An Elegant Theory

by Noah Milligan

  In the back of the album I found a folded piece of paper taped to the inside cover. It was a note from my mother. Coulter, it said, if you’re reading this, I take it you didn’t stay in Europe as I’d hoped. I don’t know if this should surprise me or not. During my absence, I always clung to this idea of you, that you were still like the little boy I had raised, that I had imprinted upon you myself. This belief gave me comfort, that despite my abandoning you, you and I were somehow inextricably linked, that our physical distance didn’t matter as much because you were still my son, and you were still like me. As I’ve gotten to know you over the past few months, I’ve been proven correct in some regards, wrong in others. You tend to dwell inside your own head, sometimes for hours on end, much like me. You oftentimes don’t know how to act in certain situations. You don’t face confrontation or doubt or the prospect of failure well. When faced with these, you retreat. You hide. You hope the problem will somehow solve itself. But, as you reading this note now proves, you’re not a coward, unlike me. After you left for your experiment, I made preparations to turn myself in as I told you I would. I could’ve simply taken the cab to the police station, but I convinced myself I shouldn’t allow you to come home to my belongings, that cleaning up after me would be unfair to you. So I returned to your home, packed up my things, and donated them. Upon returning, though, I told myself you deserved to come home to a clean home, that it was the least I could do, that somehow my final act would cleanse the past and let you start anew. Silly, I know. At first, I just tidied up a bit. I put away your laundry. I organized your books. I took out the trash. I put everything in its place. This, however, was still insufficient. I went out and purchased cleaning supplies. I lemon-oiled your furniture. I shampooed the carpets. I vacuumed. I dusted. I washed the windows. I scrubbed your grout. Every time I thought I was done, I found something new to clean, something else to fill my remaining time. I snaked your plumbing. I scrubbed your toilets. I replaced your light bulbs. I put in new air filters. I tightened every screw in the house. I re-caulked your windows. Eventually, I came to realize I was stalling. I was going to break my promise. I was going to run. Again. I blame myself for what happened. Wherever I go, I wreak havoc. I ruin lives. If I had not come here, I can’t help but think that this tragedy never would’ve happened, that you would’ve lived a full and enviable life with your wife and son. I thought if I made myself into a martyr I could return to you some semblance of this life, but now I can’t even do that. I’m sure this doesn’t surprise you. Regardless, I’m sorry. I hope one day you’ll be able to forgive me. I love you, Coulter. I know it doesn’t seem like it, but I do. I promise—

  The note ended there, the ink smudged to the right. There was no farewell, no final thought. It just ended, mid-apology. I felt as though her unfinished promise should gnaw at me, leave behind some unfulfilled hole like her initial abandonment had all those years before, but it didn’t. It didn’t affect me at all. I simply closed the album, locked up the apartment, and left the key at the super’s door.

  I then walked the few blocks to the police station.

  There was no light. I could see no horizon. There was no sound or breeze or lingering smell. It was as if I was deaf, dumb, and blind. It was a strange feeling, but I wasn’t afraid. I was surprisingly calm and content. I kept thinking about how my mother used to put me to bed when I’d been a kid. It was one of those memories where you see yourself as an observer would, like if you were experiencing your own life as an astral projection. I was lying in bed, and my mother sat on the edge. She had the expression of someone completing a chore as she said the Lord’s Prayer. Her voice was monotone and brisk. I didn’t look at her, and she wouldn’t look at me. We both just wanted it to end. When she was done, she pecked me on the forehead, and then she clicked off the light.

  When I opened my eyes next, I was walking into a hospital room. Sara sat in bed eating ice chips as a nurse checked her IV, pitocin, a drug to induce labor. She smiled when she saw me.

  You made it, she said. I didn’t think you would.

  I didn’t either, I said.

  I’ve been worried about you.

  I’m here now.

  She patted the mattress, and I stood by her side.

  Are you afraid? I asked.

  Terrified, she said. Can you tell?

  Everything will be okay.

  It will?

  I promise.

  The pitocin kicked in quickly. Sara rocked back and forth from the pain. She grimaced and held my hand and squeezed. Every few seconds she moaned, a slight whimper escaping her lips, and then she pressed her lips together as if entrapping her pain. The nurse gave her the epidural. The needle wasn’t as large or as frightening as I’d anticipated. Sara sat with her legs crossed underneath her and leaned forward. As the nurse plunged the needle into her lower back, Sara clenched in anticipation of pain, but then she relaxed.

  Once the epidural took effect, she was smiling and telling us that she heard a cat mewing. Someone find the cat, she said. She leaned up in bed and made a telescope out of her hands and scanned the hospital room. It’s just the machine in the corner, sweetie, the nurse said, laughing. There’s no cat. But there is, Sara said. I can hear her mewing.

