1
The girl stares down at the lists of names on her desk.
There is one list for a boy, and one list for a girl.
“Do you think it’s a girl or a boy?” she remembers asking Mom.
Mom had shrugged. “I don’t know.” She drummed her fingers over her slightly bulging stomach, emitting soft ‘pat-pat-pat’s. “What do you think?”
The girl placed her ear by her mother’s stomach, closed her eyes, and listened. “I think it’s a girl,” she said. “She kicks softly.”
And Mom had laughed, pulled the girl’s hand to her stomach, and placed her own hand over her daughter’s, and together, they had felt Baby kick, kick, kick.
The girl’s hand had felt warm and ticklish, and she had liked it.
She stares at the two lists, almost feeling the gentle vibrations of the kicks again, almost hearing Mom’s soft laughter ring in her ear shell.
She stares a little bit more, then tears them off and shove them into the trash can.
2
She has a coffin inside her body.
The woman stares blankly at her reflection in the mirror, both of her hands placed on her round and bloated stomach.
She clutches her stomach slightly harder, just slightly, so that her fingers would only leave short-lived, light pink marks on her sickeningly pale skin. She runs her tongue over her dry, chapped lips and tightens the grip a bit more. And a bit more.
The intensity increases little by little, until her fingers suddenly fold by themselves and start clawing into her stomach. She imagines her fingers – the doctors’ fingers – ripping into the skin, through the thick layer of fat, into the wall of her uterus. She imagines pulling out the lifeless chunk of flesh, the little corpse, and discarding it – plunk – into the bin under the operation table.
And that’s when she feels it. A kick.
A series of chills run down her spine and her mind goes blank. She feels like screaming, although she is not actually frightened. In fact, when the surprise dies out, she realizes that she wants to feel the kick again. She waits, breathing as quietly as possible, as if she could actually hear it kicking from inside. She waits for a kick, a slight movement, for anything.
But nothing happens.
She looks down at her stomach, and a twisted sneer suddenly draws across her face.
Of course it wouldn’t kick. It was dead for a whole week. She still remembers the time she walked into the shower and found enormous clots of blood pooling by her feet, the time she rushed to the hospital only to hear the word, “Miscarriage”.
All of a sudden, she starts laughing. It starts out as a giggle, but soon explodes into hysterical roars. She laughs and laughs and laughs, until tears run down her face and drip against her stomach, pooling in the crescent marks her nails have left in her skin. And then her giddy giggles soon melt down into low, guttural sobs, sobs that leave her body shaking uncontrollably, violently.
“Mom?” a voice calls.
She flinches and looks up.
Her six-year-old daughter looks back at her.
The girl looks as if she’s frightened, as if she does not know what she’s supposed to do.
She can’t blame the girl. She doesn’t, either.
Without a word, the girl tosses the cell phone to the woman’s hands. She stares at the woman’s stomach for a second – just a second, but it’s long enough to make the woman uncomfortable – and walks out of the room, as silent as a dead rat.
The woman watches her daughter fade out of sight before she picks up the phone.
It’s her husband.
And it’s time to go to the hospital.
3
The girl quietly watches Dad help Mom onto the car, her small hands pressed against the window. She’s not sure if she can’t hear anything because she’s inside the house or because her parents aren’t talking at all. But when the slam of the door rings clearly in the garden, she knows that it’s the latter.
The girl’s aunt, the babysitter for the day, calls her from the kitchen.
The girl doesn’t respond. She continues to stare at the red car. Her eyes follow it out of the garden, out to the street, out of her sight. She imagines the car running down the big roads and stopping in front of the hospital, and her parents walking out of it, safe and talking and not crying. Only then does she peel her hands off the window, which is soiled with fingerprints.
Her aunt is already sitting by the table. She passes a slice of pizza to the girl, who reluctantly takes a bite. It’s unbelievably good, rich and greasy and cheesy, so much better than the cold, hard instant noodles that her mother had given her for the last few days. Still, the girl continues to steal glances at her aunt, who looks back at her with sad, sympathetic eyes, and, all of a sudden, lets out a shuddering sigh and begins to cry. The girl’s muscles immediately knot, like they always have when Mom was crying. But her aunt quickly wipes the tears away and waves her hand in the air, as if to tell the girl not to worry.
