The Shower

There was no reason to see Terra shirtless so many times and at such length, but she insisted on taking off her bra—even when it wasn’t necessary, even when it inconvenienced the doctor—and so we sat, every two weeks, staring at her chapped nipples.

“They’re supposed to look like this,” Terra assured us, though she closed her eyes as she said it. She would remove the bra at the beginning of each appointment and hand it to me. Her disrobing was always jarring, no matter how many times it had happened before—like a pop-up toy leaping out of its box.

“But with nipples,” I told Zachary later. Zachary was not my boyfriend. I tried to describe breasts to him as often as possible, to indicate romantic interest. He knew exactly what Terra’s looked like from my stories. “A fat toy with fat nipples.”

Twice a month, I watched the doctor coat Terra’s stomach in gel. Her belly button extended like a stem. A dark seam ran from her chest to her underwear. On the monitor, the sleeping infant coiled around the umbilical cord. By June, he had all of his limbs—fastened under a layer of gauzy skin. The doctor said he was perfectly healthy, which was not news. Terra took pictures of the screen, her shirt gathered in a ring around her neck. The image of her son delighted her, though it never changed—a painting unveiled over and over. On the way to appointments, she would cradle her belly and envision the latest edition of her boy.

“I wonder what you’ve grown this week,” she would say to her lap.

“I’m sure you could find out online.”

I had learned a lot about infant development online. I wanted to know what was happening beneath Terra’s skin. Sometimes I shared my findings with her. For example, all babies began life as anuses. A polite term was blastopore. Online, blastopores looked like wrinkled brains with slits down the center.

“So you were carrying a second anus inside of you,” I explained to her. “For a few weeks or so. Don’t you find that particularly exciting?”

“We owe a lot to our mothers,” Terra said. “You couldn’t imagine what mothers endure.”

“I wonder also,” I said, “if there is some disorder that stops development after the blastopore phase. Then you could, in theory, give birth to an anus.”

“That’s a stupid thing to say.”

I wasn’t supposed to drop Terra at the curb or leave her at reception. I had to drive her to the door and wait with her inside and collect her clothes as she stripped. I had just received my learner’s permit and was only allowed to drive family—which Terra wasn’t, legally. She still hadn’t married my father. I explained to him once that if the cops pulled us over and asked for our IDs, we would have different last names.

“And also we look entirely different,” I told him. “So how is anyone supposed to believe us?”

“Why are the police pulling you over?” he asked.

My father worked during the day and couldn’t take Terra to the appointments. Terra knew how to drive, but the pregnancy had rendered her incompetent, so I shuttled her around from office to office. I had accompanied Terra so often I almost assumed I would have to witness the birth. I had nightmares of Terra and me in the delivery room, squeezing hands.

“The police are pulling me over because my taillight is out. Or maybe I’m speeding.”

“You’re not speeding,” said my father.

“I’m not speeding, but he pulls me over and I hand him my learner’s permit and it says I can only drive family.”

“And you’re driving Terra.”

“And we look different and have different last names.” “You’ll have to explain the situation.”

“No policeman will stop a pregnant woman,” Terra said. “And if he does, I’ll cry. You’ll have to cry too.”

I was supposed to be practicing kindness—toward Terra specifically. Perhaps, my father said, I had not given her a fair chance. Perhaps I had actually given her an unfair chance. I did not deny this. Terra had moved in a year earlier, before my mother could afford to move out.

We’d spent months in muffled agony, wandering through the house as if in parallel universes. Terra and my mother orbited around me—two versions of a person I didn’t want to be. My father had stopped speaking. Eventually, my mother left, and my frustration latched wholly onto Terra.

“I’m not saying your mother is influencing your behavior,” my father said.

“You’re not?”

My mother spoke to me so rarely that I was skeptical she could influence anything of mine. She lived across town with a woman whom she’d babysat years ago. I knew my mother hadn’t mentioned me because I’d called once, and the woman who answered hadn’t recognized my name.

“You just have to treat Terra kindly,” said my father. “When your brother arrives, he’ll pick up on these things.”

He spoke about the baby as if it weren’t already there between us, absorbing our scents or sounds or whatever cues fetuses soaked in. Her stomach complicated everything—seat belts, clothing, booths. Occasionally, I would feel it brush against my back like a medicine ball, taut and cold.

