The Innocent One

This is a memoir of when I was seven, almost eight. My mom was pregnant with a baby named Max.

I watch my mother’s back sway slightly from side to side as she leaves me. “I’ll be back soon,” she promises. When she turns the corner at the end of the narrow hallway, she disappears from view.

I look around the large room. It’s a hospital waiting room, filled with normal waiting room furnishings. I’ve been in here plenty of times, with the neutral colors blended into the upholstery on the numerous chairs with wooden arms and legs. The pictures of infants and mothers are all familiar. The walls are covered by beige wallpaper with a dark green strip forming a border as the paper meets the ceiling. The carpet is cheap, typical industrial flooring. It’s a mix of dark colors all bended together, a maelstrom on the dark sea. 

Standing in the doorway, you’d see the receptionist’s desk across the room. Next to the desk is the hallway that my mom walked through only moments ago. In a corner are the kids’ toys.

Blocks, mazes, and coloring books litter the floor around the small table. Stuffed animals and baby dolls for the girls, matchbox cars and dinosaurs for the boys sit in a basket along with kids’ magazines and books. Nothing over there is of any interest to me. I’ve seen it all before, waiting for previous ultrasounds. 

But this is different. It’s the first time I’ve been here alone, in this place where the scents of disinfectants and baby wipes hang heavy in the air.

All the other kids here are too young to talk to. They’re too young to be in school, even. I should be at school right now, but I just got over the chicken pox. I still have to wait a couple days before I can go back, so I’m here for now.

That suits me fine, as second grade isn’t all that exciting anyway. I’d much rather be here with my mom, learning about my baby brother, and how the pregnancy is going along. 

As I wait, I think about him. Max. I think about the name, about his personality, what he will look like. Will his eyes be blue like Mom’s? Will he have the same thin, red locks that Shelsey has, or the thick black rug that was my hair? Will he be sweet like Jake? Or rough like Dad?

My thoughts are interrupted by voices coming from the hallway. I see my mom’s blond hair and get ready to leave. A second glance at her makes me stop rustling around. I stand up and walk over to her, offer my support. Walking slowly, my mom looks different than she did only minutes ago. Her shoulders are hunched, her hands are shaking. She is deflated, reduced in spirit. She comes to collect me, but we don’t leave. I know that it will be several minutes before she is able to drive home.

I lead her to the chair and help her sit. I’m only seven years old, but I know that right now, the only thing I can do is hold her while she sobs.

Eventually, she composes herself enough to speak the words that I will remember for the rest of my life, words that I can never forget. With two short sentences, only ten words, my world is shattered into pieces too small to gather up.

“There definitely was a baby in there. But not anymore.” She sniffles and wipes her runny nose on her shirt sleeve. She doesn’t have to say what she says next because I already know. She doesn’t want to say it, because she knows that I’ll take the blame. But still, she explains. “The doctor says it was the chicken pox that probably did it. That and the stress.” She goes on for a few moments, and then gives up on talking. She dissolves once more, and tears run down her face and soak into the soft cotton of my shirt. I don’t mind, though.  

I hold my mother until her tears have dried, leaving streaks down her face. I don’t know how much time has passed, but I know that it’s late. We get home and I tuck my mother into bed so she can mourn the loss of her unborn child.

- - - - - - - - - - 

I didn’t cry that day. I knew that my mother needed a rock, a foundation on which she would rebuild her strength. I tried my best to provide that for her.

My tears from that day are still my prisoners, not yet released. I’m not ready to let them go, not sure if I’ll ever be ready. Crying about it will bring a whole new wave of pain, of remembering what I did to my baby brother, before he even got a glimpse of the world. 

So I hold my tears in, even though I know that my chicken pox, my selfish dependency on my mother, was the knife that pierced my brother’s heart, the weapon that killed the innocent one.

Reviews

[Celeste]

Aw, this is such a sad story. I'm so sorry to hear about your little brother. But this piece is amazing and wonderfully written. Your descriptions are so detailed, making the reader follow the story smoothly.

I especially loved your last sentence. Sad, but beautiful.