Apart From Love

by Uvi Poznansky

  With her gone, where can I go? To whom shall I turn? Don’t laugh, even if—on the surface—my solution may seem absurd, totally absurd to you. I reckon I must win the trust of the women in this family, which is to say them Rosenblatt sisters, armed with their knitting needles, and spearheaded by dear old aunt Hadassa.

  At the time I told her not to trouble herself with coming to my wedding, and to stay as far as she could from me, which may have been the wrong thing to say to the old witch—but boy did it feel right!

  You may think me crazy, totally crazy to even consider her. And maybe I am, ‘cause how can I forget: it was aunt Hadassa who came up with that bright idea, the idea of abortion. With the sweetest fake smile you could imagine, she told me that for sure, there was still time, it wasn’t too late to have it, and like, it could make things so, so much easier for me, because the way she sees it, I like to run around, and have my fun and stuff.

  So right there and then I had the best fun I’d had in a long while: it was like, such a pleasure for me to let her have it! I swear, I was rude as hell! I shouted at her with such goddam delight, so she would know who’s who in this place, ‘cause guess what: the future of this family is right here, in my womb. Now don’t you forget it!

  But from now on I must swallow my pride—even if it chokes me to death. I must hold my tongue with them sisters, and like, be nice, and show respect, which isn’t gonna be easy for me, ‘cause you can look far and wide—but for sure, you can’t find no witches more uglier than them.

  I remind myself: above all, survival. So I must do something to turn them around, somehow, from hating me. I must, like, charm them into thinking of my baby as one of their own—even if to them, I’m always gonna remain the stranger.

  Me, I’m used to being the enemy, but if they know what’s good for them, they’re gonna come around real soon and make peace.

  It’s in my power to bring them out of that slow death—that endless, idle boredom of old age, and make them come alive again, the way it must have been for them back then, twenty-seven years ago, when Ben was a newborn baby.

  I can just picture them spinsters, crowding around the crib, fat bellies hanging over the little wool blanket, trying to walk on tiptoe, stepping over each other’s warts, and carrying a bucketload of free advice, for which they wasn’t even asked, let alone thanked, ‘cause you see, there he was, so, so frail, and always crying it seemed.

  So they must have wondered, like, was the little bundle of joy hungry or wet or sleepy, or was he just too cold or warm or sick or something. I can just see it in my head. They would tell his mama to burp him, and to clean his little tush and powder it—even though the three of them hadn’t taken care of one, I mean, not even once in their life.

  And Natasha, she must have been close to tears, ‘cause like, being new to being a new mama, I bet she wasn’t sure if she’d done things right, and she couldn’t tell if there was enough milk in her breasts, ‘cause like, the baby won’t stop wailing. And them nipples, I’m sure they was hurting like hell.

  It would be just like aunt Hadassa to say that if she was in Natasha’s place—which thank God, she wasn’t—she would ignore the pain. My, my, she would say, never mind a little discomfort, because you know, breast feeding is not for sissies, dear.

  And she won’t back down, I’m sure—even though the three of them hadn’t done nothing even slightly close to anything of the sort.

  And when all that advice won’t do much in the way of calming the baby down, they would tell Natasha that it was fine, just ignore the crying, because anyway, it was meant to make his lungs strong and healthy—even though aunt Hadassa had to stuff her big ears with a couple of cotton wads, ‘cause in spite of her own advice, I bet she couldn’t stand hearing it no more.

  Now I could make her feel needed again. I could even stun her, by inviting her right in, to meddle in my affairs in full view; which is what I did last night, when I couldn’t take that noise in my head no more, I mean the old alarm clock, out there in the hall, which had become awful pesky with that loud tick-tock, tick-tock.

  First I switched the light off, and held my hand just under the bulb to feel the air cooling off, and sat there in the darkening kitchen for a quite a long while, trying to amuse myself by touching my belly, and thinking about my baby, and about his future, about the long years ahead, which helped me tune out the minutes, ticking away.

  Then I stood back up, trying to find my reflection, which looked real small and buckled right there, on the round surface of that black bulb. I wiped my tears—even though I didn’t have no sleeves on me—after which I went to the hall and piled some papers and stuff, right on top of the alarm clock, to muffle that sound.

  Then I called her up, and said, like, “Aunt Hadassa, I need you—”

  “What for?” she said, real cautious.

  And I said, “I have an appointment, like, tomorrow at ten—”

  And she said, “You do, dear? Nu, what for?”

  And by the acid tone in her voice I figured she was thinking that by now, it was too late anyway, and that I should’ve listened to her when there was still time, time for a proper abortion, because my, my, now it was week number twelve already.

  So I said, “It’s a real surprise, aunt Hadassa. You’ll see. Anyway, let me ask you this: can you come here, like, early tomorrow morning, and help me get ready?”

  And she answered by asking, “You not feeling well?”

  And I had to say, “No, not that well, Aunt Hadassa.”