“Terra is particularly difficult to be kind to,” I said.

She was equally difficult to pity. I could sometimes find ways if I tried hard enough. Like for instance, she had a bald spot at the back of her head from a hormonal disorder.

“I’m being reasonable,” I told my father. “I’m being very sensitive to her feelings—”

“That’s  wise  of  you.”

“—because of the hormones.”

My father pressed his fingers into the sides of his neck. He’d yet to show signs of regret about the baby, but I knew they existed. He had never explicitly informed me of the pregnancy. Terra’s belly had remained dormant for months before suddenly swelling. I imagined someone inflating her with a pump, like liposuction in reverse. Her body had no edges. She was more pincushion than person, which would have been nice if she was my mother or a pet or even a stranger. But she was Terra, and the explosion of her only added to my disgust.

“We don’t have complete control over our personalities,” my father said.

“Yes, but we have a little.”

The only way Terra could think of celebrating her pregnancy was through liquor, and she didn’t care if she—or I—couldn’t partake. There was going to be a cocktail party and it was going to be co-ed. I imagined husbands in bonnets sipping from plastic bottles. Terra had already created a list of shower-themed cocktails—Baby Bellini, Mamarita, Prego Punch.

“And we’ll pour blue food coloring into everything,” Terra said.

“Obviously.”

She had waited too long to plan the shower. The baby was due in less than two weeks. She spent most of her time horizontal, and when she didn’t, it was a whole production. I had to hold both her wrists to pull her from the bed when my father wasn’t home. In the mornings, her hands were much warmer than mine. Her fingers were long and sticky, like she’d coated them in Vaseline. Like she’d reached inside herself, grasping for the baby in the night.

“If we wait any longer, she’ll give birth at the party,” I told my father. “And I don’t plan on helping.”

I refused to play an active role in the baby’s delivery. The internet had introduced me to the most grotesque of possibilities—fetuses contorted and lifeless, bruised like chicken breasts. In school, my health classes had avoided any discussion of procreation. I’d learned more about sex in biology. Our reproduction unit had centered around bonobo mating rituals because they were, unfortunately, closest to our own. The videos were magnified and guided by French subtitles. Les bonobos bêtes de sexe!

“One-third of the time, they will practice in the missionary position,” my teacher had explained. “But you’ll see bits of genital rubbing, sometimes even with juveniles or infants.”

“Like, babies?” I asked.

Bonobos solved problems through seduction. They leaped from mate to mate, expressionless, like they were testing gym equipment. Their penises sprung vertically, warm red candles. The videos weren’t considered porn because everyone was covered in fur. Zachary had taken such vigorous notes under the table that his paper had ripped. I could not imagine a bonobo baby shower. Probably, they had hundreds of babies scattered throughout the jungle, rubbing genitals. Terra’s shower would be moon themed. She wanted banners of hanging crescents and a portrait of her belly wrapped in ribbon. The baby’s room would function as the bar.

“I can’t be seen buying the alcohol,” Terra said. “For obvious reasons.”

“Neither can I,” I said.

My father was in charge of the liquor and the cooking. He planned to roast chicken and boil peppers into a hot sauce. I had tried to talk him out of the hot sauce because of a horror story I’d found online. A man had sliced habaneros and later, without washing his hands, touched his crotch. He’d had to sit with his penis in milk for a week. I kept the story to myself for various reasons, all of which involved the discussion of my father’s penis and also him touching it.

“More people will enjoy barbecue sauce,” I explained instead. “Also, spicy foods induce labor, which we really don’t want.”

“Wouldn’t that be adorable?” Terra said. She drummed on her belly with her nails. “The little guy might join his party.”

My mother pretended not to know about the baby. For months, she had watched Terra’s stomach grow and said nothing. Before she moved out, my father had carried her clothes to our basement. She slept on a pullout couch under brittle electric blankets. I often imagined her midnight electrocution: a water cup toppling over, the thick heated cords tightening around her neck. My nightly routine consisted of regular check-ins to reassure myself she was alive.

Recently, I’d begun calling her on the walk to school. She’d answered once, accidentally, then claimed she was stepping into the shower. I’d since been leaving her daily messages detailing Terra’s maternal evolution. I didn’t think I was being cruel.

