blood

they were poor, but not in the living-on-the-street-in-the-car poor. they were living from day to day scraping pennies together from minimum wage jobs in a maximum wage town. they were young. scared. married three years with two children to show for it. people would look down their noses at two babies who were two years apart, but because the first was a premie they looked even closer in age. popping them right out, aren't you? fucking like bunnies, her father said. remember, the pill isn't 100 percent effective. no lie.

when they only had one baby, they'd moved out of town because a man decided she was stalking material. they moved into the country into an old farm house with no appliances and oil heat. the oil company needed money up front to fill the barrel. it was winter. the back porch became the refrigerator. the electric skillet her mother gave her for christmas became the main form of cooking. his family gave them a hotplate. there was an old ringer-type washing machine off the kitchen and a line to hang the wash. the heat was kept low and they lived in the front room next to the wood stove. she'd go out into the cornfields every morning and pick up corncobs to burn.

they moved back into town when spring came and they could no longer get by without a refrigerator and he was looking into a new job and the second baby was coming. they got by.

the babies were growing. babies food came first. sometimes his parents would give him a ten dollar bill. it helped. her parents thought that would spoil her, that she had to do it on her own. lots of people die on their own, right dad?

her period was late. oh, god, we can't do this again. we don't have enough money to keep the two children we have fed and clothed like they should be. they can't live on love alone. we agonize. we weep. we know it isn't a good thing. we know we are going to feel damned for life. we just see no other way. adoption? no. she knows if she sees the child, and who can bear a child for nine months and not see it, she will never let it go. better it go to god now. she fears she wouldn't be able to eat properly and keep herself healthy enough to go to full term. she knows how terrifying it was to have a child born early and not to know if she would make it or not - and if she did, would she be okay.

they don't do it in this town. they must go across the state. three hours to think about what they are doing. the money they are spending that they can't afford, but can't afford not to spend. there is mandatory counseling. yes, she lies. yes, i'm fine with this. yes, i can live with it. yes, i want this. yes. yes. he lies too. yes.

they take her and she feels a sense of deja-vu. like birthing her babies. she's foggy. she hears voices, but doesn't follow the conversation. she hears the awful suctioning sound and imagines the tearing of little limbs and the soundless screaming of a perfect tiny mouth. the blood. the blood. her vision is red. she isn't supposed to hear them. it's a boy.

she's gone on to have beautiful children under happier circumstances and with the financial ability to buy food and diapers and toys and shower all of her children with the things and the love she felt she didn't give them in the beginning. when people ask her how many children she has, she says four... five... a whisper in her head. is there a heaven? she hopes so. someday she hopes to meet her son and be able to tell him i'm sorry.