The midwife wipes afterbirth from the baby’s forehead and rubs the vernix back into his skin. The mother lies back, breasts fallen slack at her sides. She does not reach for the baby, but for herself — arms curled over her emptied stomach.
The midwife gathers the baby into her sagging bosom and tucks the blanket beneath his chin. He quiets against her. A bead of milk gathers at her nipple. She smiles as it slips down her stomach.
The mother glances up at the bleached ceiling, eyes straining to focus.
Her gaze drifts down to her baby, nestled in the midwife’s arms. She had carried him inside her, felt the outline of his feet beneath her taut skin. He came from her. Still, she does not recognize him.
His eyes are open. She searches them for something — a spark, a claim, a tether — but finds only her own reflection.
She had imagined someone warm, milk-sweet, already hers. But this blinking being, with eyes too steady for a newborn, is something else.
She wants to touch him. To know the curve of his nose, the softness of his cheeks. Her finger trembles above his face. The midwife’s arm remains between them.
“The baby knows,” the midwife says, already turning toward the door.
The child nuzzles at the midwife’s shirt, rooting at the damp fabric.
Pressing a thumb into the tender swell of her stomach, the mother startles at its buoyancy — how it gives, then slowly rises again.
“I’ll see to him.”
Eyes closed, the mother listens to the midwife’s creaking hips, the click of the door.
Beyond the door, the baby does not cry.
Originally published in Scuzzbucket.
seems scary, so much more to come.