Issue 36.4

by Riley Dauber

The Children

A bump and the sound of metal hitting metal jolts me awake. I blink my eyes a few times in a row, looking up at the fluorescent lights lining the ceiling. I wince at the brightness and the sound of ringing in my ears. As the noise dies down, I hear whispered conversations behind me.

I crane my neck, trying to get a better look, but my body feels thousands of pounds heavier than it usually does. A young woman in a nurse’s hat leans over to confirm that I’m awake then asks a man with a deep voice for directions.

“Yes, right through there,” the man says, and his fat pointer finger enters my field of vision, but I cannot see what he is pointing at.

The young woman nods before returning to the helm of the stretcher. She pushes a button, and the double doors open forward. It takes all her strength to move the stretcher through the doors and down the hallway past the nurse’s station and the hospital rooms. I squint my eyes to see where in the hospital we are, but I don’t recognize any of the signs or employees running around in their white coats and scrubs. Memories of the maternity ward float through my head, but they aren’t matching up.

My head rolls back and forth as we round a corner. Farther down the hallway we near an elevator at the middle of a t-shaped intersection.

The elevator is empty when the woman rolls me inside, but I break the silence by letting out a groan when we start to go down. The medication is wearing off; I can feel one of the children kicking inside of me. I clench my toes and try to sit up. My stomach rolls as nervous sweat drips down my back and soaks into the papery fabric of my hospital gown.

“We’re almost there,” the woman whispers as we continue to descend.

A tear falls down the side of my face, but I do not have the energy to wipe it away. The elevator door dings open onto another hallway that leads to a pair of double doors. While the layout may be similar, this hallway lacks the overpowering fluorescent lights. Instead, the drywalls are lined with flickering lamps every few feet. I blink, hoping to readjust myself to the semi-darkness.

My ears have stopped ringing, but the noise is replaced with chatter on the other side of the doors. As the woman types in a four-digit code, the conversations grow louder until I am rolled inside, and everyone erupts into cheers.

I am met with many familiar faces as the woman leads the stretcher from the entrance to the hospital bed at the end of the long room. The first is my husband, who is wearing the same blue cap as the nurse. He forgoes the scrubs, favoring his thin blue sweater and khakis. He looks down at me with pride in his eyes.

“You’re doing great,” he tells me.

My sisters stand next to him. Virginia’s glasses and “world’s best aunt” pajama shirt make me think she was pulled from her bed with little time to make herself look nice. Louisa is standing next to her wearing a pair of black headphones. She waves at me, but her eyes are glazed over; she does not seem to understand the situation. Virginia glances at her, motioning for her to remove her headphones. Louisa cradles them around her neck.

My mother and father are next in line, followed by my aunts and uncles, all dressed in blue. Even my last remaining grandfather in his wheelchair sends a toothless smile my way.

My breathing grows rapid as the stretcher approaches the hospital bed. I grip the metal railing, but my sweaty hands slip right off. I can feel the children twitching inside of me, but I hope they’re comfortable because I am not delivering them in front of all these people.

The young woman and a doctor I do not recognize unstrap me from the stretcher and hoist me onto the hospital bed against the far wall. My body contracts and aches as I try to get as comfortable as I can. The woman fluffs the pillows behind my head so I can sit up and look out at the crowd of people filling the warehouse. Some people are wearing lab coats, while others selected pink or blue outfits. An eager group toward the front next to my extended family has a picture of me from the baby shower adorned on their t-shirts. Some snap photos while others whisper among themselves.

“Who are these people?” I croak.

The doctor, with his wire-rimmed glasses and bushy beard, leans over the bed to look me in the eye. I rack my brain, trying to remember what my doctors looked like at my monthly appointments. I don’t remember a bushy beard. I don’t think even my ultra-sound technician wore glasses. I search the crowd for my husband, who joined me at these check-ups; he would realize if I had the wrong doctor. But instead, he is talking with my sisters.

“We’re all very excited for you, Mariah,” the doctor says before instructing the young woman to take my blood pressure. “I’m sorry for the long journey, but we knew we needed to complete the operation in this space.”

My other doctors never referred to my pregnancy as an operation. As they discovered not one, two, or three, but four heartbeats inside me, they instructed my husband and me on the best course of action. A Caesarean section was discussed, and I was bedridden for weeks leading up to my due date. My husband and sisters waited on me, and my mother would call or stop by to keep me company. The doctor urged me to deliver at the hospital due to the grueling task and immeasurable pain. I was too focused on what came after I delivered: painting nurseries and selecting four matching outfits. My husband and I tried to get pregnant for years, so four babies all at once felt like a miracle. I remember the pain of him squeezing my hands as the ultrasound technician counted the heartbeats on the screen. She traced the shape of each fetus with her manicured finger, and I blinked away tears at the thought of bringing four healthy babies into the world.

