Sandra Hunter’s stories have won the 2018 Lorian Hemingway Short Story Competition, 2017 Leapfrog Press Fiction Award, 2016 Gold Line Press Chapbook Prize, and three Pushcart nominations. She is a 2018 Hawthornden Fellow and the 2017 Charlotte Sheedy Fellow at the MacDowell Colony. Books: story collection Trip Wires, chapbook Small Change, Losing Touch, a novel. She is a fiction editor with Nimrod International Journal and is a writing coach.
Website: https://www.sandra-hunter.com/
Excerpt from THE BREAKING SKIN OF PHOTOGRAPHS
My Baby
1946 India
C brings blush pink roses. The baby will be a girl. Alice doesn’t know where that certainty comes from. She wants the roses next to her. She brings them from the bedroom into the kitchen, from the kitchen to the living room. She presses one baby finger-pink bud in her bible. This child is God’s gift, a blessing.
Despite the nausea, she does not miss a single church service. The church members are kind.
—God will give you a healthy baby. Baby boy.
—You don’t know it’s a boy. Ignore her, Alice.
—Boys are God’s blessing.
—Ah? And girls are God’s curse?
—I remember when I had my Nahum. Forty hours in labor.
—Should have named him Jonah, then. Out of the belly of the whale.
—How dare you.
—Alice, take mangoes. And pepper water.
—Here is a little lime pickle.
—I made kithul pudding.
C laughs at her struggling into the apartment with the bags of gifts. —You should take a rucksack.
He likes to press his ear against her stomach. One evening, the baby kicks against his head. —Not even born and already giving me trouble.
It is a time of calm, pleasures opening like new bread: daisy patterned material for curtains, a crib, a yellow baby’s blanket. Not blue, not pink.
The examination shows the baby’s heartbeat is normal. The problem is with Alice whose pelvis is too small for a natural birth. It will have to be a Caesarean. They’ll open the abdomen from the pubic bone to the navel. She is afraid: the anesthesia, the cutting. Will she wake during the surgery? Will they hurt the baby? C tries to soothe her, —These are skilled doctors. They know what they’re doing.
But do they? There are stories. Women who die during the operation, who can no longer have children after the operation. Women who have terrible nightmares of babies that cannot be comforted. She is too embarrassed to tell C. He would laugh. She believes God will take care of her. Why can’t she believe it completely?
C is by her bed when she wakes. —We have a beautiful baby girl.
They immediately decide on the name Lili, after his sister. He gives Alice tiny sips of water. Jello, when she can manage it.
—Alice, the baby needs some extra care. The baby has a hole in her spine. They are going to wait a while until they feel it’s safe to operate. We can visit her every day.
The breath rushes out of her. It is her fault. Something she ate, something she did. C reassures her. No one knows why these things happen. And the doctors are confident they can operate successfully.
Alice doesn’t believe it. How can a baby survive a spinal operation? She weeps in the hospital, on the way home, in their apartment. There is nothing she can do for this baby. The new curtains and crib and songs and soft blankets she has had ready for months are useless. C tells her not to cry because it will put too much strain on the stitches.
Empty, she sits in the apartment, the brown petals fallen around the dead roses, waiting for the time when she and C can visit baby Lilian in the special unit. They cannot hold her. They can only touch the plastic bubble that is Maud’s world. Do their finger touches leave an impression? Does Lili feel them through the plastic? Alice brings the small golden brown teddy bear and holds it up. Can Lili see it? Can she see her mother?
Alice is sick to see the tubes coming in and out of her baby, the mass of bandaging encasing the back and chest. She sings songs that her daughter can’t hear. Is the baby in pain? Is she suffering? Alice would gladly open her mouth and swallow all of it.
It takes a lot of prayer and courage to return to work. She is afraid to admit that Lilian is ill. Her colleagues will look at her accusingly—what did you do? Did you drink alcohol? Did you smoke cigarettes? She is strictly teetotal and has never smoked, but not everyone knows her. Some will suggest that eating beef causes problems. Others will say it’s pumpkin or okra or tomatoes or ginger.
But no one asks after the baby. She moves slowly because of the stitches, but her typing and shorthand speeds are unaffected. She works at the office, cooks food, sleeps an hour at a time, wakes and feels the heart-pain beating at the back of her ribs. Tries to stay quiet so she doesn’t disturb C. Sometimes, she goes to the kitchen and weeps with the kitchen towel over her face. C comes in, makes her a cup of tea. Sits with her until she can return to bed for another brief interval.