“This morning, Terra walked from her bed to the bathroom but could not walk back,” I explained. “She ate canned corn and Doritos for breakfast. I miss you.”

My mother did not return these calls. When her roommate answered, I would hang up and shove the phone into the bottom of my backpack. I figured eventually I would visit the house. My father knew the address. Someday, I would walk by. I would sit on the lawn and watch her window and wait for her to mouth my name through the glass.

My father suggested I take Terra on some of the shower errands so we could bond over feminine things. Instead of saying this directly, he claimed we could probably find something in common while shopping.

“Like our breasts,” I told him.

“Okay,” he said.

The mall provided complimentary wheelchair rentals—electric ones that hummed as they rolled. The wheelchairs were low to the ground and included large baskets that I was not allowed to sit in. Terra possessed minimal control over the steering. She motored through the mall in winding arcs, and I followed a few feet behind. Whenever she saw something blue, we paused.

We stopped for lunch at the food court. I waited in two lines and carried two trays around the room until I found Terra’s wheelchair. She had spread the party favors—small blue scarves and candles—across the table.

“We need something for the men,” she said. She squinted, frowning, at the burger she’d wanted.

I took a large bite of lasagna. I always ordered lasagna, and I was always disappointed. It didn’t matter the restaurant. Lately, I’d been enjoying the thought of everything more than the actual things, like baking or jogging or talking about sex—though even the thought of that repulsed me now, the mix of Terra’s belly and those monkey penises. Maybe these were signs of maturity.

“Why don’t we get them hats?” I said.

Terra coughed loudly into her burger. Her health had suffered through the pregnancy and this concerned me. Statistically, babies born in summer were more susceptible to mania and/or future killing sprees because their mothers were prone to winter flus.

“If we get them hats, they’ll have to say something on them,” she said.

“You could put a picture of a baby on the front,” I said. “Or a diaper.”

“I don’t know anyone who would wear a hat like that.”

“You could embroider the baby’s name,” I said. “I don’t see the problem with a plain hat.”

“Do you think you’re being funny?” Terra asked. She lifted the top bun off her burger and squished it into a dense glob.

I decided not to say anything. Sometimes when I felt too many feelings, I closed my eyes and reminded myself: You are cold, you are a lizard person. This worked much better when I plunged my face under a faucet. Terra and I had been spending too much time together. I felt tricked, in that I kept finding myself in situations where we were forced to interact. I’d had a similar experience square dancing in gym class, with a particularly dedicated partner. Every time my arm was released, he wove his through again so that I swung around to find him over and over.

“I’ll just have your father order some key chains,” Terra said. “Can you call him, please, and tell him I’m tired? How about you pull up the car?”

We spent the weekend setting up for the shower. My father and I draped blue banners around the dining room as Terra directed us from the couch. She pointed, supine, at vague spots on the wall. We never hung anything in the right place.

“Not there, there,” she said. “Lower, so we can read it.”

“You’re lying down,” I said. “We need to be able to read it standing up.”

“Look where I’m pointing,” said Terra.

My father said nothing the entire time. He was probably the quietest person I’d ever met. I often wondered how many people had actually heard his voice. My mother had never let him order at restaurants because his mumbling made waiters uncomfortable. Maybe it was how he thought fathers were supposed to be. Terra nudged him with a socked foot.

“If we hang the banners too close together, it crowds the room,” she said. “We want to elongate the room.”

We outlined the schedule of activities. We discussed whether or not it was appropriate to open gifts during the party—it was. Terra was visibly anxious. She kept smoothing her tunic over her belly. I wondered if she had many friends. I realized I had no idea who was going to attend. I’d stuck a handwritten invite into Zachary’s planner and had promised a rousing celebration.

“It’s going to be a very masculine baby shower,” I’d assured him in biology.

“Do I need to bring a gift?”

“You could bring me something. That would be nice, if you gave me a gift in front of everyone. Also, there might be cocktails.”

“It’s a baby shower?” He started flipping through his notebook backward, a few pages at a time. “My mom will have to drive me. And she won’t, if she knows there’s alcohol.”

“Maybe then you should walk.”

“It’s almost two miles.”

“You know where I live?” I asked, beaming.