  “My, my,” she clicked her tongue. “I’ll be there, dear. We all will.”

  “I’m awful glad,” I said, and meant it. “Don’t know what I would do without you.”

  And I thought, In a few months from now, I’m gonna steal her heart. Aunt Hadassa is gonna feel, like, the grip of a little hand around her wrinkled finger. She’s gonna pinch a chubby little cheek, and listen for a thin, ringing voice calling her name. And me, I’m gonna smile at her, and place my baby right there, in her lap, and watch her droopy eyes light up. She’s gonna know that I know that she knows that from now on she owes me, ‘cause like, I can make her feel wanted again, which is a mighty strong thing to feel.

  It’s in my power. Without having to say any of it, it’s gonna be awful clear to both of us.

  Up to now she hasn't give it much thought—but with a little help from me, she will. And then, then she’ll change. She’ll be my aunt—the stolen aunt Hadassa—whether she knows it at this point, or not.

  I can’t wait till tomorrow. I bet I ain’t gonna forget the place where—for the first time—I’ll hear the sound, the sweet sound of my baby’s heartbeat. Only I wonder now, like, Will it be among strangers.

  Chapter 21 The Heartbeat

  As Told by Anita

  In spite of the light spotting I refused to admit to myself, even for one moment, how terribly worried I really was. Lenny didn’t come back, so all alone in the big bed I felt lost, like I was drowning, and had to hold my breath, somehow, till dawn, and then even longer, till the light of day, till my ten o’clock appointment, because I was so afraid I was gonna get some bad news, I mean, about my little one.

  So now I pinch myself, ‘cause at long last it’s ten already, and here I am, in a half-darkened office, lying on my back, waiting, like, for a miracle, straining to hear a sound—which isn’t here, isn’t here yet—the sound of my baby’s heartbeat. If something’s wrong then it’s time, time to find out.

  With a heavy sigh, a woman in her mid-thirties takes a seat right here facing me. She types my name, so that now, ‘Anita Kaminsky’ shines above me in large letters on a screen.

  If not for her red eyes, and them sharply pointed ears, she would seem the perfect clinical type. Her thin mouth is pursed pretty tight, except to let out, kinda under her breath, that she’s sick of all this, and who cares, nobody gives a damn, and really why should they, it’s her life, and her problem is no one else’s business, and to call her Debbie, she’s a sonograp
her, and this plastic thing, this gismo she’s gripping in her hand, that’s called a probe. With that she begins sliding it around the bottom of my belly.

  I hold very still. I don’t barely move under that crisp, starched sheet. It has ironed pleats that stay there, like, straight as an arrow, even when it’s spread open, right here over my legs.

  Her movement is measured, precise—but all the same, I reckon my baby’s squirming inside, because of all that prodding. It tickles me, too. I’m afraid I’m gonna pee in my panties, because that probe thing which is resting here, on my skin, feels kinda wet, kinda cool to the touch. For her, I bet all this is just routine. Me, I have to hold a full bladder, which isn’t easy—but then, then the beat starts!

  It sounds faint at first, just like nothing, and then all of a sudden it grows awful strong. Now that she’s found it, and it blips loud and clear, the smile can’t hardly be wiped off my face. If not for them red eyes, I would’ve asked her, like, if I was to come back the next day, would she let me listen again.

  If not for them three witches standing there in the corner squinting at me—perhaps even wishing me ill—I would’ve lost all sense of shame: I would’ve cried and cried, and then cried some more. It’s the most sweet, beautiful sound I’ve ever heard in my entire life!

  But never mind me, or how I feel. You can see straight away that the most amazing change is beginning to take place right over there, out of that corner, when all three of them—aunt Hadassa, aunt Frida and aunt Fruma—come forward, like, in one heavy step, which makes the floor bounce right under me. I’ve taken a risk asking them to come here with me, and I hope, I so hope it won’t prove to be no mistake.

  I reckon they hate me, ‘cause from the beginning, from the time I fainted they’ve been hinting that this here pregnancy, it don’t seem to be viable, and it should be aborted, and there’s still time, like, to do it. Still, there’s no one else to offer a helping hand, no one else to lean on, in case I’m gonna feel dizzy again. From now on, hate don’t really matter no more, ‘cause I need them.

  Blip, blip, blip goes the sound, and them three aunts, they pop their round, bulging eyes and lean right over my belly, which is glistening in the dark with that clear gel smear, in which the probe thing is like, splashing around. And aunt Hadassa, she raises her painted eyebrows, and screws up her nose till it’s glued to the screen, like she hasn’t seen nothing like that in her entire life, which I bet, she hasn’t.

  Me, I thought I knew what to expect. From the book Lenny gave me I’ve learned that at week twelve, the baby’s fingers would soon begin to open and close. His toes would curl, his eye muscles would clench, and his mouth would make sucking movements.

  By now his eyes have already moved from the sides of his head to the front, and his ears is like, right there where they should be. I thought I could see all that in my head—but for sure, it isn’t hardly the same as watching the real thing, ‘cause the real thing is like, much more confusing.

