My Wild Axolotl

YOU'RE STARTING TO SHOW.  Soft curves.  Hand on your belly.  A curious tee shirt that says: Autumn Mom, even though you’re not due until January.  I imagine it means something ironic, something you’ll keep to yourself.  And I already see myself buying a proper shirt: Winter Mom, not Autumn.   Because I like order.  Even when things are messy.  Even as I watch you stand at the edge of a rocky cliff, your colorless hair wild and slapping against your cheeks.  When it was me like this, I piled up my thoughts and carefully placed them in boxes. 

But you want this.  All your senses.  Like sweet, red wine swirling in a glass, rolling on your tongue.  You’ve waited, tried other things.  For you, its undeniable.  And even though you’re small compared to the boundless mountains, the infinite sky – you’re big to me.  My daughter.  Big eyes.  Big thoughts.  Big sun, only for you.  Everything a woman might be. 

You start to speak, so I inch closer, resting my hand on your shoulder.

"Isn't it frightening?" you ask.

And I think you are talking about the summit, the rush of water far below.

"The idea," you say, "Of missing things."

"Missing things?"

"It's only on a whim we stopped here.  A wrong turn.  We might not have seen this – or known." 

"It's meant to be then."

You laugh, the fullness of it echoing around us.  "Nothing is meant to be.  We decide."

"Well, we decided then.  To come."

"Yes.  But what did we miss yesterday? - when we were driving too long?  Or when we slept?"

"We can't possibly see everything.  We can't be everywhere."

"It's frightening, then – to imagine what we've missed."

This is you.  It's always been you.  You are wordless for hours, and then come gushing out. 

I watch your face fall into contemplation.  Your eyes are drooped, your mouth pinned.  You appear sad, but I think you are happy.  Not because you've been lucky.  Not because you haven't known pain.  But because you've been loved.  By me.

You move forward, feet inches from the edge.

“Too close,” I say. 

You pretend to lose your balance.

“Please stop.”

“O.K,” you say. “Grandma.” 

It doesn’t seem to fit.  And I remember when you were standing on my porch in your nightgown.

A SINGLE BAG AT YOUR FEET, no expression.

“It’s just me,” you say.  “Did I wake you?”  And you move through the kitchen looking for wine.

“What happened?” I ask. 

You don’t answer right away.  You want me to know before I know.

“It’s nearly midnight,” I say.

“I’ve left him.”

I take a breath.  Think.  Too many words and you’ll turn back around. 

“I know what you’re thinking,” you say. “But it’s not about love.  It’s about laughter.”

And I understand.  An accountant.  A dreamer.  I suppose I knew it wouldn’t last.  But, oh – how you loved him.

“Can I stay?” you ask.

There’s no one else but me, and your room is unchanged.  But I want to push you out anyway, because if I don’t, I never will.  “As long as you’d like.”

“I’m still going to do it,” you say.

“Do what?”

“Have a baby.”

I don’t respond.  I don’t know what to make of you yet.  Tomorrow, you might feel different. 

“I mean – you did it, right?  Without him.  We were O.K. – weren’t we?”

“Well,” I say cautiously, “that was different.  Unplanned.”

“Well then I’ll just be more prepared.” 

Your voice is steady, but you are swollen in the face.  I imagine you’ve been crying for days. 

“I suppose that’s true.” 

I let the wine loosen you.  It happens quickly because you drink fast, and you walk around examining things, wondering how you’ll fit again.  You find a canvas, a half-finished painting. A woman and a pear.  You trace your fingers across it.  “What does it mean?”

“I don’t know,” I say.  Because I don’t find meaning in everything like you do.  I wonder if this makes me less of an artist. 

“Oh, come on. You know.”

Maybe I do know.  Maybe I saw a woman eating a pear.  Maybe she reminded me of you.  I don’t remember.  “Why don’t you finish it?” I ask.

You smile, sinking into the girl you used to be.  And I remember you sinking into the couch, the outline of your shape (not awkward anymore), every car-light a possibility.

YOU ARE WEARING MY UNWORN DRESS – too old for you.  Too me.  And even though I can't see your eyes, I know they are dark-wet, like a school of blue fish in an open sea.  And I know he's not coming. 

"How about a movie?" I ask. 

This surprises you, and I realize I’ve sealed your fate.  I try to change words – to pretend I mean something else.  But you know. 

“I’ll make you something,” I say.  “Something warm.”

You run your fingers against the window, a sad, dusty heart.

By the time the Ovaltine is ready, you are angry – and the shades are drawn.  I quietly place a cup beside you.  You don't notice but when you do, you will reach for it instinctively, and it will bring to you a rush of winter's breath on glass, pear cobbler cooling on a stove.  And then, you will attend to your wounds. 

You might go upstairs and clean your room – scrub the floors until your fingers crack.  You won't scream or yell – though this might be better for you.  And you won't fall into my arms like you used to.  

"I wonder," you say, "What my father is like."

It feels like a slap.  I'm not prepared for this, but I am willing to pretend like I am.  I sit beside you.  "Would you like me to find him?  To call him?"

You shake your head.  "Just tell me something about him.  Something you liked."

It's not hard.  I liked everything about him.  "He was clever.  Talkative."

"Talkative?"

"Yes.  He always had something to say.  He was interesting."

You close your eyes.  "But did he listen?”

I put my arm around you, and you move into me.  Your hair is tangled in spots where the hairspray is heavy, but I rest my chin there anyway.  "I don't remember."

"I think," you say, "that maybe I'm more like you."

I don't reply.  We are both creative.  We both like the idea of something out of nothing. But the way your eyes pull everything in like a strong ocean current; the way you touch people when you talk.  Him.

I remember when I first saw it.  Lonely winner.  On stage, fingers crossed behind your back...

SPELLING A WORD I KNOW YOU KNOW.  And before you win, I know you win, and I witness the moment your face soars right into the spotlight.  And you are not embarrassed I am dancing in the aisle, and before the curtain closes you do a little dance yourself.

I wait outside where the school buses gather. You burst through the doors, a collection of kids buzzing around you.  I watch how easily you bring them into your world – how simple it might be for you.  But that’s today.  Tomorrow is unknown.  Because nothing is simple with you.

You see me.  You want to run to me, but don’t - because they are watching.  When you reach me, you are overflowing.  "Ice cream?" you ask.

"Of course.”

You give an eager thumbs-up and we cross the street, autumn leaves crunching beneath us.  Every few moments your face breaks into a smile.  You are reliving your moment.

"Congratulations," I whisper.

"Thanks.  I was sure I’d get it wrong. My hands were so sweaty.”

"But you didn't get it wrong.  You were focused.  I knew you could do it.  What was that last word?  Tyrant?"

"Transient.  T-R-A-N-S-I-E-N-T."

"Ah.  Transient.  Good job."

"Good word."

There is a bark, apple scent in the air, a crisp breeze that slides into our coats.  You reach for my hand for the first time in a year, and I remember you clinging to my leg as the others watched.

I TELL YOU IT WILL ALL BE FINE, but I’m not fine.  A girl approaches.  She asks if you want to sit with her – but only because the teacher insists.  You shake your head and disappear behind me. The girl is relieved, returning to ones who are more like her – dolls and dresses – everything you're not.  I feel your breath on my wrist, warm and quick.  I whisper that we don't have to stay just as the teacher comes to take you.  You squeeze me, planting desperate kisses on my hand.  We back away from the crowd.

When we get into the car, you ask if we can paint together.  I already see you running into the kitchen - long braids, overalls - pulling out a stool to better reach the paint.  You'll gather your brushes, neatly lined on your desk.

By the time I set up the canvases on the porch, you’ve already examined the trees, the mountains, the buck who has seen you first.  Your eyes settle on him and the two of you have a staring contest. 

"I've snapped a picture in my mind,” you say, “in case he runs away."

And I think he will soon, but he doesn't.

You reach for a color: Harvest Gold.  You use your fingers instead of a brush, and I decide to use my fingers too.  You are playing - slapping paint onto a board, but there's a ferocity to it, and there are shapes forming.  What might they be?  I see, in your picture, the buck – and he’s moving.  I see rolling wheat fields and furious red skies.  Everything you’ll become.

"That’s good," I say.

"Thanks."

I point to a spot in front of you.  "You’re building texture.  See how it's not flat?  How your eyes stop?"

You shrug.  You don't want to understand.

"Tomorrow," I say, "You'll have to go to school."

Your mouth tightens.

"It will be fine," I say.  "After a few days, you'll be used to it."

"But will I like it?"

You don't know how to read, but you know how to read me.  You sense when I avoid, when words are missing.  "I think you'll like learning new things."

"Do all kids go to school?"

"The lucky ones," I say.

“Can’t I learn here?  With the animals?”

I think: Of course!  Look what you’ve learned so far!  But I say what I’m supposed to.  “People are always learning.  Everywhere.  But school teaches you things you can’t learn here.”  And I don’t really believe that.

You look away.  I think in a moment you’ll be fine – you’ll understand.  Because you have to.  But you don’t. 

You grab a handful of paintbrushes and throw them into the grass.  The buck jumps, then races into damp, rustling leaves, slices of sunlight flashing behind him.

I wait for you to realize what you’ve done.  When you do, it’s a long, slow breath.  "Now what?"

“Keep painting.”

“How?  He’s gone.”

“The picture you snapped in your mind.”

“I can’t remember.”

“You can.”

Your eyes become thin.

“Why did you throw it then?  You knew he'd be frightened.”

You stare at your smudged hands – the fear of tomorrow settling into weary acceptance. “I don’t know.” 

“Paint,” I say, “Anything.  You’ll feel better.”  Because it always makes me feel better.  But you’re not me.

You start again, and I secretly observe your elf-face, quick fingers.  The way your canvas has changed into angry, sharp blasts of colors.

I think: Maybe you’ll be better than me.  A better painter.  A better woman.  And I remember when you were crying in another room, the pictures not forming.

I PUT MY PAINTBRUSH DOWN AND GO TO YOU.  I'm so tired I can barely think, but I need to work.  I must work.  I decided I would do this.  Be me, with you.

I stand over your crib.  You are cute and ugly like a wild axolotl.  I pick you up and press you against my body.  You smell sweet, like chocolate dust, and your cries are lost in your throat.

"You're not helping," I say.  And for a moment, my voice seems to placate you. 

It doesn't last and you erupt, piercing into me, tiny hands grabbing and pulling at my hair.  I walk around the room and rock you until I ache.

"We’ll get used to this," I say, "We'll get used to it together."  But my own tears are spilling into my mouth, your neck.

When finally, you settle down, I fall back into the chair with you on my shoulder.  I attempt to paint, watching as my man turns into a mammoth. 

See what you’ve done?

Your breathing sounds bubbled, and I wonder if you have a cold.  The idea of this – of you, sick – jolts me into acute awareness.  I find myself holding you tighter, sweeping delicate kisses onto your head.  I'm thrown into a new role.  Protector.  Mom?  And I'm more than a little surprised because it seems like yesterday you were barely a thought.

A JOLT OF NAUSEAU that causes me to rush into the bathroom mid-sentence.  When I finally tell him, it’s over a glass of wine.  I drink it fast, then pour another.  He watches me, possibly thinking: Irresponsible.  Not a mom. 

He’s my age, but older.  He likes numbers.  He moves slowly through crowds, and he’s certain all the time.  I’m intrigued by this because I’m never certain.

What do you think?

His voice gets low like a distant AM radio, crackling and concise.  He doesn't want this.  Not at all.  He loves me, but maybe not forever.

I have a choice.  This life or that one.  He doesn't say this.  Neither do I.  But there's an instant weight on my shoulders, a pressing in my chest.

I don't know you yet.  You’re a thick, dark tunnel leading to nothing.

He is interesting.  He leaves witty notes on my car.

So, I choose.

And you dive off the cliff like a hungry cape gannet, wings tucked behind you, the sun gone. You plunge into the water, smooth and sharp like a katana sword.  There is no splash.  There are no sounds.  Only a sunken spot where you used to be, and your baby smooth skin, itchy and dull on me.