Pain surges in my pelvis and lower back as I look out at the crowded room. The word “operation” runs through my head. I cannot remember signing any paperwork agreeing to a performative delivery.

“130/80,” the young woman reads off the blood pressure machine.

“Okay, Mariah, you have to calm down,” the doctor says. “Everything is going to be okay.”

I have trouble believing his words when the room is full of strangers, and the doctor will not look me in the eye.

When the doctor isn’t looking, I grab his wrist with a loose grip and ask, “What’s your name?”

He chuckles; the sound is guttural, coming from the back of his throat. “You know me.”

He snaps on a pair of gloves and claps his hands to rally the crowd. My family and the group of strangers turn their heads and flock closer to the hospital bed. The young woman turns my legs into acute angles. She spreads me open, exposing me to my audience, and I wince at the pain emanating from my pelvis.

I did not want my husband by my side during the delivery, but he is standing a few inches away from the bed as if he is going to retrieve each child himself. The doctor orders him to step back, and my husband’s eyes widen as he joins the rest of my family.

The strangers stand close by, too. I catch the eye of a man looking at me like his next meal. He asks the doctor a question about the procedure, but I can hardly process the words. I curl my toes and let out a scream as a contraction overwhelms me; the crowd responds affectionately.

“Okay, Mariah, we’re just about ready to go,” the doctor says, hoisting up the hem of my hospital gown to get a better look. He does not ask me if I am ready.

I scream again as the crowd starts a chant: “Push. Push. Push.” I cannot feel the lower half of my body as the doctor’s fingers find my center and help the head of the first child find fresh air. A cry fills the room, and my first child and I scream in unison as the doctor hands her to my husband. Blood soaks through his blue sweater, but he admires the child with watery eyes.

“Let me see her,” I grumble, but no one can hear me. They are eager to watch the other three come out.

The contractions continue and sweat drips down my back and forehead as I push. The young woman tells me to breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth, but when I open my mouth, I am worried vomit is going to spew out instead of air.

The doctor runs his hands down my legs. I picture him leaving curly, white beard hairs on my thighs and pelvis. He seems to be enjoying himself, digging around my womb for another child like a miner hunting for gold. I glance at the young woman next to me. She has removed her nurse’s cap, revealing a mane of long, golden hair. She does not look older than twenty-five. She does not wear the same grin as the curious doctor, but she is not disgusted either. She whispers in my ear to keep breathing, and the urge to squeeze her by the neck overcomes me. My clammy hands form fists at my side as the humiliation of everyone in the room, including my eighty-five-year-old grandfather, seeing my unshaved pelvis washes over me. I have only ever been with my husband. I thought this would be a private affair. Instead, I am on display for everyone’s pleasure.

The hungry man from earlier forces his way next to me. I squint my eyes, hoping for a shred of recognition. His face breaks out into a grin as he reaches over and tucks a stringy piece of hair behind my ear. He thinks he is helping.

“I should have fucked you when I had the chance,” he hisses, his eyes tracing my body until they land on the doctor and my unshaved pelvis. “But I wish you would wax.”

The blonde nurse does not say anything. The man’s voice was low but loud enough for both of us to hear. He steps back, and his grin is just as wide as before.

“One more push,” the doctor announces, and a moment later, he has another child in his hands.

This time the room is quiet. I let out a few shaky breaths and wait for someone to cry with. I scrub my hands against my sweaty face and try to meet the doctor’s eyes. He holds my still child against his chest, hiding her from the crowd. A wave of failure and frustration washes over my body. I want to hold, or at least see, one of my girls, even if they’ve stopped breathing.

My chest rises and falls as another contraction hits me. I wish I could take the time to mourn this second, unnamed daughter. Someone has cleaned off my first daughter so my husband can hold her without further staining his sweater. He rocks her naked body back and forth; I wish she had a blanket.

I do not see where they take my other daughter, and soon she will be replaced with a third. I grip the railing of the hospital bed as I push a few more times, and the smell of feces fills the air. Another young woman is called to help clean up the mess. The doctor perches his glasses on his forehead and helps deliver the third baby. The room is quiet again.

Like clockwork, the nervous doctor holds the baby to his chest before handing her off to the second young woman. The blonde woman rubs my back as a few quiet tears slip down my face, mixing with my sweat. I thought four children were a miracle, but I failed on my part; I was only able to keep one alive.

After a few more half-hearted pushes that take my breath away, the fourth child is retrieved. She is smaller than the others. The doctor hands her to the second young woman who washes her off with a bloody rag.

