her suffering could bring him back.

As if anything she did mattered anymore.

She ignored the next knock at her door. If it was Bridget, her midwife, she'd just come in. If it was anyone else, well, Marisol didn't really feel like socializing right now. She knew Bridget wouldn't say the wrong thing. Bridget had advised her to have a C-section when they'd realized Tomás was breech and would have to be delivered in the hospital instead of the birthing center; but Marisol had resisted, afraid of the cost, afraid of beginning this baby's life with a huge medical bill hanging over their heads. It had been a mistake she would regret forever. But Bridget hadn't said a word of recrimination. She was, in fact, the only person who hadn't yet said something so awful that Marisol wanted to scream.

She had loved Bridget from her first prenatal exam. Wild-haired and calm-voiced and perpetually smiling, Bridget looked like a caricature of an aging hippy, her happy green eyes magnified by wire-rimmed glasses. Today though, Marisol saw that Bridget was grieving too, and for the first time she felt as if the tears might finally come. She dreaded an outpouring of sympathetic words, but instead, the midwife demanded, “Who was that woman and why was she here?”

Marisol blinked. “The delivery nurse?” she said. “I think she left a card. She wants me to donate milk to the local bank.”

“I swear I've seen her before,” Bridget sounded distracted as she took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. “Wait, Brooklyn doesn't have a breast milk bank. In fact, there isn't one in the entire state—it's practically criminal, but there it is. Where is that card?”

Bridget's face lost color as she picked up the little rectangle of creamy paper. “Corey Gann, here? Oh damn this eye. I should have recognized her. And she thinks she's so clever using her name like that. Of all the nerve! Of all the fucking
nerve!
”

Marisol was too shocked to do more than stare at the woman she had come to regard as a friend, and she half-wondered if all the morphine had left her system yet.

But this was no hallucination. Bridget was as real as she was. Although, until today, Marisol would have believed that her gentle midwife never got angry. Yet here she was: red-faced, sputtering with indignation, and swearing like a sailor.

“You know her?” Marisol ventured, not really caring, but curious despite herself.

“She owes me an eye.”

“What?” Marisol sat up straighter in her bed, even though it sent spikes of pain through her abused midsection.

Sighing, Bridget sat down by Marisol's bedside. She took off her glasses and opened her eyes wide. Then slowly, she looked at something off to Marisol's right. Her left eye tracked normally; her right eye did not. “It's prosthetic,” Bridget said quietly, pointing at her right eye. “I went to the best oculist I could afford, and it was worth it. Almost no one guesses unless I show them. But I lost my right eye after she hired me to deliver a baby, seven years ago. And now she's back.”

“I don't understand.”

Bridget started to shake her head, then reconsidered. “You should know, I suppose. She might even—” she broke off and a wild look came into her eyes. “She was at your delivery? You're sure?”

Marisol gave a little laugh. “I remember because she was so pretty. I was so out of it that I thought she was an angel.”

“That's the last thing she is. Mari, have you seen Tomás yet?”

Marisol willed her voice to remain steady and kept her eyes on Bridget as the midwife rummaged in her big floppy purse. “The priest was going to let us spend some time with him today. To say good-bye. But Raffe hasn't come yet. I think they're waiting for him.”

Bridget took a deep breath and then set a small tin disc on the bedside table before taking Marisol's hands in hers. “You need to see him,” she said quietly, “and I can't be here when you do. Because I can't risk her recognizing me. Here—” she picked up the disc and turned it in her hand as she spoke. “I almost forgot I had this, but I kept it to remind myself. I only used it the once, let's hope it hasn't gone bad.” She opened the tin, unscrewing the lid like a jar of Carmex. But instead of eucalyptus and camphor, the ointment within smelled of flowers and something darker, like rust or blood. Bridget sniffed it, then shrugged. With her left hand she smeared a greasy film over Marisol's right eyelid. “Whatever you do—
whatever you do—
” Bridget reiterated sternly, “if you see something out of the ordinary, don't say anything. Do you understand?”

“I don't understand anything anymore.”

Bridget nodded as if that were the answer she was
looking for. “We just need to know if your son is really dead.” Bridget swept her things—including the nurse's card—into her purse and headed for the door. “You have your cell phone?” Marisol nodded. “I'll be downstairs.” She turned and walked quickly back to the bed. Cupping Marisol's cheek with one hand she said, “And sweetie, I'm so sorry. Sorry I can't be here now, sorry I wasn't there when it happened. Sorry this happened in the first place. No matter what happens, I'm just so very sorry.”