“I’m okay,” she says softly. “Your mom would be okay after the surgery. Back to her old self.” She thinks for a little while and adds, “Everyone will be all okay.”
Then, as if to prove that she is ‘okay’, the girl’s aunt takes a huge bite out of the pizza. A string of cheese slips out of her mouth and hangs at her chin, and grease smears all over her mouth. The woman quickly covers her mouth and asks the girl to pass her a tissue. When she does, the woman puts on a soft smile – a sight that the girl hadn’t seen for days – and thanks her.
Her thick lips gleam brightly behind the layers of grease.
The scene somewhat disgusts the girl, even if she has grease all over her face too. Or maybe it isn’t the grease that is bothering her. Maybe it’s just the smile on her aunt’s face, just the way her mouth is spewing out senseless lies.
Whatever it is, the girl still feels sick. For a moment, everything around her becomes blurry and distant, as if she had dunked her head in a bucket of water. Then, she doubles over and throws up on the floor. Her aunt hurriedly comes to her side and rubs and pats her back, but the girl can’t feel anything at all.
All she feels is the thump of her heart against her ribcage. She carefully places her vomit-dripping fingers over her chest.
It’s warm and ticklish, like Baby’s kicks.
But Baby’s not here anymore. She’s dead. And Mom had gone to get rid of her right now.
How could Mom be all right if Baby’s gone? How could anyone?
She mutters a name under her breath – a name that had been in her head for months, a name that she had chosen for her to-be sister. She wants to choke it out with the half-digested pizza. But even after she vomits into her hands several times, the name continues to echo, loud and clear, in her pounding head.
4
The woman lies on the operation table as the doctors place the anesthesia oxygen mask over her face. They tell her to count down from ten. She does.
Her mind is completely blank when she starts counting down. She’s not even sad. Not a little bit. She just feels empty, as if all her insides have been emptied, as if it had already been taken out and discarded.
But when she reaches “…three, two…”, the image of her daughter pops in her head. The way the girl placed her hands over the woman’s stomach, the clumsy crayon drawings of her future baby sister, the two lists of names on her desk……
She loses consciousness right after remembering the first name on one of the lists: “Joy”.
5
The first thing the woman does when she returns from the hospital is smile. It looks so strange, so awkward on her face, so awkward with her puffy panda eyes, her cracked lips, and her jutting cheekbones, and the girl can’t help but stare.
Still, the woman hasn’t changed much except for that. She remains quiet the rest of the day, slowly wandering from room to room. She even stops by at the girl’s room at one point, and gently sweeps her hand over the desk’s surface. She stares at the empty space, at the two outlines of dust on where there once were the two lists, and abruptly barges out of the room. In the night, her muffled sobs leak out from her bedroom like usual, making the girl shiver under her sweat-soaked covers.
In the morning, the girl sees the woman on the sofa, watching TV. The woman lifts her head when she spots her daughter and forces on a smile. The girl gets an impression that she’s crying, but she still goes to her mother’s side.
The girl watches her mother stare blankly at the TV screen before she fixes her gaze on the woman’s now flat stomach. A place where Baby used to be in.
“Joy,” the girl says absently.
“What?” the woman asks.
The girl blinks with surprise. She wasn’t aware that she had spoken out loud. Reluctantly, she whispers, “I thought Joy would be a nice name.” Her mother continues to stare at her with her chestnut brown eyes, and despite of their warm color, they scare the girl. “It doesn’t matter anymore,” she quickly says, looking away. “It doesn’t matter.”
Out of the corner of her eye, the girl sees her mother raise her hand. She cringes, expecting her to hit her. But then, the woman’s fingers tightly lock around the girl’s hands, causing the girl to flinch.
“Yes, it does,” the woman says quietly. She squeezes the girl’s shorter, thinner fingers, and the girl swears she hears them crack, but she doesn’t pull her hand away. The woman’s hands are rough and dry but warm to the touch. “Honey, it does.”
The girl stares at her mother blankly. There are tears pooling in her mother’s eyes, but the sight strangely doesn’t frighten the girl. Slowly, the girl moves her hand over to her mother’s stomach, with her mother’s fingers resting on top. Both the mother and the girl close their eyes, waiting for a kick, a slight movement, anything. But even when they feel nothing, they keep their hands together for a long time.
The sunlight rests on their laced fingers like warm honey. Warm, and even a bit ticklish, like Baby’s kicks.