The party would begin at five. I told Zachary to arrive at 4:30 because it meant he would arrive at 5:30. Males had a limited awareness of time, especially when they were trying to show off. My mother had explained this to me. When she married my father, she’d set his watch a half hour behind so she would never have to wait for him.

“Which ultimately made no difference,” she told me later. She’d grown unusually chatty just before moving out, like she was draining herself of everything she’d ever need to tell me. “Because I still ended up waiting—for months—for a man who could barely speak loud enough to leave me. I’m not even sure he said it. I don’t remember. I was here, and then she was. So really there’s not much you can do.”

On Sunday, the doorbell rang at 4:30. My father and I were clearing off the dining-room table, where a collection of baby supplies had gathered—breast pumps and changing pads and bottle sterilizers. Motherhood required many contraptions. Terra had already begun practicing with the pump, clamping it to herself over her shirt during meals. She was going to be a serial breastfeeder. I carried the tools to the kitchen and shoved them under the sink.

Zachary was waiting in front of our house, holding roses. He wore a striped button-up that he’d buttoned up all the way. He looked less attractive in natural lighting.

“You’re early,” I said.

“It’s 4:30.” He shoved the roses at my chest. “My mom picked these out.”

I knew little about roses, except that these were yellow and already wilting.

“Keep them and give them to me when everyone gets here,” I said, pushing them back. “You’re going to have to help us set up.”

Zachary walked inside and slowly used his feet to slip off his shoes. He clutched the roses in both hands and breathed loudly into them.

“Who is that?” Terra shouted from the kitchen. “Is it Sharon?”

“I don’t know who that is,” I said.

“It’s Zachary,” said Zachary.

“Shush,” I said.

Terra wandered into the living room, an unlit candle in each hand. She placed them both on the stairs and grabbed the roses from Zachary’s hands.

“What a sweetheart,” she said. She stuck her arms out straight and leaned toward him in a robotic hug. “Who are you?”

“This is Zachary,” I said. “He brought me roses.”

“Grab us a vase, Abigail,” said Terra. “Why don’t you get him a glass of lemonade while you’re in the kitchen? These are just lovely.”

Terra plucked a rose from the bunch and stuck it behind her ear. Zachary’s hands were still propped in front of his chest in tight fists. I thought about ripping the flowers from their stems and shoving the thorns into Terra’s mouth. Instead, I turned around and reminded myself of every good thing I knew about her. Terra was from St. Louis. Terra enjoyed cherry soda. Terra had spent three years as a nurse practitioner—which was different from a nurse in ways she had trouble explaining. The longer I spent listing her traits, the less pleasant they became. Terra washed her feet in my bathtub. Terra licked her hands when they felt dry. Terra was having a baby.

In the kitchen, my father stood by the stove. His thumb was submerged in a bowl of barbecue sauce.

“Who’s here?” he asked.

“My guest,” I said. “He’s early.”

An assortment of unidentifiable liquors covered the counters. I wanted to pour some of each into a cup and serve it to Terra. My father licked the sauce from his thumb and blinked sporadically in my direction. He rubbed the spot at the back of his head where his hair was thickest. We watched each other without speaking.

I returned with lemonade and a thin vase. Terra had already ushered Zachary to the couch. He sat with his legs crossed. I wanted very badly for him to uncross them.

“I apologize for the plastic cup,” Terra said. “I really hoped we would have glass.”

“This is fine,” said Zachary.

I wondered if he was thinking about Terra’s breasts. He was glancing in their general direction, his mouth hovering in a hoop over his cup. I almost wished Terra would take her shirt off, so he could appreciate my descriptive accuracy.

“There should probably be music,” Terra said. She looked at Zachary.

“What sort of music do you prefer?”

“The speaker isn’t working,” said my father. He had returned from the kitchen carrying a platter of crackers. I assumed he’d started drinking because he was speaking quite loudly. Terra frowned at him and snatched a handful of crackers from the tray.

“Were you planning on telling me?” she asked. “We’ll have to fix it before anyone else gets here, or they’ll have no reason to stay.”

“I don’t need any music,” said Zachary.

“We’ll have music,” said Terra. “Right, honey?”

“If the speaker starts working,” said my father.

“It will start working when you fix it. In the meantime, I can get to know our guest.”

