Sunny’s eyes were squinched tight with the pressure, with the effort of squeezing out the baby. She couldn’t see whether Maxon was frowning, or whether he was making the face he made when he was considering someone’s opinion. Raise your eyebrows just a little bit. Tilt your head to the side.
“I don’t,” said Maxon.
“Well, I do,” said the mother. “I do believe it. And I think that if you don’t go, you will be doing her a great harm.”
Maxon was silent again. Was he looking down at her, at his wife, so deep in love? Could he see her, there in the hospital, under all the hairs? No, she didn’t want him to go. It was too dangerous. But from the way he squeezed her hand, she could tell that he was nodding, slowly, making an arc through the air with his chin, up and down, to show that he agreed. To show that he had accepted the idea.
“I agree,” said Maxon.
Sunny felt a change in her body, down through all the numbness, and a shift of angles somewhere in the room, so that when she held her breath and strained, she felt tension and purpose down below. Whatever was drifting, whatever was floating, came plummeting down and sank right back into her blood, into her bones, into that grainy, pivoting moment around her hips. “Yes,” said the doctor. “I see the head. You’re doing great, Sunny. Come on, Dad, count. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten! And rest. And now count!”
And that’s the way it was done. The robots told the doctor, who told Sunny, when to push. The doctor told Maxon, who counted to ten. There was not a single drop of sweat trickling down her face, nor was one eyelash loosened in the process. Hand in hand with her mother on the left and her husband on the right, the perfect mother shape opened up and the perfect baby shape emerged. Bubber was slimy with fluid, strong, loud, and big, bright with orange hair. In the way all normal mothers love their normal babies, she fell for him completely. She would never say, “That didn’t work out quite right.” She would never say, “There is something wrong with my child.” She would never say, “I did not succeed at motherhood.” Because she felt, and she was, so responsible. She would have killed for Bubber, without hesitation.
She had heard her mother and Maxon talking about something. But that memory had drifted away along with her memory of the pain, until she wondered,
She should have taken the wig off, yes, then and there. She should have flung it out the window of the hospital, or burnt it. She should have let everything change, let Maxon keep bouncing along at the edge of things, let Bubber emerge as orange as his hair, say to her mother, “Yeah, you were right about that, but no, you are wrong about this.” She should have remembered that quiet, terrible conversation, had it out with both of them. Stripped off the layers of her maternal construction and shouted out, “I’m here! I’m alive! You don’t have to send him to the moon, and you don’t have to go.” But instead she took her baby home, installed him in the perfect nursery, fed him the perfect foods, took him to the perfect schools, and kept stumbling along, down the same wiggy path, which put her here at last: no husband, no mother, no son, no hair. Just a big body tearing apart and a hot, empty neighborhood to absorb her bloody pieces.
SHE CRANKED HER WAY up Les Weathers’s porch steps one by one, feeling huge and slow, like an amoeba rolling toward an underwater cave. The door wreath was gone, and he had not replaced it with any other holiday decor. Safe choice. She picked up the heavy brass knocker and let it fall three times. There was no response. She waited through another contraction, tears squeezing from her eyes at the pain in her back, and then she slammed the knocker fiercely against the door, making a rattle they could surely hear all down the twisted block. The door creaked open a bit. It was not latched.
The house was built like all the town houses in Norfolk and the world, one room leading to the next back through the house with no central hall. The first room she entered was a sitting room, including a semicircle window seat that bulged into the front facade of the house. There was a fireplace there, and on the mantel an assortment of candles in tall holders and wooden picture frames. In the center of the room was a circular table with a marble top, holding a large arrangement of dried flowers.
“Les Weathers! Help!” she called. Maybe he was upstairs.