The girl stares down at the lists of names on her desk.
There is one list for a boy, and one list for a girl.
“Do you think it’s a girl or a boy?” she remembers asking Mom.
Mom had shrugged. “I don’t know.” She drummed her fingers over her slightly bulging stomach, emitting soft ‘pat-pat-pat’s. “What do you think?”
The girl placed her ear by her mother’s stomach, closed her eyes, and listened. “I think it’s a girl,” she said. “She kicks softly.”
And Mom had laughed, pulled the girl’s hand to her stomach, and placed her own hand over her daughter’s, and together, they had felt Baby kick, kick, kick.
The girl’s hand had felt warm and ticklish, and she had liked it.
She stares at the two lists, almost feeling the gentle vibrations of the kicks again, almost hearing Mom’s soft laughter ring in her ear shell.
She stares a little bit more, then tears them off and shove them into the trash can.
2
She has a coffin inside her body.
The woman stares blankly at her reflection in the mirror, both of her hands placed on her round and bloated stomach.
She clutches her stomach slightly harder, just slightly, so that her fingers would only leave short-lived, light pink marks on her sickeningly pale skin. She runs her tongue over her dry, chapped lips and tightens the grip a bit more. And a bit more.
The intensity increases little by little, until her fingers suddenly fold by themselves and start clawing into her stomach. She imagines her fingers – the doctors’ fingers – ripping into the skin, through the thick layer of fat, into the wall of her uterus. She imagines pulling out the lifeless chunk of flesh, the little corpse, and discarding it – plunk – into the bin under the operation table.
And that’s when she feels it. A kick.
A series of chills run down her spine and her mind goes blank. She feels like screaming, although she is not actually frightened. In fact, when the surprise dies out, she realizes that she wants to feel the kick again. She waits, breathing as quietly as possible, as if she could actually hear it kicking from inside. She waits for a kick, a slight movement, for anything.
But nothing happens.
She looks down at her stomach, and a twisted sneer suddenly draws across her face.
Of course it wouldn’t kick. It was dead for a whole week. She still remembers the time she walked into the shower and found enormous clots of blood pooling by her feet, the time she rushed to the hospital only to hear the word, “Miscarriage”.
All of a sudden, she starts laughing. It starts out as a giggle, but soon explodes into hysterical roars. She laughs and laughs and laughs, until tears run down her face and drip against her stomach, pooling in the crescent marks her nails have left in her skin. And then her giddy giggles soon melt down into low, guttural sobs, sobs that leave her body shaking uncontrollably, violently.
“Mom?” a voice calls.
She flinches and looks up.
Her six-year-old daughter looks back at her.
The girl looks as if she’s frightened, as if she does not know what she’s supposed to do.
She can’t blame the girl. She doesn’t, either.
Without a word, the girl tosses the cell phone to the woman’s hands. She stares at the woman’s stomach for a second – just a second, but it’s long enough to make the woman uncomfortable – and walks out of the room, as silent as a dead rat.
The woman watches her daughter fade out of sight before she picks up the phone.
It’s her husband.
And it’s time to go to the hospital.
3
The girl quietly watches Dad help Mom onto the car, her small hands pressed against the window. She’s not sure if she can’t hear anything because she’s inside the house or because her parents aren’t talking at all. But when the slam of the door rings clearly in the garden, she knows that it’s the latter.
The girl’s aunt, the babysitter for the day, calls her from the kitchen.
The girl doesn’t respond. She continues to stare at the red car. Her eyes follow it out of the garden, out to the street, out of her sight. She imagines the car running down the big roads and stopping in front of the hospital, and her parents walking out of it, safe and talking and not crying. Only then does she peel her hands off the window, which is soiled with fingerprints.
Her aunt is already sitting by the table. She passes a slice of pizza to the girl, who reluctantly takes a bite. It’s unbelievably good, rich and greasy and cheesy, so much better than the cold, hard instant noodles that her mother had given her for the last few days. Still, the girl continues to steal glances at her aunt, who looks back at her with sad, sympathetic eyes, and, all of a sudden, lets out a shuddering sigh and begins to cry. The girl’s muscles immediately knot, like they always have when Mom was crying. But her aunt quickly wipes the tears away and waves her hand in the air, as if to tell the girl not to worry.
