Eggshells by Amy Rains – Includes references some readers may find distressing – see tags.

Sitting forward on the hard plastic cushions of what some might call a couch, you remember your sister once told you death is an ocean: waves crashing and receding again into the watery stuff from whence they came. You remember how you used to find that image comforting, the oneness of it all, and shake your head now at the thought of it. The sterile smell of the room around you isn’t quite sharp enough to cut through a wandering mind, so you press your hand against the looming incubator to your left and hum some tune from your childhood loud enough to drown out the CPAP machine—the one that whirrs and hisses in the unmistakable timbre of crashing waves.

 

If death really is an ocean, you think, then I pray for life rafts big enough for the both of us. 

The sudden shriek of the cardiopulmonary monitor pulls your eyes away from the sleeping infant in the incubator, but it doesn’t make you jump to your feet as it once did. It takes less than thirty seconds for a nurse in maroon scrubs and a pale blue facemask to glide to your side. She laughs at your calmness as she reaches inside the incubator’s small access port to tap your daughter’s chest. “Look at your mama being all cool,” she lilts through the clear plexiglass, “Seasoned pro right there. What a lucky girl you are.” You wince at the word “lucky” and wish that “doesn’t flinch in the face of respiratory distress” was a badge you were more happy to wear. The monitor resumes its normal rhythmic beeping once again, and you thank the nurse as she bounces out of the room. 

When you’re alone, you slap yourself across the face for being so sensitive. You know that NICU experiences are relative and understand that your baby really is one of the lucky ones. The broken sobs that creeped in from the adjacent room a few nights ago will forever remind you of that fact. But still, you think. But still. You wonder how many needle pricks she’ll remember. How many of those eye exams with the lid-retracting torture device? Does she feel frightened every time her lungs forget to breathe? Does she notice when you’re there? When you’re gone? 

You look at the clock and realize, a world away from here, your son’s bedtime is in less than an hour. You glance over your shoulder to make sure the nurses are all off in other corners of the unit, and you sneak open the incubator’s access port to say goodbye. You place your index finger on your baby’s palm and let her tiny fingers coil all but half-way around it, like transplanted vines clinging to a bent guidepost. “I’ll be right back,” you whisper. You make your feet walk across the room, through the door, and past Sharon, the front desk attendant whose voice reminds you of Maya Angelou. You keep your eyes forward as you tell her to have a good evening. You don’t look back. You can’t. 

The elevator brings you to the ground floor, and you drag yourself through the cold parking garage, slipping the surgical mask off your face and letting the prickly wind rouse you. As you drive home in a white line trance, you wonder for the hundredth time if your baby can distinguish your eyes and forehead from those of her nurses.

Once your Grizzly of an SUV finishes its slow crawl up your driveway, you think–just for a moment–about all the other places you’d rather be. A library. A hotel in Tennessee. A dentist’s chair. You look at the sun collapsing behind the tree line and wonder if guilt has a curfew. You shift into park, gather your wallet, keys, and bag. You make a production coming through the front door. “Mama’s home!” you yell across the floor littered with toy trucks and crumbled goldfish crackers. “Where’s my favorite boy?”

You hear your son’s bare feet slapping against the hardwood floors before you see him. He runs straight into your legs and cackles a hearty hello. You don’t wince as the impact makes the incision in your belly sting. Instead, you tell him about the brownie mix in the pantry and smile as his eyes widen. “Let’s make them tonight so they’ll be ready in the morning,” you say. “How would you like brownies for breakfast?” 

You let your son pour the clumpy, dry mixture into a bowl and help him measure out the oil, steadying his wobbly hands. Next, you tap an egg on the cool countertop, knowing all too well the feeling of fragmented shells; you try to do it quickly. You pull the ends apart with as much care as you can muster and let the white slide gently out, splashing into the clear mixing bowl below, taking a punctured yolk with it. The glossy yellow orb deflates soundlessly into the sea of glair.

You swallow a guttural howl and crack another egg, willing this one to stay whole.

Amy Rains

Image by Steve Buissinne from Pixabay – broken shell and egg on a dark background