Moving back through the house to the next room she paused, one foot in the air, and her hand went out to steady her on the chair rail. She stopped because she saw a giant television, lying on its face, front smashed against the floor. She felt a twist of fear slide down around her torso, wrapping itself into the place where the contractions would be. Maybe Les Weathers had been robbed—maybe he was lying upstairs at this moment, dying of a gunshot wound to the back. Maybe she should leave, and save herself and the baby. But go where? She was an animal in need of a cave. She was a sinner in need of salvation. She was a desperate woman in need of a rock solid, unexcitable man. Anyway, the front room had been so tidy. She shuffled toward the back of the house and came to the kitchen.
Once it might have been a rather elegant little room, white and black, with glass-fronted cabinets and a basketweave floor. It was now in shambles, every surface covered. There was murky water on the floor. Sunny turned and faced the refrigerator. On its door she saw a magnet that said, “I don’t want to work! I just want to bang on my drum all day!” Next to it, a postcard-sized poster of Garfield complaining: “I hate Mondays.” On the counter was a smashed television, lying on its face. Next to it, what had once been a melon. Two of the cabinets had been smashed out, and inside one of them there was a telephone lying in shards of glass.
Sunny mounted the stairs, calling, “Les Weathers! Are you all right? Help!” She was in labor and convulsing. But Les Weathers could be bleeding, dying. Or maybe he didn’t really live here. Maybe it was all a front. Someone else must live here, some bad version of Les Weathers, anti-television, anti-clean, anti-golden-hair. Or maybe Les Weathers was a robot that lived in his car, shutting down after the evening news, never entering this sham house, this ruined building. She stepped on the stairs nervously, her heaviness causing them to creak and complain. There was a tilt to the upstairs hallway, the railing crooked and cracked.
There was a bathroom down the hall, full of boxes with the sink unhinged from the wall, and then a dressing room, where she switched on a light. She found his suits there, pressed, perfect. She found a box of old dress shoes, like the kind a grandpa might wear. She spent a full minute lying on her side half in the closet, having a contraction, oozing amniotic fluid onto his floor, but she had to go on. She had to know, what was going on with Les Weathers? Where had he gone? What was he? Was this the house of someone else, someone strange, some terrible twin brother? Some other Les Weathers?
Through the dressing room she found another bathroom, caked with filth, a tub ringed with wax from candles set around the edge, whose wax had stuck together shampoo bottles and filmed over the tiles. There was such dirt inside the tub that two distinct footprints articulated themselves at one end, under the faucets. He sits here, she had to tell herself. He puts his feet into those prints! He lights these candles. He stands on this floor. Were the grime and grunge as old as his wife’s departure? Were the footprints started the day she left? A toothbrush, blue, balanced on the side of the sink. A tube of Aquafresh, squeezed from the middle, lay beside it.
Sunny moved into the bedroom, where she found yet another giant flat-screen television on its face, smashed against the floor. There were piles of newspapers and books, discarded clothes and boxes, an ancient dresser overflowing with linens. The huge bed, covered in what looked like tapestry, was broken. The legs of the top end had collapsed or been furiously kicked out, so there was a steep slope down to the headboard, against the wall. But it was made up with a pillow where it belonged, next to the wall on the low side, the side that had fallen down.
In the pillow was a dent, shaped like a head. Next to the pillow was today’s paper. Today’s. She had to acknowledge this. At this depth of her extremity, she had to come to terms with this visual, and accept the fact that as she went about her nightly rituals, taking off her eyebrows, taking off her wig, arranging it on her dresser, considering herself safe for another day, Les Weathers of Action News Reporting was three houses away, sleeping upside down. Les Weathers, the last bastion of urban normalcy, of the square jaw and flawless skin, of the resonant voice and signature finger point, was sleeping upside down in a house where a herd of giant televisions had met their violent end. There was no terrible twin. There was no secret robot. He and this were real at the same time. He was, in fact, just another lunatic. Sunny had to laugh. She laughed, looking out the window on their neighborhood, because it was such a ridiculous thing. All the wives, drooling over him. And all the while, him taking a bath in that tub.
She laughed until another contraction came, and when it had passed, she went back into the hall. She had to find him. Maybe he was in a basement. Maybe he was just now emerging from his Lexus, slamming the car shut,