Time peels off miserly minutes, then rushes away leaving scorch marks. The weakness and dizziness come almost every day. C feeds her dhal and rice, although sometimes she cannot eat at all. When they visit Lili they tell each other lies: look how she is waving her hands, look at how she stretches the left leg. She opened her eyes at me. She smiled!
Week nine comes, and the operation. Eight hours or three hours or no time at all. They sit and stand and walk around the waiting room. C brings tea and rolls. Alice drinks the tea.
Finally, the doctor comes, serious, hands clasped in front of him. I’m sorry. We tried everything.
Alice doesn’t cry. C asks to see Lili. They let Alice hold her, swaddled as if she were a newborn. —Hello, my darling. So beautiful.
C strokes the baby’s cheek. —Soft.
—Like a flower petal.
He touches the top of the baby’s head. Alice knows C wants to hold her, too, but she can’t let go until the nurse takes her away. —We thought you might like it done as soon as possible.
The nurse walks away with Alice’s baby. My baby has gone.
She turns to C, —What has to be done as soon as possible?
The memory of the small weight in her arms. The closed perfect eyelids.
—They want to—carry out the funeral.
How does the word “funeral” belong in the same sentence as “baby”?
She follows the hospital orderly. These are not her feet walking. These are not her eyes seeing the harsh white corridors. Somehow, she is not in her body when they finally enter a room with blue-white lights and a high ceiling. On a metal table is a small casket. Alice, suspended outside the shell of her body watches herself breathing through her mouth, backing away.
C says, —It’s better we do this now.
—It’s too soon. We haven’t even held her properly yet.
—I know, Alice. But she will always be ours.
His arm around her all that’s holding her up.
The Shell of Alice follows the two nurses and C who carries the two foot white casket along corridors and corridors.
They push open the door into a small chapel. Alice cannot listen to what the chaplain says, cannot pray. God is not here. Jesus may love all the little children but not this one with spina bifida.
The chaplain stops talking and it is over, whatever it is. She moves to the front, bends, and kisses the casket, thanks the nurses, and walks out, unaware if C is behind her. —Alice—Alice, wait.
For what? There is nothing left to wait for.
C says they will see baby Lili in heaven. Alice knows she should believe it. But still, stubbornly, the longing crackles along her arm bones for the weight of the small body. The space beneath her chin is empty of the scented baby head. She is hungry to look into the baby’s eyes. Even if it was for a little while, for two weeks, four weeks. A few months. Just until the baby could sit up, have her first taste of semolina. Say Mama.
What will she write in the letter home? If she could see Mummy she wouldn’t have to say anything. Mummy would comfort Alice, make tea, bring jaggery and cream… And it’s like a giant hand has slapped the back of her head: her mother suffered this loss five times. Three infants, a toddler, and one who made it to six before diphtheria struck. How had Mummy carried on, baby after baby?
C says the best thing is not to think about it. They should focus on their life together. In time they’ll try again. Like throwing a ball at the fairground coconut. Oh, you almost got it, try again. Is this what her father said to Mummy—Don’t worry, we’ll have another one?
Mummy has never spoken about those who left like they came to the wrong house, breathed the wrong air. Without her mother and sister there is nowhere for Alice to spill the raging grief. C counsels calm, restraint, —We don’t want to disturb the neighbors.
—I don’t care about the neighbors.
C, usually patient and kind, turns away. Leaves her in the kitchen, handfuls of her cotton dress fisted against her thighs, face pummeled with tears. He sleeps on the sofa bcause her crying is keeping him awake. She cries until her pillow is soaked. Turns it over and soaks the other side. He makes breakfast that she doesn’t eat. He presents freesias. The smell catches in her throat and she heaves over the sink. C sighs. She waits until he’s gone to work and throws them out.
When the stitches are removed she will lose the last connection. Her body refuses the loss. She listens to her scarred belly, waiting for Lili to press a foot, a hand.
C reports what the doctor said: If she had lived she would have been in a wheelchair her whole life.
C takes her to see a specialist and is startled to find that Dr. Gopal is a woman. Is she a real doctor? Alice watches C read the certificates on the wall. —I see you graduated from Madras Medical College. Very good school. One of the oldest.
Dr. Gopal tells C to leave her office, —I’d like to talk to your wife.
—You can talk to us together.
—I understand your concern. But would you wait outside for a few minutes?
And C is shooed out as though he is a troublesome dog. He strives to seem casual, —I’ll leave you for now.