It took less than ten minutes for Zachary and Terra to reach the limit of their conversational capacity. I’d sat silently as they exchanged irrelevant biographical information. My father was kneeling by the television, poking aimlessly at the speaker with a screwdriver. Terra stared at the door while Zachary recited childhood anecdotes to the back of her head.

“Eventually, the doctors were able to find the body lice,” Zachary explained. “Because, you know, they were buried so deep in my neck. And the rest of the infection came from the infestation, so it wasn’t impetigo at all.”

“That’s too bad,” Terra said.

“No, I was incredibly lucky.”

“I think someone is here,” I said.

Lisa walked in without knocking. The door swung open and slammed into the wall. Terra had insisted on leaving it unlocked to accommodate guests.

“Though it will really accommodate thieves,” I’d told her, earlier. Lisa ran through the living room, shouting Terra’s name. She and Terra were friends from nursing school. They spent weekends together because Lisa was also no longer a nurse. Now she sold skin-care products from her dining room. She had just returned from a singles trip to Punta Cana organized by her tennis club.

“I brought tequila,” she announced. “From Punta Cana.”

“You are so tan,” said Terra. “Honey, look how tan Lisa is.”

I had forgotten my father was in the room. He stood up and waved at Lisa with his screwdriver.

“I’ve been ill,” Lisa said. “I had a waterborne illness the whole week. From microbes, apparently. Can you imagine? I lost thirty pounds.”

She had probably lost five pounds, and it suited her. I tried to mime this to Zachary, but he was gnawing on his cup.

“How did that happen?” asked Terra. “Gosh, I’m jealous.”

“I was kissed by a dolphin,” Lisa said. “It was sort of sweet. I almost forgive it.”

It was more likely feces contamination, but I kept this to myself. I was practicing being kind, so I said, “That’s interesting.”

“Have you been to Punta Cana?” Terra asked Zachary. She looked back at my father. “We haven’t.”

“I think I’ve been to Cancun,” Zachary said.

“That sounds exceptional,” said Terra.

“It’s full of microbes,” said Lisa. She stuffed a handful of carrots in her mouth and gnawed at them in a way she probably found seductive. I knew the only thing you could chew seductively was bubble gum, but I’d yet to figure out how. I’d been practicing with erasers.

“I’ll show you some pictures,” Lisa said. “I have them all on my phone. I have some from the hospital too.”

“Please do,” said Terra. “We want to see everything.”

“Are you finished with that?” I asked Zachary, pointing to the bite marks on his cup.

Within an hour, Lisa had presented and described over fifty photos. Terra and I had finished a platter of chicken. The doorbell hadn’t rung and the door hadn’t opened. No one had touched the barbecue sauce except Zachary, who dipped in crackers.

My father started to clear our plates. He hummed to himself as he strolled back and forth from the kitchen. Lisa’s presence had seemed to awaken a newfound appreciation for Terra in him—or at least diluted his apathy. He hadn’t stopped smiling. He beamed when Lisa’s voice grew shrill or her face looked especially unflattering. I watched him pour her a heaping cup of punch. Terra glared at the door.

“It’s so nice to have more intimate parties sometimes,” she said.

“Especially for something so meaningful.”

“It’s an honor,” said Lisa.

“Are we going to play any of the games?” Zachary asked me.

I shook my head and finished my cup of water. I wondered if I could drown myself from the inside. Most likely, this would take hours or days. The group fell silent again. Our thoughts floated above us, isolated. I wished that I could step out of mine and into someone else’s. Zachary had begun to pick at his collar, his fingers still coated in sauce.

“Abigail, how about you bring out the punch?” Terra said. Her voice had risen practically an entire octave, so she seemed to be squealing.

“Everyone could use some more punch.”

“I’ll take some punch,” my father said.

“Come help me,” I told Zachary.

I grabbed his wrist and pulled him into the kitchen. The party favors filled the table in neat rows, delicate blue paper poking out of them. For a second, I felt very bad. I reached into a bag and grabbed a scarf to wrap around Zachary’s collar.

“What would you like?” I asked. With the scarf, he looked somewhat assertive. I figured I could sculpt him slowly into my ideal vision without him realizing. “You should untuck your shirt,” I added.

Zachary frowned and stuck his hands into his pants, dragging them around until his shirt freed itself from his belt. “Lemonade is fine,” he said.

