After Birth

Joseph Donato

The refrigerator opens and Philco climbs out. The basement kitchen is flooded in warm light. Philco tests the tile like bathwater, closes the door and the room is swallowed in familiar darkness.

The steps don’t creak when Philco tiptoes upstairs. Philco has memorized the steps to Mother and Father’s bedroom door.

Father faces his alarm clock, his hand tucked under his pillow. Mother faces the cradle in the corner of the room. Her hands are folded across her stomach. Philco stands over the cradle. Baby wears red pajamas and sleeps sprawled out on top of the blanket.

Father snores. Mother stirs. Philco reaches into the cradle.

Mother’s stomach is a moon. Her skin stretches like a water balloon with its mouth around the faucet. She lies still on her bed with her legs in metal clamps while Midwife squints inside her. Mother stares at the ceiling so intently that a fly might land on her eyeball and go unnoticed.

“She’s exhausted,” says Father, who stands in the doorway with his arms crossed. “Been throwing up all morning and all last night. All April, really.”

“To be expected. Nothing to worry about.”

Midwife moved into Mother and Father’s home three months ago. He sleeps in the spare room in the basement.

Philco watches at Mother’s bedside.

“How did Baby get inside her tummy?” Philco asks.

Father’s eyes wrinkle when he smiles. He looks to Midwife who is smiling, too. “She ate the baby!” The adults laugh.

Philco stares at Mother’s stomach. “What did Baby taste like?”

Midwife leans forward. “What do you think babies taste like?”

The curtain dances in the breeze.

“They taste soft, like salmon,” says Philco.

Midwife and Father chuckle, and Midwife says, “Well, I think babies taste like peppermint and cotton!”

They laugh more. Philco wonders what peppermint is.

Mother stirs in her bed.

Midwife looks at her, then at Philco. “Would you like to feel the baby kick?” Philco glances at Mother’s stomach. “It’s okay, the baby will only kick, not bite.” Midwife holds out his hand.

A moment passes and Philco gives Midwife a hand, which he places firmly on Mother’s belly. Philco’s hand recoils from the chill of Mother’s skin, but Midwife keeps the palm flat against Mother. They wait for a kick, but it never comes.

Philco feels movement under Mother’s skin; tiny pinpricks of pressure against Philco’s palm. Not a kick, but Baby’s own little hand. Philco lets Baby drum its fingers against Philco’s own.

Mother screams.

Philco’s nails sink into Mother’s stomach in an attempt to clasp Baby’s hand. Philco presses deeper into her skin until being yanked away by Midwife.

“Don’t do that!” Father shouts, running to Mother’s side and stroking her hair.

There are nail marks in Mother’s stomach. Her eyes water. She watches Philco as tears roll down her cheeks.

Midwife pushes Philco toward the door.

“It’s best you wait outside until we’re done.”

Philco waits outside.

Midwife is interviewed by Mother and Father in August, two weeks after Mother discovers she is pregnant.

“We want to be in control this time,” Mother tells him. She leans against the kitchen counter, playing with her dress. Her stomach is still flat. “We didn’t …” She looks to Father. “After the last time, I wasn’t sure I could get pregnant again.”

Midwife grins. “Sometimes, babies come when you least expect them.” He clasps his hands together. “I appreciate your caution. Home births are a safe and natural alternative to hospitals.”

“And you’d be willing to move into our spare for the duration of the pregnancy?” Father asks. “She’ll need round-the-clock support. We won’t have a repeat of last time.”

“I’d be happy to. For an additional fee, of course.”

Father nods. Mother looks ill. The men shake hands.

Midwife grins. “My kid and I will move in at once, as we discussed last week.” He looks to Mother. “Your baby will be in good hands, ma’am.”

Mother nods. Her eyelids droop and she stumbles backward into the cabinets, hitting her head on the corner. Midwife helps her into a chair while Father sputters. Midwife touches the bump on Mother’s head and tells Father to help her into bed, asks where to find frozen peas to fight the swelling. Midwife is sent to the basement to retrieve the bag of peas. Midwife takes a left when he ought to have taken a right and finds the refrigerator in the basement kitchen.

It’s dark inside the fridge, warm, stinks like bleach and blood and rotten fish. Midwife stares into its stomach and Mother yells from the floor above. There is only an opaque jar inside, some shredded newspaper. No peas. He mutters to himself that childbirth is not as dramatic as it seems, assumes that nothing is listening. He leaves the refrigerator door open in his haste.

When returning upstairs empty-handed, Father explains that the refrigerator in the basement kitchen has not worked in years, that he meant to send Midwife to the freezer in the cellar.

Mother screams in pain.

