Just because I don’t have enough in my life to keep me busy, I decided to enter a short story writing challenge.
The Short Story Challenge 2009 is an international creative writing competition, now in it’s 3rd year, that challenges participants to create original short stories in as little as 24 hours. The event is organized by NYC Midnight Movie Making Madness, an organization dedicated to discovering and promoting a new wave of talented storytellers. NYC Midnight aims to provide the prizes and exposure necessary for writers to take their next big step towards writing professionally.
I, along with twenty other writers, was assigned to heat number nineteen- genre: drama, subject: a blood test. There are approximately 600 folks who signed up for this competition, although I’m not sure if they have the total of how many stories were submitted.
I have to say that what follows is not at all the story I intended, or even started to write. It was a good exercise for me, and always interesting to see what comes out of ones’ imagination. Oh yeah, and this is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Well enough explaining…here it is:
The Baby Namer
Marie is pregnant. She knows this not because she has missed a period, or pissed on a stick. She has not seen any sort of artificial sign-double line, plus, or minus. She knows she is pregnant because her body is already remodeling, making room for the new addition.
She feels heavier, though the numbers on the scale have not risen. She is walking with fresh cement poured inside her sheepskin slippers, slogging through deep snowdrifts. Her hips have softened and opened like lotus petals. Her yoga practice will be a cinch. Call her Guru Gumby. Her breasts feel full, hot, and hard. Darkened nipples like insect antennae are anticipating the change. A slight dip in temperature and the high beams are turned on.
In a celebratory toast to the contents of her womb, her little unexpected 31st birthday gift, she’ll raise one more beer from her fridge. She will smoke her last cigarette and call herself a cold turkey; she’ll heed the surgeon general’s warning: PREGNANT WOMEN SHOULD NOT SMOKE. She will cry a lulla-goodbye to her plan of a great escape, cuddle up in the nest of her comforter, and settle down.
When she wakes in the morning there will be no more “me.” She will accept this new role she’s been cast, THE MOTHER, and understand a new definition of “we.” Tomorrow she listens to her parents’ advice; she grows up and gets a life.
***
Marie’s husband Ben is sitting at the kitchen table in boxer briefs, black socks, a white t-shirt and the oversized cardigan she knit when they were first dating. Marie gives her knit creations names. She’s titled this grey cardigan “Cursed Boyfriend Sweater.” According to knitting legend, the completion of the sweater was to signal the end of their relationship. It was supposed to scare him off, all that love measured out in wool and stitches. She notices it’s beginning to unravel at the cuffs.
“Kelly called last night while you were sleeping. She wants you to call her.”
It is routine that by the time Ben makes it to bed, Marie is in the thick coma of REM sleep. Being pregnant is the perfect excuse to avoid him, his sexual advances, and his attempt to connect through conversation. She protects herself by beating him to sleep, a race to her side of the bed. “The baby is eating my brain and drinking my energy.” She says to him. A repeat of the line she’s given to her boss at the Tribune.
She has not been able to stay awake past seven o’clock, she can’t focus, and she is not making her deadlines at work. Marie picks up the phone to call Kelly, and then remembers she needs to call work. Her eager assistant, poised to pounce on Marie’s job, answers on the first ring. “I won’t make it to the office until noon today,” Marie says. “I have a doctor’s appointment.”
She puts her clean empty bowl back in the cupboard, and re-homes the milk to the fridge. Now that she has remembered to call the paper, she realizes she is not supposed to eat. Her belly grumbles its dissent. She sets her hands gently on her stomach, soothing its anger. She wants to say to it, ‘This isn’t my idea.’ She checks the information sheet the nurse has given her, there it is in black and white: Fast for at least eight hours. You will have an initial blood test to determine sugar levels…
***
The Blood Test. That was the title of Kelly’s first solo art exhibition hung in Larson Gallery at St. Luke’s College. A sophomore art student, she was causing a major commotion on campus with her work. Kelly called her pieces menstrual paintings. She had collected blood from her period each month for a year and mixed it with acrylic paint to plasticize the blood. With paint, blood, and ink she created a series of twelve maps. I am not a cartographer and my maps are not real, read her artist’s statement. Rather, they are the secret landscapes that are within me, seen from above.