Marisol had enough self-awareness to be angry that Raffe had left her to face this alone. He should be talking to the nurse and the chaplain about this, not her.
I shouldn't be surprised. It's certainly not the first time he's left me in the lurch.
Throughout their marriage he had only ever been really present when it benefitted him. Marisol shook her head. Whether or not her husband was here, she needed to see her son. She had imagined Tomás's face so often that she needed to see it so she could begin to imagine letting him go.

She rang for the nurse.

It was almost an hour later when Marisol heard them at the door. A priest accompanied Nurse Gann, who pushed a covered bassinet. He said some words that were meant to be comforting. Then the nurse removed the receiving blanket and stood back so Marisol could view her son's body. “Can I hold him?” Marisol asked.

It was the priest who gathered up her baby and handed him to her, as careful of his little neck as if he could be hurt by anything, anymore. Marisol swallowed hard as she looked at him, so tiny and still, curled in the crook of her arm. He had dark hair already falling into
his eyes. His lips were pursed as if he waited for a kiss. He looked like her and like Raffe. He had all their best features. He looked exactly as she had always imagined he would. He looked perfect.

Irritated by the tears that threatened to block this precious view, mar this too-short time she had with him before they would take him away forever, she rubbed at her eyes. Her right eye stung a bit as Bridget's cream worked its way in, and then the world went crazy.

Nurse Gann glowed like an ember in this dim room, or rather, her presence cast everything around her into shadows despite the sunlight streaming through the window. Tiny dust motes flared around her head into a living crown of flames, lending her glory. What was she doing here? She should be on a catwalk in Milan or Paris, not working the maternity ward at New York Methodist! Father O'Brien misinterpreted Marisol's gasp and put a warmly human hand on her shoulder. Marisol looked down to hide her face, her confusion, and her gaze returned to her son.

Only it was no infant she cradled, but a collection of sticks tied with twine. Marisol blinked furiously, rubbing her eyes again with her free hand. With her eyes closed, she could feel his tiny arms curled on his chest beneath the hospital blanket. She opened one eye slowly—her left eye—and her son's perfectly still face filled her vision. She closed her eyes again and slitted open her right eye, the one that still stung from Bridget's ointment. He was just sticks. Sticks and a crumpled paper bag for a head, crudely marked with Xs for eyes, a slash for a mouth.

“I can't, I can't,” she gasped, and the priest was there to take the body from her and lay it back in the bassinet.
“That isn't my baby,” Marisol whispered. The priest kissed her forehead and told her that she was right, that her baby was in the arms of Christ. Marisol watched the nurse cover the bassinet that held—what? Her son? A bundle of sticks?

After the priest left, Nurse Gann turned to Marisol and said kindly, “Are you all right? The drugs can make some people see things that aren't there; you can tell me about it and I won't think you're crazy.”

Marisol stuttered an excuse. “He just didn't look like I thought he would. I just can't believe this is real.”

Nurse Gann patted her arm. “Remember what we talked about. I think donating your milk might help you recover from this.” As soon as the door snicked shut behind her, Marisol called Bridget. Feeling stupid for being unable to separate reality from fantasy when presented with her son's very real body, she told Bridget what she thought she'd seen.

“Stay right there. Don't tell a soul. I'm on my way up.”

“You're telling me what I saw was real? And that the nurse switched him somehow? That doesn't make any sense. She was never alone with him—there were doctors and nurses coming in and out. Someone would have seen her.”

Bridget shrugged. “People will see whatever she wants them to see. It's her gift, it's what she does. Seven years ago she hired me to assist with a home delivery. Which was fine—I'm licensed—though I did think it odd that an R.N. would prefer that. Things can go wrong.” She carefully did not look at Marisol. “Still, who am I to judge? Her baby was being carried by a surrogate, who was also going to nurse the baby. I spoke with the young
lady quite a bit since she was my actual patient. She loved living in the city. She loved Corey, couldn't wait to have the baby. The delivery itself was textbook, though Ms. Gann seemed paranoid that I'd baptize the baby without her consent.”

“You can do that? Did the doctor baptize Tomás?” Marisol's heart clenched. She wasn't religious but she suddenly hoped fiercely that he had. It would mean that he recognized that Tomás had been a person, not merely a tragedy or a statistic.

Bridget winced, then shook her head. She did not meet Marisol's eyes. “I thought you'd want to know, so I asked. The attending physician says he blessed Tomás, but baptism is a rite for the living. I'm sorry, love, but according to his report, Tomás never took a breath.”

After a moment, Bridget continued. “Anyway, Ms. Gann also wanted to use her own antibiotic ointment for the baby's eyes. Since she's an R.N., I saw no harm. But I accidentally got a bit in my own eye, and then I saw the most remarkable things.”