Page 33 of You Weren't Meant to Be Human
When Hannah finally starts pushing in earnest—when her body’s wrenched itself open enough to allow it—she’s stumbled her way out of a hot shower, towel wrapped desperately around her shoulders in an attempt to preserve what’s left of her modesty. Her wet braid smears down the center of her back.
“I can feel it,” she whimpers, reaching between her legs to plug it up and make it stop.
Jess fetches warm water and more washcloths. Tammy reminds her to breathe. Hannah stares at the bed, then asks if she should get up there and lie down on her back, because that’s what they do on TV. Is that the right thing to do?
It’s a demeaning position, Crane thinks. And counterintuitive. Going against gravity.
Tammy says, “This ain’t no hospital. You can push this out standing, if it’s easier.”
Hannah does decide on standing. Crane can’t blame her; there’s a sort of defiance to insisting on staying upright though the pain. But the windowsills are too narrow to brace herself on, the nightstand too low, the bed too soft to offer any real support.
Alright. Crane gets Hannah’s attention and gestures her to him. He’ll hold her up. Come on, come here.
She studies him. The gears in her head turn for a moment, then whatever she’s weighing must come out on the side of yes because she steps closer, lets Crane gather her up, braces herself against his chest. She fits neatly under his chin. She’s burning hot. He’s got her. It’s okay. The next wave of contractions seizes her muscles and her moan rattles his teeth.
“Push,” Tammy says.
There are so many ways this could go wrong. Sophie was obsessed with them all. Women used to write wills before childbirth. Tearing, hemorrhage, infection; try not to picture this child bleeding out onto the tarp. Try not to think about the stained towels in Tammy’s arms.
Hannah wails into his shirt, and he cradles the back of her head like a newborn.
“Almost there,” Jess whispers as Tammy reaches down to check her progress. “It’s almost over.”
If there’s one silver lining for Hannah, it’s that whatever’s in there will be smaller. He’s unsure if that means it’ll hurt any less, but logically, that follows. He doesn’t know enough to make a decent guess.
But he can’t help imagining himself in her position. Him, kneeling on the floor or braced against someone’s chest.Him, breathing through contractions.Him, feeling the fetus bearing down between his legs. After all he’s done to be a man, something as tiny and routineas a sperm meeting an egg is going to undo it all and leave him pushing something out of his cunt on the floor.
“One more time,” Tammy says. “Just push one more time.”
“I can’t,” Hannah pleads.
“Yes, you can.”
“We’re here,” Jess says.
It’s born with a splatter of fluid and flurry of movement. Crane doesn’t have the line of sight, but he canfeelit in the way Hannah’s body nearly gives out from under her. In the birth video he watched in sophomore year health class, a baby unceremoniously falls out once it hits a certain point.
“Here,” Jess says. “Scissors.”
It’s quiet now. No crying. Just the crinkling of the plastic sheet, Hannah’s crying, the rattle of the AC in the living room.
Hannah goes to move, but Crane pins her tight. Don’t look.
Silence.
Stillness.
Tammy reaches up to touch Hannah’s leg. “Do you want to see it?”
In Crane’s arms, Hannah thinks. She sniffles. She wipes her eyes, buries herself deeper into Crane’s chest like she can disappear there.
She says, “No.”
“Hmm.” A plastic bag rustles. Over Hannah’s shoulder, he catches a glimpse of Tammy tying a bundle tight with two sharp movements. The same way an old farm woman would tie up kittens meant to be drowned in the river. “Jess, Crane, get this out of my house.”
Fourteen
The bag in Crane’s hand weighs as much as a ten-dollar grocery run. A package of good cookies, or a discounted tray of nearly expired chicken thighs. On the back porch, he stands as still as he can to feel if the thing inside is moving. The plastic flutters when he breathes, so he stops until his lungs burn.
