by Abby Geni
I wiped my eyes. I sat up in bed, trying to steady my breathing. My hands were shaking so much that I could hardly hold the camera.
The woman in my photographs was pregnant.
29
IT HAS BEEN a month since I last wrote. I have needed time. It has taken me a while to come to terms with my current state. The revelation has filtered through me like sugar in tea—glittering, swirling, only gradually absorbed.
I have stayed apart. I have avoided taking walks with Mick and Forest. I have ignored Galen altogether. Lucy and I, as usual, have repelled one another like magnetic poles. I have spent whole days in my room, examining the photographs of myself in the fog. I have not always been sure whether I am awake or dreaming. I might find myself in the kitchen, running water over my hands, or on the porch, swaddled in the wind, and I will pinch myself surreptitiously, making sure.
I have dreamed at night of the seal pup. I have dreamed of the ghost. A luminescent figure. A fall of white fabric. A chilly silence. In these nightmares, she is the one who is pregnant. The ball of her belly glows like a lamp. The fetus inside is a squiggle of neon. I have dreamed of Andrew too. A monstrous elephant seal—an alpha male, all blubber and swagger—has lumbered across the granite, flinging his limp sock of a nose back and forth. As I watch, he has thrown back his head and given Andrew’s laugh, note for note. I have dreamed of myself on the grounds, standing at my tripod, photographing a woman and a seal pup. As I frame the two figures in the viewfinder, I have wondered who the woman might be. I never seem to recognize her. In my dreams, she has remained faceless, in shadow, without identity.
I have told no one. I have said nothing out loud.
Yet the evidence is everywhere. It feels as though I have suddenly learned to see color or sunlight—a thousand details that have been there all along, omnipresent but unnoticed. Yes, I have put on a few pounds. I can feel the extra bulk when I sit down, a cushion at my middle. Yes, I always need to pee. Yes, I’ve been having hot flashes. Sometimes it feels as though there is a furnace in my stomach, a fiery oven sending up a plume of heat. Yes, I’ve had food cravings. Food aversions. Exhaustion. I have been sleeping like a teenager, craving ten, eleven hours a night. I have known and noticed all these things, yet each has struck me as being unconnected to the others. Isolated symptoms. Pinpoints of color on a canvas. Products of the islands.
Now, of course, I can see the mosaic. I can see the complete pattern.
Even my hair has changed, full and thick. It reminds me of a sad little orchid I once tried to keep in Washington, D.C. During the winter months the plant shed its petals and refused to grow, sitting like a green statue in the waning light. But when a colleague of mine took it off my hands, flying south to Florida and placing it on her porch, the orchid bloomed into a frothy explosion of petals. My hair seems to have been transported to its proper climate at last.
And, of course, I have missed my period. Several periods. I have not thought about it, since my cycle has always been irregular. I flirt with the kind of low body weight that can put a person’s menstrual rhythm on pause. Besides, I no longer have any reason to look at a calendar. In a bathroom cabinet, tucked alongside the sink, there is a stock of tampons and pads, a pink treasure trove. The men avoid the area assiduously. When I first came to the islands, Lucy, Charlene, and I all made inroads into the supplies hidden there, nibbling away like mice at a stockpile of grain. But I cannot remember the last time I needed to visit the place.
FINALLY I TOOK the leap. This was a few days ago. I waited until midnight, the sky soaked with moonlight, the big dipper dangling over the cabin. Galen was in bed, Mick and Forest snoring, Lucy humming in her sleep. I headed into the bathroom, where there was a full-length mirror, the only one on the islands.
I almost didn’t go through with it. For a while I hovered, irresolute. I thought about going back to bed and slipping beneath the blankets. Turning out the light. Returning to the state of denial I had maintained for so long.
I reminded myself that I could not be sure of anything yet. There was no stick for me to pee on. There was no gynecologist’s office to visit. The impression I had gleaned from a faraway self-portrait taken over a month ago was hardly a solid diagnosis. I reminded myself that many of the traditional markers of pregnancy had eluded me. I hadn’t been vomiting at all hours of the morning. I hadn’t been exhibiting any nesting instincts, leaving the mopping and sweeping to Lucy. Since I never wore a bra, I hadn’t even been able to verify whether I could still fit into my usual cup size.