“I’m okay,” she says softly. “Your mom would be okay after the surgery. Back to her old self.” She thinks for a little while and adds, “Everyone will be all okay.”
Then, as if to prove that she is ‘okay’, the girl’s aunt takes a huge bite out of the pizza. A string of cheese slips out of her mouth and hangs at her chin, and grease smears all over her mouth. The woman quickly covers her mouth and asks the girl to pass her a tissue. When she does, the woman puts on a soft smile – a sight that the girl hadn’t seen for days – and thanks her.
Her thick lips gleam brightly behind the layers of grease.
The scene somewhat disgusts the girl, even if she has grease all over her face too. Or maybe it isn’t the grease that is bothering her. Maybe it’s just the smile on her aunt’s face, just the way her mouth is spewing out senseless lies.
Whatever it is, the girl still feels sick. For a moment, everything around her becomes blurry and distant, as if she had dunked her head in a bucket of water. Then, she doubles over and throws up on the floor. Her aunt hurriedly comes to her side and rubs and pats her back, but the girl can’t feel anything at all.
All she feels is the thump of her heart against her ribcage. She carefully places her vomit-dripping fingers over her chest.
It’s warm and ticklish, like Baby’s kicks.
But Baby’s not here anymore. She’s dead. And Mom had gone to get rid of her right now.
How could Mom be all right if Baby’s gone? How could anyone?
She mutters a name under her breath – a name that had been in her head for months, a name that she had chosen for her to-be sister. She wants to choke it out with the half-digested pizza. But even after she vomits into her hands several times, the name continues to echo, loud and clear, in her pounding head.
4
The woman lies on the operation table as the doctors place the anesthesia oxygen mask over her face. They tell her to count down from ten. She does.
Her mind is completely blank when she starts counting down. She’s not even sad. Not a little bit. She just feels empty, as if all her insides have been emptied, as if it had already been taken out and discarded.
But when she reaches “…three, two…”, the image of her daughter pops in her head. The way the girl placed her hands over the woman’s stomach, the clumsy crayon drawings of her future baby sister, the two lists of names on her desk……
She loses consciousness right after remembering the first name on one of the lists: “Joy”.
5
The first thing the woman does when she returns from the hospital is smile. It looks so strange, so awkward on her face, so awkward with her puffy panda eyes, her cracked lips, and her jutting cheekbones, and the girl can’t help but stare.
Still, the woman hasn’t changed much except for that. She remains quiet the rest of the day, slowly wandering from room to room. She even stops by at the girl’s room at one point, and gently sweeps her hand over the desk’s surface. She stares at the empty space, at the two outlines of dust on where there once were the two lists, and abruptly barges out of the room. In the night, her muffled sobs leak out from her bedroom like usual, making the girl shiver under her sweat-soaked covers.
In the morning, the girl sees the woman on the sofa, watching TV. The woman lifts her head when she spots her daughter and forces on a smile. The girl gets an impression that she’s crying, but she still goes to her mother’s side.
The girl watches her mother stare blankly at the TV screen before she fixes her gaze on the woman’s now flat stomach. A place where Baby used to be in.
“Joy,” the girl says absently.
“What?” the woman asks.
The girl blinks with surprise. She wasn’t aware that she had spoken out loud. Reluctantly, she whispers, “I thought Joy would be a nice name.” Her mother continues to stare at her with her chestnut brown eyes, and despite of their warm color, they scare the girl. “It doesn’t matter anymore,” she quickly says, looking away. “It doesn’t matter.”
Out of the corner of her eye, the girl sees her mother raise her hand. She cringes, expecting her to hit her. But then, the woman’s fingers tightly lock around the girl’s hands, causing the girl to flinch.
“Yes, it does,” the woman says quietly. She squeezes the girl’s shorter, thinner fingers, and the girl swears she hears them crack, but she doesn’t pull her hand away. The woman’s hands are rough and dry but warm to the touch. “Honey, it does.”
The girl stares at her mother blankly. There are tears pooling in her mother’s eyes, but the sight strangely doesn’t frighten the girl. Slowly, the girl moves her hand over to her mother’s stomach, with her mother’s fingers resting on top. Both the mother and the girl close their eyes, waiting for a kick, a slight movement, anything. But even when they feel nothing, they keep their hands together for a long time.
The sunlight rests on their laced fingers like warm honey. Warm, and even a bit ticklish, like Baby’s kicks.
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