Alice pulls her smile inside her lips. C nods at Alice and leaves.
Dr. Gopal asks Alice to describe how she has been feeling. Tremors? Weakness? Nausea? She is hesitant, but the doctor is encouraging. The words are slow, then as though her throat cracks open, Alice tells all of it: the sleeplessness, the weeping, the guilt. The small coffin. There are no interruptions, no corrections, no impatient sighs.
The doctor hands her a tissue, —Crying is exhausting, no? What you need is complete rest.
Doctor Gopal writes a note to Alice’s office supervisor advising a week’s sick leave. —My secretary will send this today.
She gives Alice a small, white carton. --Now. Take walks during the day. Nothing too strenuous but you must get some air. No heavy housework. You can cook, but nothing elaborate. And these will help you sleep. Take one before you go to bed.
The doctor shakes Alice’s hand and holds it for a moment, —It is a terrible thing to lose a child.
And smiles, —Rest, Alice. You will get better.
In the street, everything is too-loud and too-much and Alice catches C’s arm. He slows his pace. —So, what did the good doctor have to say?
Alice realizes that if she tells him how the doctor listened without interruption, C will snort and say women are too emotional to be doctors. She hands him the small box.
He doesn’t try to pronounce the long medical word. Shakes the box, —I’m not sure you should be taking these. Did she discuss any side effects?
The bus comes and they find a seat near the front. —Thank you for taking me, C. I would never have thought of finding a specialist.
C clears his throat, —Well, I’m glad you were able to see someone.
He passes the box back and, with relief, she slips it into her bag. She nudges her shoulder behind his so they can sit a bit closer.
He settles against her, —We should get off one stop early so we can have a cup of tea at Kwality. Would you like that?
—Lovely idea, C.
They talk about the terrible Pune traffic. It wasn’t like this when they were going to Spicer. They might be an old couple tutting about the world.
What has changed: Alice now believes in the unnatural order of things. This business of going on. She cannot accept that anything will be ordinary for her again. Sometimes a pattern of soap bubbles, of wrinkles in a shirt, the way an eggplant lies curved on the counter. And Alice can see that small face, the round cheek. And has to pause, look down, move the bubbles, the shirt, the eggplant, change the pattern. She glides through her days staying busy until the patterns tug at her, need rearranging.
C brings home the cardboard box of ashes. She watches him place it on the mantlepiece and waits until she is alone. Carefully unseals the lid, removes two teaspoons of fine grey powder, wraps it in layers of tissue and reseals the box. Later that week, she stops at the market and finds a tiny silver-gilt box lined with red satin. The lid fits snugly and, importantly, it has a lock. She tests and re-tests the lock until the stall owner threatens to increase the price. At home, she carefully transfers the tissue contents. We will go to the Arabian Sea. And you will say, Mama, you have brought me home.
She meets C after work, and they take the bus to the mausoleum on the outskirts of Pune, the cardboard box wrapped in a plastic bag. She watches him place the box in the small opening and shut the door, smoothing his hand over the glass. Lili is not in that place. It is as though Alice has released her baby from anything to do with Pune or hospitals or offices or noisy streets or the smell of chicken tikka or the taste of pistachio ice-cream and coconut.
What does Lili see, up there in the bald, blue sky? Perhaps she is already with the heavenly host, or in God’s arms. But no, Lili wouldn’t be one to lie around quietly. Inside the womb, she was always moving, sticking a little foot or hand out. She’d be flying about with the cherubs and getting into mischief. Alice smiles at the idea. Is Lilian looking down on her? She looks up, I’m here, my darling. And stops.
Surely that’s blasphemy. Seventh-Day Adventists believe that after you die you sleep in the ground until Jesus comes. And then Jesus raises everyone up and they all go to heaven. Except for the ones who don’t, of course. Will she be among them, for her blasphemy? Surely God isn’t so cruel. She glances up again, Let’s keep this our secret. Maybe God didn’t hear. He’ll be busy with all the rioting over Independence. It’s just until she can take Lili to the sea. The more she thinks of her baby up there, looking down at her, the better she feels. A small, sweet smiling face. It isn’t something she can tell C about. He’d say she was being foolish: She’s gone, Alice, as though she never heard the doctor’s words, never held the still-warm body, had not stood in the chapel. It’s the first real secret she has kept from C. She feels a warmth spreading over her shoulders as if someone has placed a shawl around her. Her daughter is there, whenever she looks at the sky. Tonight we’ll look for the best star. Not the brightest. Just a small one that we can find every night.