My hospital gown is soaked through with sweat, and my nostrils burn with the smell of metal and my own shit. The golden-haired nurse takes a clean rag to my forehead, but I turn away, letting my tears fall on the pillow beneath me.

As I drift in and out of sleep, I hear the doctor addressing the crowd. He mentions a lesson about natural birth before turning on his heels to approach my bed. He leans over so close his beard skims and scratches my face. Then, he kisses my cheek.

My face numbs at the thought of him attempting to kiss me again, but he steps back and encourages the crowd to come up and meet me. My husband stands at the head of the bed, holding my daughter against his chest. She sleeps peacefully.

“Can I hold her?” I ask, but the words hang in the air. My mother rubs her hand up and down my arm to try and soothe me. My father pats my back.

“Grandpa had to go,” Virginia says, and I remember the aghast look on his face when each dead child was removed from my body. Louisa is still wearing her headphones.

“You’re a lucky man,” the hungry man tells my husband. He cranes his neck to take another greedy look at me.

With my last shred of strength, I slam my legs down on the hospital bed so hard he jumps. I keep doing it, hoping to scare him away. My legs rise and fall, hitting the bed harder and harder each time. My mother stops rubbing my arm and squeezes my flesh instead, telling me to stop with a glare.

“You’re acting like a child,” my father says.

“You’re going to hurt yourself,” Virginia adds.

I scream and slam my legs down on the bed. My daughter has started to cry at the noise. I would do anything to make her stop, to hold her close to my chest and calm her down like my mother is trying to do with me. I sit up and look at my daughter, but the golden-haired woman holds her arm out against my chest to stop me. Each step of a plan forms in my head, but I enact them faster than I can think them through.

I swallow my stomach and pelvis pain and reach for my crying daughter. My husband and the nurse fight back; he rocks the baby back and forth while she forces me to lay down. I wiggle out of her grasp and slam my legs down again and again. The crowd backs away as if I am a wild animal, their phones at the ready to remember every second.

“Mariah, lay down,” the nurse tells me. Her wrist is right by my mouth. I bite her flesh, hard, and the doctor and my family are so concerned about her sobs and the teeth marks that I snatch my daughter from my husband’s arms when no one is looking.

Blood and shit stream down my legs as I race out of the warehouse. I do not look back until I hear yelling and screaming behind me. The doctor and the two young women are leading a crowd filled with my extended family, the hungry man, and the rest of the strangers. The golden-haired woman holds a strip of gauze to her wrist and tells me to slow down, that I will hurt myself if I keep running. I consider listening to her, but then I remember the hungry man telling me he wished he could fuck me if only I shaved and how she didn’t say anything to stop him.

I keep running, throwing open the door, and searching for the elevator. My grandfather is asleep in his wheelchair. He sits up when he hears the crowd, and I think I hear him calling to me, but I know I do not want to hear what he says.

I have trouble thinking straight with the adrenaline coursing through my body, but when I see the elevator and then the staircase, an idea starts to brew. I hit the elevator button then turn the corner and run up the stairs two at a time. My daughter is still crying, but I hold her close to my heaving chest and hope she will keep quiet to help us stay hidden.

As I reach the top of the steps, I hear the door at the bottom open. My husband calls my name, then my sisters and parents. I hear the word “bitch” in the hungry man’s voice.

I open the door into an empty parking lot. The sun is starting to set, and the pinks, yellows, and blues in the sky have mixed like colors on a palette. I hoist my weeping daughter onto my chest and keep running.

My bare feet hit the asphalt as my eyes search for a hiding place. I can feel the crowd on my heels; my husband telling me to stop, the doctor and young women joining in. When I look over my shoulder, my eyes filled with fear, I see the man I once loved coming after me with outreached arms; I cannot tell which one of us he wants.

I reach the entrance to the parking lot and turn left, looking for an alley or open building. I turn onto a street and find a set of concrete steps leading down to a hidden bar. The lights are on. I hear the crowd debating which way I went, so I know I need to escape inside instead of staying on the street.

The door to the bar doesn’t creak, and the televisions inside are so loud that no one notices me. I slip my daughter beneath my gown, keeping her head by my neck so she can breathe. She is damp from laying against my clammy skin, and I remember my husband’s stained sweater. A neon sign for the woman’s single-stall bathroom catches my attention.

Behind closed doors, I can take a moment to breathe. I pull my daughter out of the neck hole of my gown and examine her. Her eyes are bright blue like mine, and a tiny coil of brown hair sits on top of her head. Her chest rises and falls with each breath, and for the first time, I get a chance to smile at her. She smiles back.