Natal

 

 

She placed the begonia on the windowsill of the nursery. She wanted to see how long it would last if she didn’t fill the small tray on the bottom with water. She noticed that too much sun would make the petals of the delicate flowers nearly translucent. When she moved the plant to the small round table in the corner of her bedroom the leaves became greener. Tiny petals began to drop, so she gave it a drink of warm water so as not to shock the roots, as she heard could happen. Once she placed one her tongue, wanting to see what the pearly color tasted like.

 

 

 

Her sister-in-law visited often, and she might have heard her utter spells, incantations. She forbid smoking in the house, which limited the duration of the visits, something she was grateful for. Her sister-in-law would sit as long as she could, then bolt out the back door and light up.

 

 

 

She grew big. It was the longest she’d ever gone and thought, briefly of all those she’d fail to hold. She felt safe enough to talk about names for the baby. She liked Mackenzie. He liked Caesar. This is a baby, not a German shepherd, she said, laughing.

 

 

 

The petals on the begonia had turned a brilliant pink, which she took to be a good omen. Soon after they brought home a tiny girl, arms and legs like matchsticks.  Her sister-in-law was there to greet them, grabbing for the baby they had yet to carry over the threshold. Protectively, she pulled back, the swaddled bundle against her swollen breasts making her wince. She felt her husband’s hand at the small of her back, pushing her toward his sister, wanting her to offer the baby up like a sacrifice to his only sibling.

 

 

 

“She has my eyes,” the sister-in-law said, her breath reeking of coffee and cigarettes. She extended her arms in front of her, rotating her thick hands at the wrists, anxious to hold the child. He took the baby from his wife, gently, as if they were both made of glass and handed her to his sister who cooed loud and awkward at it. She scooped an errant lock of hair behind her ear and stood still, rooted in place. He looked from his wife to his sister, who shrugged. The baby mewled like a lamb.

 

 

 

She dug her hands into the pockets of her sweater and looked up at the sunless sky looking for another sign. The pale yellow roses her husband sent her in the hospital sat in the back seat of the car, the only flowers she’d received. They were the wrong color.

 

 

 

Another one lost. She wasn’t that old, she could try again. She had another or two in her yet, she could feel it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Michelle Reale's fiction has been published in a variety of venues including Dogzplot, Verbsap, elimae, JMWW, Blood Orange Review, Willows Wept, The Blue Print Review, Apt, Pequin, Monkey Bicycle, Yellow Mama, Diddledog Bewildering Stories, Underground Voices and others.