Fishing for Babies

Caroline Hodson

When he walked into work his hair was wet. Helen thought it was strange that she didn’t know it was raining outside. There were no windows in that part of the building. He looked good wet, and red in the face.
“G’morning, Helen,” he said.
“Same to you,” she said.
“Workin’ on Saturday.”
“Yes. On through Sunday.”
“Boss got us both,” he said. “Funny how we always get backed up with entries and have to come in like this.”
“Well, people have to get paid.”
“Yeah, but you’d think they’d get a better system by now,” he said. “Something more reliable than us.”
“You always say that.”
“And you say, ‘Then we wouldn’t have jobs.’”
“Then we wouldn’t have jobs,” she said.
“Well, ‘though it’s predictable, it’s good to have your company,” he said.

A long cold Saturday rolled by and the employees went home. Helen walked to her car, a bagged dinner in hand, and prepared herself for a long commute home.
It was late when Helen entered her house. She leaned against the front door and closed her eyes, preparing herself to rest. It’s good to have your company. He was there, in the far back of her mind, and her shoulders released tension. He had become a part of her nightly routine. She took care to adhere to the sequence. It began when she locked the front door and stripped down to her undergarments. Stretched her arms and back. Brushed her teeth. Her chest would thump with anticipation as she circled the toothbrush along rows of small teeth.
The fantasy always started when she spit mint foam down the drain. She leaned against the sink and thought of him with her fingers. An inhale turned into a crisp sea breeze and she could smell salt. As she turned off the faucet, his hands would appear and send a sea-wave down her throat. And then she was sun soaked and would let him press her to the cold porcelain sink. A strong trout flopped just below her navel. He cast out his baited hook to the fish, and it always caught with tension. A struggle. She slid down to the floor and onto the white bathroom mat. The line caught hard and the sea released itself back onto the shoreline. Then he would lightly kiss down her legs, thanking the ocean and releasing the hooks. And she was able to sleep.

At lunch, Helen sat alone and peered out the break room window. She watched the rain hit hard against the pavement, all the time thinking where does all the water go? And then she thought of him in the other room and watched as a sea swept in from the east. Giant pelicans appeared and circled high above, as cars transformed into little boats. Waves of water carried the boats, and fishermen cast their poles into the deep. Good luck, she smiled to them. A fish flipped inside her and she held tightly to her stomach.
“You feeling alright?” he stood beside her.
“A little nauseous, but fine,” she said. She looked back out onto the parking lot, and the sea was gone.
“Flu?” he said.
“Who knows,” she laughed. “Or I could be pregnant.”
“That’s wonderful,” he said.
“Yeah,” she stammered. “Really unbelievable.” The truth hung for a moment in the back of her throat, but she swallowed it down. She kept the lie. She remembered seeing his screensaver flash a picture of a pregnant woman in a black bathing suit. Helen thought about where she could buy a black bathing suit.
He looked at her ring-less finger.
“I know,” she said. She took a pen from her front pocket, and drew a dark circle around her ring-finger. “Better?” she asked.
“Better,” he said. To her, the black ink looked remarkably similar to his crisp gold.
“Whose baby?” he said. “If you don’t mind me asking.”
Yours, she thought. “Immaculate,” she said.

Eight months passed and her stomach stayed flat. He watched her, but didn’t say a word. She bought prenatal vitamins and parenting books, which were stacked on her desk. Along the sides of her computer screen, small yellow notes displayed her favorite baby names: Noel, Peter, Sean and his name. Her body remained flat and her cheeks pale.
Yet, something was growing inside her. It began as a worm-like organism, and she fed it sweet fruits. Then she felt it morph into a white bear cub and she sang and growled softly to it. Finally, it developed into a little boy with gills, and she drank salt water, leaving her lips raw. Every night she would care for the small creature after she finished brushing her teeth, and then wait for his hands to appear and the gilled-boy to flop just below her navel.
At ten months, she flipped her calendar to November, and rewrote Due in red pen. She did the same for December and January and drew little pictures of rattles and fishing rods. It was January when he led Helen into the stairwell during lunch.
“How are you holding up?” he asked.
“I’ve never felt healthier,” she said, thinking about the black suit in her top dresser drawer.
“I’m so sorry about the baby,” he said.
“What?” she said.
“The miscarriage,” he said. “I just wanted to let you know that it happened to my wife a year ago.”
Helen flushed and stared back into his pale eyes.
“You shouldn’t have to go through this on your own,” he said, and stepped closer, smoothing his hands over her stomach. “You’re not alone,” he said.
His hands were cold and weightless against her shirt. She found nothing familiar about them and wondered how such hands created the child inside her. They carried a silence and she felt her baby was thirsty. She had to give it water and his hands were taking it from her. He had both his arms around her before she realized she was crying. Her sobs echoed down through six flights of stairs.
“I don’t want you to take it,” she said into his chest. The gilled-child flopped and gasped and shook, but the sea had dried up and the baby died cold inside her.
“Take what?” he said, still holding her against his chest.
“The swimsuit won’t fit without him. You can’t just take that away.”
She pushed off him and felt the silence that was once the boy.
He stepped forward saying, “Let me get you home and in bed.”
“Don’t touch me,” she said. “I’m not your wife.”