“Actually, tuck it back in,” I said. I grabbed the largest liquor bottle and carried it with both hands to the table. I served Zachary and then myself heaping portions, pouring until his eyes had widened to a shocking diameter.

“That’s probably enough,” he said.

“It smells like antifreeze.”

“It’s vodka,” said Zachary. “Are you going to put in anything else?”

“Why bother?” I had never tasted alcohol and figured it should be as pure an experience as possible. Ceremonial, like baptism. I debated pouring the bottle over my head. “Tell me exactly what my face looks like—when it happens.”

I counted down slowly from five. Zachary frowned as I choked and spit the vodka back into the cup.

“You looked very sad,” he said. “You look better now.”

“It will probably get easier,” I said. I scraped my tongue against my teeth until it numbed a bit. “Keep your hands around the cup so they can’t smell anything.”

“I don’t think that’s going to work.”

“Also, grab the punch.”

As I walked, I kept the cup close to my chest, shielding it like a candle. Zachary’s hand shook as he carried the pitcher around the table and poured slowly.

“We can probably put some of the food in the oven,” said Lisa. “In case anyone arrives late. Did you put a time on the invitation?”

“Of course we did,” Terra said. She had finished her water and was now chewing ice. “The chicken was dry. It’s not usually this dry.”

“You should have tried the sauce,” my father said. “I shouldn’t have made barbecue.”

“It would still be dry,” Terra said. She placed her cup down and reached for mine, grabbing it by the rim with two fingers.

“Don’t drink that,” I said.

“You can pour yourself more.”

She lifted it to her mouth and sipped before spewing the liquid onto the table. Her eyes closed as her mouth sputtered.

“God,” she said. “What’s in this glass?” She turned toward me. “What is in your glass?”

“It’s a cup,” I said, quietly.

“Abigail,” said my father.

“It’s alcohol,” said Zachary. “In this one, too. I haven’t had any.”

I kicked him hard in the shin under the table. He whimpered in a delicate falsetto, and I kicked him again.

“Let me see.” Lisa grabbed my cup and took a large sip. “Yes, it’s alcohol.”

“I told her not to drink it,” I said. “I didn’t think she would drink it.”

“Abigail,” my father said again.

“I need you to call my doctor,” said Terra. “I need somebody to get me to my doctor.”

“You spit it all out,” I said. “Look at the table.”

Zachary drove us to the hospital. He was the only person who hadn’t touched alcohol. My father threw him the keys and everyone crowded into the car. Zachary seemed unfamiliar with cars. He spent a few minutes fumbling with all the buttons.

“Just drive,” Terra said. Her tongue was still out, flicking the air like a frog’s. She wasn’t crying, but she looked as if she wished she were. She closed her eyes and began breathing very deeply.

“I don’t know how to adjust the mirrors,” said Zachary.

“I’ll be your mirrors,” said Lisa.

“Could you rub my neck?” Terra asked my father. “Lower, with two fingers.”

The hospital was two towns over. Zachary drove with both feet as Lisa recited directions into his ear. When we pulled up to the emergency room, the adults jumped out and ushered Terra inside. I stared at the back of Zachary’s head as he drove the two of us around the parking lot.

“Do you feel like a taxi driver?” I asked. “You know, some doctors used to prescribe alcohol during pregnancy, I think.”

“Where did you hear that?”

“You can find it anywhere.”

We found Terra at the reception window, leaning on the counter. She tapped on the glass urgently. The woman behind the desk said “Ma’am” a few times. Zachary and I waited behind a bleeding man at the back of the line.

“Some of these people don’t need to be in here,” Terra said. “This is the emergency room.”

“Ma’am,” said the receptionist.

The hospital was running behind schedule because of an earlier tragedy. A school bus had caught fire downtown, and twelve children had burned. Paramedics had crammed the charred preteens into examination rooms and then the waiting room because there was so little space. My father guided Terra to the seating area beside us and helped her into a small chair.

“Why were they riding a bus on a Sunday?” I asked.

“It might have been a church group,” said Zachary.

“And they combusted?”

Parents of the preteens had assembled around the double doors at the back of the room. Their cries gathered into a collective howl. I assumed they were praying. Terra asked my father to find her a Breathalyzer.

“It’s going to be fine,” my father said. He had been repeating it over and over in the car, mostly to himself. When the doctor called Terra’s name, he was still mumbling it quietly.