Marie was working at the Heights Herald, the college’s weekly paper, as an associate editor. She dreamed of being the next Nellie Bly. Like Bly, she would travel around the world in 72 days, stand up for single mothers, rage against social injustices. Both women were young enough to think that they could make a global difference, be like Willy Wonka-shine a good deed in a weary world.
It was standard policy at the newspaper to interview featured Larson Gallery artists for the Arts and Entertainment section of the paper. When the queen cats at the Herald got wind of Kelly’s art project, they started hissing around the water cooler.
“Gross! I bet that whole place reeks.”
“I wonder if it’s really real blood, no one healthy can bleed that much in a month.”
“She’s fucking nasty. That is disgusting.”
“I suggest she goes to a therapist NOW to get her head checked out. “ A cackle of laughter and then some sound effects of feigned retching.
“Grow up,” Marie said. Consequently, her editor told her to get the story.
***
The first thing you notice about Kelly is her hair. Of course, it is “Flaming June” red. A dense forest of curls, a flashing neon sign blinking “I am here” over her head. Her figure is tiny; she’s delicate, with a little waist, and milk glass skin. She is like the beautiful result of an accidental breeding: one part Troll doll, mixed with two parts Madame Alexander Couture collectible.
After a brief hello my name is, Marie and Kelly belly up to the coffee bar and order their drinks. They sit down at the square Formica table with their cups. Marie has sworn off caffeine and is drinking herbal tea. Kelly is adding cream and sugar to a giant mug of black coffee. “Never drink anything bigger than your head,” she says and raises her cup to Marie in a toast.
“Cheers,” Marie says, and they share their first joke.
Kelly leans forward, puts down her mug, and places her head in her hands. It is a great red nest atop the bare branches of a Birch tree. She studies Marie’s face, draws the distance between her eyes, measures her long nose, and discovers the contradiction of a tiny mouth with full lips. Kelly inhales and exhales, there is a beat, and she asks, “Have you seen my maps?”
“I plan to,” Marie says. Her face has turned scarlet, and she busies herself by shuffling around the papers in her briefcase, searching for something lost. She does not want to look at Kelly, does not want to see a reflection of her own disappointment. Why didn’t she go see Kelly’s art before she scheduled this meeting?
Marie finds what she is digging for, a yellow legal pad and a brown rectangular box. She opens the box and pulls out a Cross ballpoint pen. It is a gift from her parents. “For signing autographs,” her father had teased. The pen is heavy; so far it has more substance than the words it has inked. Marie has christened it Pink, a pen name, another nod to her heroine: Nellie Bly. In 1864 Nellie’s mother baptized Nellie in a bright pink gown. After that, Nellie had all eyes on her, and the nickname “Pink.”
“Let’s go.” Kelly says.
“Where?” Marie asks.
“To the gallery,” she says. “Right now.”
“Okay…”Marie says, and she starts, putting Pink away.
“You can bring that fabulous pen,” says Kelly. “Sign your autograph in my guestbook.”
***
Kelly picks up the letter off the floor where it has landed en route from her mail slot. She tucks the envelope into the pocket of her robe. She boils water in the orange Le Creuset teakettle she has stalked for months. She sold one of her paintings last week, walked into the upscale boutique The Kitchen Sink, and bought the damn thing with cash. It is her current desire, the objection of her affection, the apple of her eye. So far, so good. Unlike many of her previous romantic pursuits, now that she has her, can claim her, has named her “Mine,” the kettle still gets hot.
She measures out the coffee grounds and puts them into a French press pot. When the kettle whistles, she turns off the flame, and pours hot water over the grounds. She sets the timer on her oven for four minutes; it is the time the coffee needs to brew. After what seems like an eternity, the letter burning a hole in her pocket, the alarm goes off. She measures out a tablespoon of sugar, eyeballs a splash of cream, and fills her cup with the strong black serum.
She walks slowly because she has filled her mug too full. She sits down and opens the envelope, savoring the ink.
Dearest K,
When I woke up this morning Ben told me you called. I’m sorry I didn’t call you back. I just don’t have the guts. I don’t want to hear you tell me “it’s okay Marie,” because it is not.
So, I’m back to reaching you with good old pen and ink. Remember my pen “Pink?” I think of all the bleeding she has done for me over the years, all of her donations to my “causes,” and yet she’s still got more she is willing to give. Pink’s a much better sharer than I am.