In addition, the symptoms I had experienced were far from conclusive. There was a credible rationale for each one. The weight gain might be nothing more than the normal spreading of age. My food aversions might have arisen from our dreadful meals, all that Spam and tuna. My sleepiness might have been triggered by the incessant, wearying chill. Perhaps the islands were playing tricks on me. Perhaps the whole thing was an illusion, an error, one more bizarre dream.
I sat down on the toilet, still clad in my jeans. I laid my head in my hands.
I had come this far. I would see the thing through. It was time to connect the picture with the person—the figure on the screen with my own flesh and blood. It had been a while since I had looked at myself naked. Before Andrew. There on the cold tile, I kicked off my pants. I peeled off several layers of T-shirts. I even shed my socks. Sucking in a deep breath, I turned and faced the mirror.
My belly, broad and golden, protruded over a tangle of pubic hair. My breasts were swollen. There was no question. There was no mistake. The weight was not limited to my torso. Extra flesh had been relegated to my backside. Even my thighs were affected: soft columns, the muscle concealed by new deposits of fat. My stomach glowed in the light like the waxing curve of the moon. I laid my hands on that globe. It felt like years since I had made contact with my own skin.
For the next few minutes, I conducted a thorough investigation. My belly was taut and springy, the consistency of a basketball. I had always imagined the pregnant paunch to be slack and plush, but mine was firm and rubbery—a shield, rather than a pillow. My breasts were heavy. I cupped each one. Fibrous beads seemed to have to have taken root beneath the surface like bulbs in earth. Milk ducts. I gave one nipple an experimental squeeze. Yellow fluid oozed out in honeyed droplets.
My belly button was in an odd condition. It seemed to be transforming from an innie to an outie, currently mid-reversal, like a shirt tangled in the drier. I palpated that nubble of flesh. I stepped closer to the mirror. The pigmentation of my whole body had begun to alter. My face was ferociously freckled now, my cheeks so crowded with maculae that I looked almost tanned. My nipples had darkened to the color of wood. Beneath my navel a brown line had appeared, tracing a path down to my pubic hair, bisecting the lower half of my abdomen. A term from a long-ago health class popped into my brain: linea negra. A classic indicator of pregnancy.
Trembling with shock and cold, I got dressed again.
Please help me. Just this once, Mom, help me. What am I going to do?
30
THERE IS A photograph of you that I used to keep on my night table. Framed against a sunlit prairie, you wore a red dress. Your limbs were lanky. Your hair was swept up in a messy bun. You looked as though you were about to smile—your eyes amused, your mouth pursed like a butterfly with its wings folded.
You were four months pregnant in the photo, though a casual observer might not have noticed this. In the snapshot, your sun-dress both concealed and enhanced the swell of your belly. The fabric worked like an optical illusion. It was the kind of garment that many women favor in the second trimester, the kind that makes everyone look a little bit pregnant, the kind that leaves strangers guessing.
As a child, I loved this picture for many reasons. Your expression, your elegant arms, the backdrop of greenery. But my favorite thing was the fact that it seemed to be an image of one person, yet was actually an image of three. My father had taken the snapshot. You and I were captured th
ere through his eyes.
THE SEASONS HAVE begun to change. It is April, and the days are markedly longer, the sun lingering in the west every evening like the last guest at a party. There is a new perfume on the breeze. Galen has taken to throwing open the windows, letting in a wash of sweet wind. The chill does not bother him—and indeed, it does not bother me. I could bathe in that salty air. Lucy has been afflicted by spring fever, vacuuming the curtains and emptying the cupboards so she can scrub into the corners. She has been moving systematically through the house, wiping mold from the grout, batting cobwebs from the ceiling. (She seems to feel the need to clean wherever I happen to be. If I’m on the couch, she wants to beat the dust out of the cushions. If I’m in my bedroom, she wants to get in there and wash the windows, since she’s doing the whole upper floor.) The animals are changing too. The gray whales are migrating on. The elephant seals are nearing the end of their time here. Soon it will be Bird Season.