  “See, right here?” says the sonographer.

  And I say, “No, what?”

  And she points out, “The heartbeat, see? Down here, across the monitor?”

  So I turn to the screen, which is as black as night, and fix my eyes on that white worm, which is radiating there, all the way across, with them shining spikes pulsing through it, one blip after another, running off at the right edge and then, coming right back in at the left one.

  “Sure,” I say, real bold, like I know what I’m talking about. “The heartbeat.”

  “Yes,” she says, like we have a clear meeting of the minds between us. “This here, that’s what you call a Doppler waveform, see? And it shows the systoles and diastoles in the blood flow velocity.”

  “Looks good,” I say.

  “For you,” she says, “the important thing is this: Even in the presence of vaginal bleeding, which is what you have, we can depict a visible heartbeat. So obviously, the fetus is viable.”

  Here she lets me take a deep breath, and then goes on to say, “It means that the probability of a continued pregnancy is better than 95 percent.”

  “Looks good, awful good,” I say again.

  And from behind, them three witches mumble, “Nu? Looks good, doesn’t it.”

  And they turn back to retreat into that corner, from where I can hear still them, whispering, “My, my,” and clicking their tongue from time to time.

  Meanwhile she freezes the image and prints a little picture for me, so that later I can show the little worm to my husband. Right this minute I ain’t all that sure I want to do that.

  She turns a few knobs, and pushes a few sliders and stuff on her keyboard, so a pale search light appears in the image. It’s scanning around some dusky nooks and crannies, where silvery, flat layers—some thin, some thick—have sunk down into the dark, just like wet mud. It isn’t barely clear to me that what I see up there is for real. Perhaps the light just flashes there, off the sludge, and what it mirrors back to me is like, false. Something just dreamed up.

  The ray flutters about, slicing, somehow, across them layers of dense, grainy clay of what’s inside me. At first I don’t much mind all that slicing, ‘cause it don’t hurt me, and it don’t feel like nothing, really.

  With a soft, squelching sound, little specs glitter in the dark fluid. And there—just behind them specs—something moves! Something catches the light and like, wow! For a second there I can swear I see a hand: My baby’s hand waving, then turning to float away.

  This isn’t exactly what I’ve expected, ‘cause like, not only is that fluid kinda see-through—but to my surprise, so is the little hand. Like, you can spot not only the faint outline of flesh on them, but the shine of the bones coming at you, too.

  Me, I’m here to protect my baby, to keep him safe from harm, even from the shadow of a harm. So I tell her, “Now, stop that!”

  And she points her ears even sharper, saying, “Excuse me?”

  So I go, real slow, I say, “You heard me. Turn the damn thing off.”

  And them three aunts, they stop whispering amongst themselves. Right away they click their heels, like, awful hard against the floor to rise up, and aunt Hadassa says Oy, which is quickly echoed, like, Oy Oy, by aunt Fruma and aunt Frida. Anyhow, they seem eager to find out what it is I’m fussing about.

  So I insist, this time much louder, “Stop, stop already! You slicing my baby!”

  And the sonographer, she freezes the image, and tries to hold me off, saying, like, “Ultrasound scan only looks like a slice through the flesh, but trust me, it isn’t.”

  And in turn I ask, “Is it fake, then?”

  “Listen,” she tells me, with a tone that is half-polite, half-tired, half-annoyed, “it’s considered to be a safe, non invasive, accurate and cost-effective investigation in the fetus, and not to worry.”

  Here she glances, with some caution, at them aunts, ‘cause by now they’ve come awful close to the screen, which is where she, the sonographer, stands, if you can call that standing, ‘cause really she’s leaning back ever so slightly, like, away from them.

  “None of you fine women should worry in the least,” she says. “As you may already know, ultrasound has become an indispensable obstetric tool, which plays an important role in the care of every pregnant woman. My job here is to take some measurements, which reflect the gestational age of the fetus, to arrive at the correct dating of birth—”

  “All right,” I cut in, ‘cause by now I’ve figured that despite all this rattling, she means well.

  Still, I’m glaring at her, like, to stop her from chattering, ‘cause anyway she don’t barely make any sense. “Go on, then,” I tell her, “go on with them measurements, but from now on, you better be real careful.”

  In reply she mumbles something, making the mistake of thinking that from where I lie, I can’t see her rolling her eyeballs, which seem, somehow, even redder than before. So just to make myself clear I spell things out for her, like, “We don’t want to see no more slic
ing, you hear?”

  She blinks, giving a slight nod to me, which means that at last, we have a clear understanding between us fine women.

  The image comes alive, and there is that black bubble again, swimming in in its gravy. She marks an outer edge around it, which at once, brings it so close to you that like, it could almost swallow you.

  And in it you can spot, yes, you can suddenly find—gleaming there, in and out from them fuzzy, gnarly shadows—the most beautiful side view of a baby: