Amniotic Fluid

by Luanne Castle

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I look down at my lap and find it gone, replaced by a big bump. Eight months and one more to go. Building a nursery, one small purchase at a time. Circus bears in blue, green, and yellow.

Where am I? Must be sitting on the concrete bench down the street from Monroe’s. Maybe on break, although I don’t remember coming to work this morning. I feel a drop of sweat slowly rolling down between my breasts. It veers off to roll down the side of my bump.

Somewhere, a siren seems just out of reach.

How did I get on this bench? What time is it? Cobwebs have draped my brain. I try to emerge from this fog but can only focus on my body. I stare down at the little golf balls of flesh protruding from my ankles. I should walk to get the circulation going.

When am I due back at work? I hoist myself off the bench with one hand, cupping my belly with the other.

Foot traffic around me seems accelerated, manic. The voices of the people feel prickly, fingernails that jab. Pain swells behind my sinuses and forehead. A man jostles me as he tries to move around me in his haste.

Shut up, I say aloud to the siren. It drones on and on.

How I long to have already given birth, to be home, rocking my baby in Grandma’s creaky oak chair. My baby’s face is still blank. I’m carrying a living doll with no face. I pull my sticky dress from my back. It’s so hot for May. Due date: June 12. Four and a half more weeks.

As I begin to walk, my feet… so heavy. Nerve pricks assault my arms with little warning jabs. Green, blue, yellow, how I love the nursery. My feet have decided to take me back to work. I need to sit down in the cool back room and try to pull myself together. Maybe I have heat exhaustion.

My shoes crunch, then catch on something, and I stumble. A woman catches my arm and rights me. She looks familiar. Anna, Anna! You have blood on your forehead. Who? I ask, but then realize she owns the little jewellery shop next door to Monroe’s. My eyes are drawn to my feet. I stand in the middle of broken glass.

Shards whirl around me as I cower and cover my belly. Anna, it’s OK! It’s over! I can’t remember her name, but she showed me a tiny mama necklace last week. For June, I can get a pearl or moonstone. I’ve always loved pearls. That would make a beautiful middle name. Pearl.

Abruptly, the siren stops. The air empties out. The funnel cloud has moved on with its own noise. The armoury quieted.

Two men carry a woman who is bleeding from her arm and leg. The blood. I remember the blood inside the store, on the new girl who was too close to the window when it struck. And before the red of the blood, the sky had turned sour, chartreuse. What a nasty colour. It would clash with the nursery.

I hear people exclaiming and wailing, but from a distance so far away, I might be encased in amniotic fluid, dreaming of bears with yellow shorts and blue suspenders.