Speaking of bleeding, I thought you would think this story is funny. Yesterday, I had a routine blood test and I was a total mess. I’m sitting in the clinic’s lab, they’ve got a rubber band around my arm so they can easily find a vein, and the nurse has inserted the needle. Meanwhile, I am trying hard to escape. I’m searching for an out of body experience; in my mind I’ll go someplace else. Where in the world is Carmen Santiago? It does not work. I’m stuck in reality. I am salivating now because my mouth is preparing for vomit. I start seeing those dreaded black curtains closing in front of my eyes. I put my head down between my legs, trying to get some blood to go to my brain. It’s a trick my mom has taught me to keep myself from passing out. Unfortunately, I crash to the floor, spilling the vile the nurse has collected. When I wake up blood is everywhere. Then the nurse congratulates me.
Kelly, I’m pregnant.
***
“Blood is everywhere,” Kelly says leading Marie through the gallery. They are in a room that looks like Hollywood imagines Heaven to be. Everything in it is white. Her art, in this space, screams red. The paintings are spilled Cabernet Sauvignon wine on a bride’s wedding gown, even after they are cleaned, a nasty stain will remain.
Kelly continues, “We as a society are obsessed, bombarded by images of blood everyday. The butcher’s bloodied apron, the shooting victim covered in blood, the hockey player with a bloody nose, fake blood swirling down the drain in a horror movie, vampires, stigmata, the blood of Jesus Christ.” As Kelly talks Marie tries to keep up, writing furiously in her yellow legal pad. “Get this. I just read an account of the death John Dillinger, Public Enemy Number One. After the police shot him, coroners had to fend off droves of people who swarmed his dead body. Folks dipped whatever they had, handkerchiefs, newspapers, even their sleeves into the pools of his blood, keeping his bloodstains as mementos.”
Marie notices Kelly’s paintings look old. They are aerial treasure maps from long ago, when pirates traveled from booty to booty in hot air balloons.
Kelly is speaking louder now, her anger has energized her voice, “But we women are supposed to hide away and keep our periods quiet, secret. Menstrual bleeding is not caused by violence or accidental injury. Blood is life, it is a reflection of who we are from the inside out. Why should we not shout that from the tops of mountains?”
They have stopped walking and are standing in front of “The Tropic of Artemis.” It is an aerial map like the others, but there is a tree growing up from its center, its roots are exposed, dangling, suspended over a sea.
“What is that?” Marie asks.
“That is the Tree of Life,” Kelly says. Marie takes a step forward toward the painting. She stares a full two minutes before she sees it. Hidden among the root systems, a tiny figure, a human fetus, is tethered to the umbilical trunk of the tree.
***
Marie is reading in bed and Baby Boy is a night owl. She watches her belly ripple as he swims the breaststroke across her pool. “The Amazing Placenta: The Tree of Life,” that’s the title of the article she’s reading.
The placenta organ, sometimes called the Tree of Life, grows from the time of conception to eventually take over the production of hormones needed to sustain the pregnancy. It supplies your growing baby with a means of obtaining nutrients for development as well as a method of waste disposal. It is the only major organ on Earth created when needed, and then released when its purpose has been fulfilled. One side of the placenta attaches to the inside wall of the mother’s womb. The other side, facing the baby, contains an image of a tree, with the umbilical cord representing the trunk, and the exposed blood vessels acting as branches.
Marie is remembering the day she met Kelly. It was years ago, when she was writing her first real article for the Herald. They spent two hours in the gallery talking about Kelly’s work, and then the women went back to Marie’s dorm room. They shared a joint on her bed. Kelly put her hand on Marie’s thigh. At first, Marie ignored the invitation, thought maybe she was imagining it, but when she looked down, there it was. Excited, she could feel the tiny hairs on her neck standing at attention. Marie had never felt this way, and was afraid. “I’ve never done this before,” she had said. They kissed hungrily for hours until their lips bled.
Marie didn’t talk to Kelly for weeks after their night together, not until she was safely dating Bill. She knew her parents would disown her if they found out she was a lesbian. Marie didn’t have the strength to deal with that.
Kelly has forgiven Marie. She says it is okay to be “just friends.” She calls Marie her “Baby Namer,” because Marie, good with words, gives Kelly’s art creations their titles. Kelly still shouts truths from the tops of mountains. While Marie, in a little room, tidies up her secrets, wraps them in neat toilet paper packages, and throws them away.