“You should stay out here,” I told Zachary. “Unless you want to come in.”

“I don’t,” Zachary said.

There was only one seat in the room and Lisa took it immediately. My father and I crowded around Terra on either side of the table. The nurse was slowly setting up the ultrasound, unraveling the long cord from the machine. She had her hair combed back into a tight bun, her forehead glossy with hair spray.

“I need you to call my gynecologist,” Terra said.

“I’m going to do everything I can,” said the nurse. “Let’s check things out, and if it’s necessary, I’ll call.”

“I’ve got to see this baby,” Lisa said, grinning.

I knew all steps of the procedure. The nurse would pour gel from a clear bottle around Terra’s belly button. Lisa shrieked when it burst from the tube like glue. On-screen, the baby contorted like dough. His hands crossed over his face, mashing it inward and upward. He looked more like a bog person than a baby, petrified in his swamp. Lisa cooed loudly and began taking pictures of the screen with her phone.

“Is it breathing?” I asked.

“Oh yes,” said the nurse. “Very easily.”

“He’s perfect,” Lisa said. “Right? He seems fine.”

“He’s healthy,” said the nurse. “Everything is normal.”

Terra burst into tears immediately. She grabbed my father’s hands and pressed them to her face as she whimpered. “He’s my miracle baby,” she said.

I tried to make eye contact with the baby on the screen. I liked that I could make eye contact with someone without them knowing. The baby wrapped his hands around his toes and squinted.

“I do want to point out one small thing,” said the nurse.

“Can I have a copy of that?” Terra asked, pointing to the screen. “He looks much bigger this week.” She traced the balloon of her stomach with her pointer finger.

“Of course,” said the nurse. “Now if you look closely here, you’ll notice he has slightly webbed toes. It’s nothing to worry about. I just didn’t want you to have any surprises on the day.”

Terra stopped smiling and sat up. The clear goo slipped slowly off her belly and pooled on the papered table. Lisa grabbed her shoulders before she toppled forward.

“I assure you it’s completely innocuous,” the nurse said.

“Oh my god,” said Terra.

“All of his fingers are separate,” said the nurse. “Only the toes are webbed.”

“Stop saying that,” said Terra.

“It won’t affect his development at all.”

Lisa stood up and squinted at the screen. “Really,” she said, “it’s only noticeable up close.”

“I’m sure it will get worse as he gets older,” I said.

Terra turned toward me, her face contorting with an anger I hadn’t seen before. Her eyes and mouth pulled into the center of her face, like her nose had sucked them together. I silently ordered myself to never display emotions in public.

“I don’t think you need to be here,” she said eventually.

“I didn’t mean it.”

“I think you should wait outside,” my father said.

Zachary was still seated with his legs crossed. He had unbuttoned his shirt down to his waist to reveal a white ribbed tank top. Under the fluorescent lights, he was better looking again.

“Is it all right?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

“They’re releasing some of the burn victims soon,” he said. “They made an announcement. It should be grisly.”

“That might be nice.”

“Do you think people are showing up at your house right now? I don’t think anyone locked the door.”

“Maybe.”

I picked at the stain on Zachary’s collar. I thought about calling my mother, or driving to see her—because sometimes she liked surprises, or at least she used to. I wasn’t sure what she liked now, if she liked anything at all, but I hoped she missed me. It was entirely possible at that very moment she was thinking of me, sitting cross-legged at the center of her living room, repeating my name, or something.

“You should probably buy a sympathy card,” Zachary said.

“What?”

“Like, an apology card. At the gift shop. There’s always cards and stuffed animals and things. And snacks, I guess. They probably have a gift shop. I’ll sign it too.”

“Why would you sign it?”

A wheelchaired preteen rolled into the waiting room. A man and woman ran toward him, crying, and pressed clumsy hands to the bandages. The rest of the room clapped at his singed face. Zachary stood up and applauded with his arms stretched far in front of him. This was kindness, somehow, a greedy performance of compassion. Everyone turned to each other and beamed—congratulations, we are good, good people.

“Stand up,” said Zachary. “Show your support.”

“How is this helpful?” I asked. The boy couldn’t open his eyes. “How will this change anything?”

Read more from Issue 16.1.