Mother gasps for air. She grips the toilet seat and more thick, grey liquid spills from her mouth and splatters onto the wallpaper.

Philco watches from the corner of the bedroom, behind the curtain. Mother clutches her stomach and rests her forehead on the porcelain.

Mother calls to Father, who rushes into the ensuite. He rubs her back, combs the vomit-slicked hair from her eyes, tells her she is beautiful.

Mother throws up again, curling her toes. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. Father tells Mother that the second trimester will be easier, that the pain and the mess will be worthwhile when the baby arrives. He embraces her despite the vomit on her cheeks. They laugh and cry at the same time. Philco makes the same facial expressions, soundless, behind the curtain.

“Everything looks perfect,” says Midwife, pulling away from between Mother’s legs.

Father and Mother share a look. Mother’s stomach is larger than ever. She will give birth any day now.

“Are you sure?” Father says. “Apologies for our persistence, but you must understand our nerves.”

Midwife smiles. “Of course. But rest assured, women who deliver a stillborn once are perfectly capable of successful future pregnancies.”

Mother closes her eyes. Father nods.

“I understand your concerns, I do. But you have nothing to worry about now. This baby is healthy and is excited to meet you. Delivery will go smoothly.”

Mother smiles, but her eyes are still closed.

Midwife stands from the chair at Mother’s bedside and turns to Father. “Now, do you have time to take a look at my bedroom door? It doesn’t latch properly; always opens on its own when I sleep.

Father frowns. He does not want to go. “Sure. Yes, let’s take a look.”

Father and Midwife leave the room.

Mother sits up in bed, exhaling slowly.

She rubs her stomach, hand caressing the five little nail marks. The curtain moves. Two small feet poke out of the bottom.

“Hello,” Mother says.

Mother lifts from the bed, bends her knees to be eye level with Philco. “You don’t have to be shy.” Her voice is gentle like morning rainfall. “Come here.”

Philco slowly pulls back the curtain and steps forward. Philco looks at Mother with such admiration, eyes wide to swallow her whole.

Mother smiles warmly. “There’s no need to hide. We’re grateful to have you with us.”

Philco stares.

“You know,” says Mother, her voice barely a whisper, “you have beautiful eyes.”

Philco’s gaze drops to Mother’s stomach.

“Don’t worry about this, okay?” She rubs the nail marks and leans forward. “Do you want to try again?To feel a kick?

Philco nods and gives Mother a hand for her to place on her stomach.

She reminds Philco to be gentle. Philco doesn’t recoil at the cool touch of Mother’s flesh this time. There’s movement under Philco’s palm; a kick.

Philco looks to Mother, who is watching closely.

“Did you feel the kick?”

Philco nods.

“Pretty amazing, isn’t it?”

Philco frowns. Mother tilts her head.

“What’s the matter?”

Philco steps back from Mother, hands folded in front of Philco’s own stomach.

“Will Baby die again?”

Mother’s smile slips.

“Excuse me?”

Philco makes crying faces but no sound comes out.

Father and Midwife re-enter the bedroom, discussing locks.

Mother blinks at the adults as the door closes behind them. When she looks back for Philco, Philco is gone.

Philco stands over the cradle.

An owl is perched on the tree branch outside the bedroom window. It hoots, swivels its head to watch Philco reach for Baby.

Baby’s hand is tiny in Philco’s. It’s soft and warm like roasted marshmallows. Baby’s eyes blink open and Baby starts to whine, tries to pull its hand back.

Philco leans over the cradle. Philco places Baby’s hand between the frontmost teeth and bites down. Baby erupts into tears. Philco rubs his stomach.

Mother wakes, sits up in bed so quickly she might have been electrocuted under the sheets. She jumps to her feet and throws Philco to the ground, hoisting Baby out of the cradle and backing into the wall. Father sleeps through it.

“You’re a monster!” Mother yells. “Get out! Now!”

Philco is already hurrying down the stairs. Philco climbs back into the refrigerator.

“A piece of finger, gone! It’s outrageous.”

Father is pacing back and forth in his office. Midwife sits in the guest chair, hands folded neatly on the desk.

“It’s not unheard of for a child to grow jealous of a newborn. Could that be the case?”

“I don’t see how that matters,” says Father.

“The problem must be solved at the root. Clearly, this child wants something. Could it be attention?”

“That is not the proper way to ask.” Father bangs his fist against the wall and the bookshelf rattles.

“My wife and I are at our wits’ end. That child has behaved questionably in the past, but this is our final straw. Our newborn is our priority, our reason for being. We will not have anything around that threatens them.”

“Have you considered sending your child to a school that will teach them the proper ways of behaving?” Midwife raises his chin, proud of that idea.