  Not long after, she dilated far enough to push. The nurse sat on a swiveling stool, and she instructed me to pull back on Sara’s legs when it was time. Every minute or two she told Sara to push, and I pulled back on her leg. She turned red, sweat poured from her brow, and her teeth ground together. It seemed like she made no progress whatsoever. After each push, she collapsed into the thin pillows propping up her head and back. She’d breathe short, curt breaths. Her skin was pale and resembled a wet paper cup. I don’t think I can do this, she said. Sure you can, I told her. You’re doing great.

  We carried on like this for hours. Between pushes, Sara fought to keep her eyes open. I dabbed at her forehead with a cool, wet washcloth. I was glad she got to rest, even if it was only for short amounts of time. I fed her ice chips and massaged her forearms and hands. I asked the nurses questions, why is this taking so long, is there something wrong, what can I do to help, and the nurses nodded at me knowingly, the concerned but annoying father, always getting in the way. She’s fine, they said. You just be there for her.

  We’re getting close, the nurse said. She crouched between Sara’s legs, rubbing her fingers alongside the bottom of Sara’s vagina, stretching the birthing canal. I could see the top of Isaac’s head. His hair was matted against his skull. The pate was pointed and purple. It seemed so tight in there I worried he couldn’t breathe, but then I remembered he received his oxygen through the umbilical cord.

  The doctor arrived. She smiled and put on latex gloves and asked how we were doing. Good, Sara said. I’m ready to see my boy. As we all are, the doctor said. I’m sure.

  There was more pushing, harder this time and in longer sequences. Sara screamed, the epidural either wearing off or the pain becoming more pronounced or perhaps both. I felt useless. I wanted to help in some way, to make this go by quicker, but there was nothing I could do but pull back on her legs and watch as our boy slid downward, his head protruding the birthing canal, and I’d get hopeful, here he is, finally, it’s time, after so many months of waiting, we’d get to hold him, but then Sara would let up, and he’d slide back to where he’d started.

  You’re doing great, Mom, the doctor said.

  Sara couldn’t even acknowledge the doctor. She collapsed and said she couldn’t do this anymore. Just cut me. Cut me open and take him out of me. Please, she begged. I just want this to be over with.

  He’s almost there, Sara. Just keep pushing.

  I can’t. I really can’t.

  She did anyway. I didn’t know where she got the energy. It was like watching the law of conservation of energy being broken, a possibility only in the quantum realms. One moment she’d be laying back, staccato breaths her only sign of life, and the next she’d be leaning forward and pushing to the point her
blood vessels threatened to burst through her skin. Then, with a cry that was half-groan, half-growl, Isaac slipped into the doctor’s hands.

  Nothing could’ve prepared me for this moment, seeing my boy born—such a tiny, helpless thing, wailing. It was like I had levitated. I felt buoyant. I felt as if I floated in a vacuum. I’d expected to feel something, perhaps the weight of new responsibility—this baby would now forever be in my care. He’d depend on me for his life. For his safety. For food. For shelter. For comfort. For everything. But that wasn’t the case. I was freer than before somehow, as if the arrival of our son had relieved me of some great duty I was incapable of accomplishing.

  The doctor brought our son up to Sara, and she held him close. His eyes were closed, and he was covered in afterbirth.

  Oh, Sara said. Oh, sweetie, we did it. We did it. Look what we did.

  Is he real? I asked. Is this real?

  Of course, she said. Strange, isn’t it? He’s really here.

  Acknowledgments

  First and foremost, thank you to my wife, Allie, for your sacrifice while I was at school, or at the office, or in my study working on what would be this novel. Thank you for believing in me even when I did not. Without you, this book would not be possible, and for this I owe the deepest of debts.

  Thank you also to my many friends and family members who read innumerable drafts of this work, both in full and in part: Roy Giles, Corey Mingura, Jake Foster, and especially my mother, René Milligan, who may be my most discerning reader. Thank you to my professors at the University of Central Oklahoma, Constance Squires, Steve Garrison, Kit Givan, and Rilla Askew, for setting such great examples. And thank you to my father, Carl Milligan, who didn’t complain, at least out loud, when I told him I wanted to be a writer.

  Finally, thank you to my publisher, Michelle Halket, for taking a chance on a little-known author from Oklahoma. I hope I don’t let you down.

  Noah Milligan splits his time between words and numbers and is a longtime student of physics, prompting him to write his debut novel, An Elegant Theory, which was shortlisted for the 2015 Horatio Nelson Fiction Prize. His short fiction has appeared in numerous literary magazines, including MAKE, Storyscape Literary Journal, Empty Sink Publishing, and Santa Clara Review. He is a graduate of the MFA program at the University of Central Oklahoma, and he lives in Edmond, OK, with his wife and two children.

  noahmilligan.com