In Washington, D.C., the long, gentle spring has begun, I am sure. It has always been my favorite time of year there, the weather opening like a flower, petal by petal. Every day will be a degree or two warmer. The crocuses push up through the soil and burn like sparklers in the grass. Robins carol wildly in the mornings. The trees are studded with buds strewn across the wood like Christmas lights—and then, all at once, the leaves will open. One day the branches are bare, and the next they will be coated with raw green, as fine as tissue paper. The cherry blossoms, too, will begin to flourish, and this, in turn, will attract the seasonal migration of Japanese tourists, who will flood the streets for weeks at a time, reading their maps upside down and photographing oddities like squirrels and vandalism.
The spring brings out a puckish side of my father. After accomplishing the usual reorganization of his closets—sweaters and boots stowed away—he will make a few subtle changes to his appearance. He might start wearing silk ties to work, rather than the heavy woolen things he associates with cold weather. He might shave off his winter beard and let the full glory of his pink chin shine.
Recently I sent him a long-overdue postcard. SPRING, I wrote, in fat capital letters. That was all.
By my reckoning, I am five months pregnant. The past few weeks have been odd, to say the least. I have kept one hand planted on my belly at all times, tucked under the swing of my sweatshirt, verifying the reality of my situation. I have floated through the cabin in a daze, attending to no one and nothing around me. I have not taken a single photograph—except in dreams. I have left my cameras under my bed. I have climbed Lighthouse Hill, standing in the wet wind, staring toward California. I have found myself on the coast, looking for my lost-and-found seal pup. But I have been unable to distinguish between the dozens of little bodies lolling in the sunlight. The female elephant seals are gone. The males are nowhere to be found. The babies, abandoned, huddle together, gathering courage for the new life ahead.
Eventually I will tell someone. Maybe my father. Maybe Mick. None of the biologists are aware of my circumstances, I am certain. The men are oblivious by nature, and Lucy does not pay enough attention to me to have noticed a change; I am simply an obstruction in the path of her mop. For now, I intend to ponder the matter on my own. I will let my opinions arrange themselves with each shift of mood, dancing, falling, and resettling, like the beads in a kaleidoscope.
I often find myself holding still, head bowed, trying to sense the life inside. My stomach is warm. My womb is heavy, grounding me to earth. I feel as though I am coming back to myself. Not Melissa. Not Mel. Not mouse girl. Not the image on the camera screen. Not the woman in the mirror.
ON A CLOUDY morning, I made a decision. The biologists were out on Seal Watch. I saw them go, four figures marching down Marine Terrace, heading for the water. The sky looked as though it had been ironed improperly, a length of cloth rumpled here and there by bunches of crinkled gray. Galen was carrying a carton of gear. Mick was giving instructions with big gestures. Forest and Lucy had their heads close, as though sharing secrets. As soon as they were out of sight, I got to work.
I had not decided what to do about the baby. I had not decided whether to keep it. I had not made up my mind about adoption, termination, suicide, feticide. I was not sure if I had bonded with the fetus. I could not tell whether the glow in my chest came from panic or love or shock or heartburn. I had not decided whether to call Captain Joe to come fetch me. I had not settled the question of whether to summon a helicopter. I had not fully accepted that I was not dreaming, or altered beyond redemption, or trapped in the perspective of someone I could not trust. I had not decided whether to throw myself into the sea. I had not decided much of anything.
But I had made up my mind about Lucy’s pet.
In the kitchen, I found a plastic bucket. I filled this with tap water and carried it to the coffee table, setting it beside Oliver’s tank. Then I rummaged through the fridge until I found the crabmeat. As usual, the octopus was in stealth mode, nowhere to be seen. But I knew the drill. I tapped three times on the lid. I had often seen Lucy do this, signaling to the octopus that it was time to eat. At once a bubble of tawny skin erupted from the pebbled floor. Oliver’s arms were in motion, writhing and whirling, propelling him upward. His eyes poked out on stalks. I saw the horizontal bar of each pupil, the yellow iris. At this point, Lucy would usually open the small trap door and drop the crabmeat through the aperture.