Father stops pacing. He looks to Midwife and cocks his head.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that perhaps they will be rehabilitated at a boarding school of some sort that will—”

“No, no. What do you mean ‘our child’? That is not our child.”

Father and Midwife stare at one another. The room becomes cold.

“No?” Midwife arches an eyebrow. “Whose child is it, then?”

“The child came with you when you moved in,” Father asserts. “It’s your child.”

Midwife shakes his head. “My son decided to stay with his mother in Colorado—he’s never been here. And besides, he is a teenager, not a child.”

Father shudders. “That child has been living in this house for months, lurking in our periphery, and you mean to tell me that they belong to no one?” His voice cracks.

Midwife stands from the chair. “Where is the child now?”

Father calls for Mother, but she is asleep upstairs.

The adults run from the room. The office curtain billows.

Mother and Father are at the hospital six years ago.

Mother screams so loud that Father is not concerned about her volume disrupting the doctor. He grips her hand tight and assures her that he’s right beside her, that the pain will be gone soon, to push.

Mother screams louder and the doctor positions herself in front of her legs. Father’s eyes are wide, Mother’s are clenched shut. The baby is born dead. It doesn’t breathe once. The midwife cuts the umbilical cord, wraps the baby’s body in a towel and hands it to Mother to hold as she wails. She yanks her hand free from Father and hugs the baby close to her chest, sweat rolling down the bridge of her nose and dripping onto the baby’s limp shoulder.

“Ma’am?” A nurse presents Mother a red organ attached to what remains of the umbilical cord.

Mother blinks, unable to see through her tears.

“You requested the placenta be preserved following your child’s delivery, for consumption.”

Mother stares at the placenta. “I—I don’t want it.” She waves it away.

Mother can’t stand the sight of the afterbirth that outlived her child. The thought of the placenta re-entering her body turns her stomach and she holds the baby closer.

Father notices how Mother’s face pales. “Perhaps,” he says to the nurse, “perhaps you might preserve it still, for her to consume tonight?” Mother makes a sound in her throat. “Or tomorrow morning?”

The doctor looks between the two, then nods. “Of course. I will prepare the placenta for you to preserve until you’re ready.”

Later, the doctor pulls Father aside and whispers under his breath, “Again, I’m very sorry. There was nothing to be done, it’s an unfortunate day.”

Father nods, arms crossed. “Nothing to be done.” His voice is hoarse.

The doctor turns the doorknob. “Make sure that she eats the placenta within two days, or you should bury it. It’ll do no good to sit.”

Father put the placenta in a glass jar and left it in the fridge in the basement kitchen.

Philco stands over the cradle.

Reaching inside, Philco grabs a hold of Baby’s hand. Philco rubs Baby’s finger where a chunk of flesh is missing.

“Sorry, Baby.” Philco makes a crying face.

The cradle is right beside the bed now, on Mother’s side. She faces the side of the cradle where Baby’s head lays. Philco pushes the cradle away from the bed, scratching the hardwood floor underneath. Baby stirs, but remains asleep, as does Mother. Father is still as a corpse.

The bedroom door is wide open. The silver lock is in two pieces on the floor. Midwife has returned home. Two packed suitcases lean against the bedroom wall.

Philco stands over Mother. She is beautiful when she sleeps, hands folded over her stomach, eyelids fluttering. Philco presses Mother’s chin, pulls it down so that her lips part.

Philco puts a finger inside Mother’s mouth, resting it on her warm tongue. Philco adds another finger, then a hand.

With both hands on Mother’s soft lips, Philco opens Mother’s mouth as wide as possible. Mother wakes, alarmed, her screams muffled as she tries to sit up. But Philco’s weight keeps her down.

Her jaw breaks with a crisp snap, like a crackling fire. Philco steps into Mother’s open mouth, squeezing inside. Mother squirms, reaches for Father.

Philco twists and turns, fitting. Mother’s mouth is warm as a hug. Mother glances at the cradle and Philco wishes she’d look anywhere else. Philco wants to be Mother, to be Baby, to be.

Mother’s hands fall still while clenching fistfuls of sheets. Philco’s body writhes inside Mother’s stomach, elbows and shoulder blades jutting out of Mother’s flesh like a mountain range. Baby is crying when Father finally wakes.

In the basement, the refrigerator door is left open. The jar is smashed on the ground. The tile is wet and the refrigerator is empty, as though nothing inside had ever existed at all.

Joseph Donato

is super cool and popular. He is editor-in-chief of Block Party Magazine & Press and overlord of Horror Pop Mag. Donato has won three Grammys, a Pulitzer Prize, and six Olympic gold medals for real. He looks a little like Jesus and enjoys Tic Tacs, Nebraska, and Weezer.