Loosely inspired by the Grimm Brothers’ “The Little Donkey.”
CJ Ackerman-Garvin
“Are you sure that you don’t regret not being married to a real man?”
Knowing Kate’s father, he is at least partially joking, but that does not mean I want her to laugh along. It is an awkward, stumbling laugh, light and sweet like the sound I love, but this time, it has a cruel, knowing edge. She does not chastise him. She does not say anything more than a mild, humored “Father, please.” If she cares to ask, I am bubbling over with words I wish she would say, as effervescent as the sparkling grape juice in my glass. I take a sip before I can let anything spill out.
I know Ashley would’ve preferred to have champagne; she has frequently lamented to Kate that not being able to drink is the worst part of pregnancy. At the start of the party, Ashley acknowledged that sparkling grape juice is a sorry replacement, but apparently you can’t trust her around the real thing! Kate had laughed at that, though I did not, but I doubt she was paying any attention at all. Even now, as I watch her from my vantage point near the buffet table, her hands are on her stomach, and I wish I did not know that she is thinking about last night.
"I'm like a garden where nothing will grow." It was an oddly poetic line for Kate, not one meant to be spoken against the flickering hum of a motel room.
“I’m like a garden where nothing will grow.” It was an oddly poetic line for Kate, not one meant to be spoken against the flickering hum of a motel room. She was lying on top of the cheap mattress, hands pressed against her stomach, eyes staring up at the ceiling. The tears on her cheeks were glowing amber in the lamplight, and I wanted to brush them away but was afraid that they would burn me. So I stood by the bed and did not lie down next to her until she turned on her side and switched off the lamp. Her side of the bed was a distant shore, and even if I fought to reach across, my touch would not be what she wanted.
I admit that I have been watching the flutter of Kate’s hands all afternoon. I admit that I have brought her food and drinks and tried to hold her hand just to keep them occupied, but I cannot stop her eyes from wandering to follow her sister. Ashley is glowing in white, orbited by a cluster of well-wishers and teary-eyed relatives, watching as her husband Jacob ties a balloon to the chair beside her. She runs her fingers over the latex, perhaps to see if her touch can give her some premonition of the color hidden within. I must be frowning because Kate presses her hand against my back in a warning gesture. “It’s just harmless fun,” she whispers. “Don’t be an ass.”
I am amazed that Jacob is able to tie his own shoes; he has been fumbling with the ribbon for several minutes. When he finally forces it to lie in a weak, wilting bow, he steps back in grinning triumph, but that expression flickers when he catches my eye. When Ashley told Kate she was expecting and he saw Kate’s face fall, he asked, “Well, aren’t you two trying?” His seemingly innocuous question was followed by Ashley’s stifled laugh and Kate’s slight gasp. I did not say anything, but they all looked at me anyway, if only for a moment. Every time Jacob looks at me now, I can see him trying to assemble all of the pieces, but if he can’t tie a bow, I believe I may be safe.
"And you know, maybe if it doesn't work, he can do it." She hadn't consulted me before saying that, hadn't thought about what that would mean for me.
But yes, we had been trying. I had sat in on her initial consultation, letting her hide her face in my sleeve so she didn’t have to look at any needles. She had read every word on the form the doctor had handed her, letting her fingers trace the edge of each sentence in her gentle, thorough manner. “And you know, maybe if it doesn’t work, he can do it.” She hadn’t consulted me before saying that, hadn’t thought about what that would mean for me. She had apologized profusely when she saw my face, but I looked in the mirror that evening and imagined my body morphing, changing, twisting, a little creature swirling within, and felt sick.
Kate had been joyous when her morning sickness first arrived, hanging onto me with aching limbs and sour breath and rambling about names and decorations and who to tell. But despite everything, despite all her careful reading and her strict adherence to her vitamin regimen, it didn’t work. We had talked about that possibility in abstract and had decided that we’d try again as needed, but the doctor’s phone number is still on our fridge, untouched and undialed since.
And now Kate is watching with unabashed glee, seemingly not afraid of this needle, as Ashley prepares to pop the balloon.
For a second, all one can see is a flourish of white smoke before flickers of baby blue peek through. The yard is full of cheers, with Jacob’s being the loudest, but I am silent until Kate elbows me, and I finally clap a little. There is blue powder on Ashley’s lovely white gown, on hands and faces, on the grass. I step forward a little bit, letting the smoke seep into my skin, and imagine that I am the balloon that has been popped, that I have cast aside my skin, my body, into the fire, and all I am is a never-ending shade of blue.
I imagine that I am the balloon that has been popped, that I have cast aside my skin, my body, into the fire, and all I am is a never-ending shade of blue.