I, however, removed the entire lid of the tank. For the first time, Oliver and I looked at each other face-to-face, with no screen or pane of glass between us. He turned an angry crimson. He was unsettled. No one had ever taken the lid off his cage before. Octopuses were too clever, too determined to escape; it wouldn’t be safe to leave the tank open, even briefly. I dropped the crabmeat with a splash. Oliver grabbed for it absentmindedly, his yellow eyes still fixed on me.
Even now, I can’t explain what was driving me. The inclination had come with the force of an edict from heaven. There was no gainsaying it. Maybe it had to do with the indignity of Oliver’s captivity in this wild place. Maybe it had to with Lucy herself—her ignorance, her cruelty. Maybe it had to do with the prodigal seal pup that had been returned to me, against all odds, by the islands—the pup who had, in turn, revealed to me the tiny creature incubating in my own belly. That fish-fetus swam in a private tank, a bath of amniotic fluid. Squirming in the warm darkness. Wiggling its anemone fingers. Sharing my breath and blood.
Slowly I stretched out both hands, my palms hovering above the water. After a moment, Oliver took the initiative. His tentacles were as slippery as earthworms. I could not restrain a grimace. The suckers hurt a little, which surprised me; I had imagined them to be smooth and hard, like suction cups. Instead, they seemed to be made of a thousand tiny feelers. I did not rush him. I allowed him to explore my skin. The furious red began to leave his flesh. He wrapped a wet arm around my pinkie. It was an oddly intimate gesture, his grip as gentle as a baby’s.
Then I felt a pull. He was hoisting himself upward, levering himself against my fingers. He was heavier than I had anticipated—the weight and solidity of a softball. The tentacles slithered around my wrists, braided across my skin.
A few minutes later he was in the plastic bucket. I had my coat on, heading for the sea. The air was tinged with salt. Oliver bobbed awkwardly around, sloshing back and forth with each stride. Occasionally the centrifugal force would roll him over in a pinwheel of tentacles. I was moving fast, though there was not a soul to be seen. For the moment, I had Southeast Farallon to myself. I was glad of it. When Lucy noticed, in a day or two, that her pet had disappeared, I would do my best to feign innocence. Oh, the octopus? Gosh, the last time I saw him, he was in his tank.
At the shoreline I slowed down. The stones were slippery, coated with algae. Up close, the water was laced with shadows. I braced myself against a boulder. The sea lapped quietly. I picked up my bucket, tipped it slightly—and Oliver came flying out, lunging through the air, his tentacles akimbo. A rainbow of droplets
followed him. He landed in the surf with an undignified smack. I laid a hand on my belly, that taut, fiery orb. This posture had become habitual to me.
Then I felt something new. There was an answering caress from inside my body. A brush. A shift. I did not recognize the sensation. A butterfly seemed to have grazed its wings against the dark interior of my womb.
I froze. I did not breathe until the feeling came again. The touch was as gentle as a snowflake landing. But I knew what was happening now. It was the baby’s quickening. It was the first palpable movement. It was proof of life.
I did not cry. I was done crying. I could still see the octopus, caught in the swell of a wave. Before my eyes, he sucked in a mouthful of water and plunged downward. A wisp of red. A flicker of tentacles. An ocean that was no longer empty.
BIRD SEASON
31
LIFE IS NOT what I thought it was. I am not what I thought I was. A photographer, a nomad, a motherless daughter. A letter-writing woman, shedding a wake of paper and words across the world like the trail of an airplane. An artist with a camera for a brain: cold, clear, calculating. A woman in black.
Galen had asked me: What is your nature, Miranda?
Something happened to me the day I made contact with the seal pup. The day I broke the rule of noninterference. The day I crossed to the other side of the camera and photographed myself. The day I remembered I had a body.
For five months, I missed the fact of my own pregnancy. Yet I do not believe this was entirely my fault. Many of the traditional signs of the condition eluded me altogether—nausea, tender breasts, acne. The symptoms I did experience were hardly definitive. There was a plausible justification for each one.
