Rae looks down at her bulbous belly. She is nothing if not a record of time. For 34 weeks her body has been counting–adding hours as the baby has added eyes and ears, skin and limbs.
Windy Lynn Harris
My husband shook his head. What the manager didn’t know was that Ron craved the feeling of catching someone in a lie more than any other high in the world. More than the thrill of a roller coaster when it dropped three stories. More than a lottery win. More than hotel sex. Ron’s right eye twitched with excitement.
We were warned about this by the director of the adoption agency: Eventually your daughter will have questions about her “bio-mom.” Do not vilify this individual. Explain, instead, how China’s one-child policy—with its preference for male heirs—forced a fearful woman to abandon a child she loved.
Still, somewhere on the Internet, there’s got to be a way to keep them safe in the ground, where they can root and grow until they’re ready to push their way out. I have blue and white ones from Breck’s Bulbs this year sitting in the bulb fridge next to my husband’s fancy beers. They were my little treat to myself and I don’t want to lose them. It will be a tense winter waiting to see which ones survive the tree-rat onslaught and the frost, and take root to sprout and bloom in the spring, but there’s always hope.
In the car, I smell his night on him: beer, cigarettes, sweat, and the sad slurry of youthful stupidity and a concrete cell. I turn on the air. He leans his head against his window and closes his eyes. I pull away and down the street, easing us into the flow, tapping the blinker, the gas, and the button for my soft rock station. He groans and winds his arms in on his chest.
Gazing at the ceiling, Clancy lost himself in the trails and shadows of his mind and discovered the process of thought without thinking.
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