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ADELAIDE Independent Quarterly Literary Magazine / Revista Literária Independente Trimestral, New York / Lisboa, Online Edition  

 

 

 

 

 

 

TO SWAY LIKE A WILLOW IN THE WIND
By Abraham Myers

 

"I think this time it's real," she said.

He ran his hand down his face and sighed. "It's not."

"How do you know? It could be?"

"It's not."

They sat at the kitchen table, and he watched as she lifted her shirt and ran her hand along her belly.

"But I can feel the baby."

He looked away from her, out the window at the white picket fence that surrounded their yard.

"Are you picturing our baby playing in the front yard?"

He glanced at her and took her hand. The ceiling fan squeaked each time it turned, and the sound thundered against his eardrums. He wanted to rip it from the ceiling and throw it across the room. But he gently held her hand, circling his thumb around the wedding ring he had so recently placed on her finger.

"I know you don't believe me," she said. "It's okay."

"It's not okay." He released her hand.

"I know you're going to say it's not possible. That I can't have kids."

"Do you remember what the doctor said?"

"Oh," she waved her hand, "what does he know?"

He looked back out the window. The white fence gleamed in the sunlight as a kid rode past it on his bicycle, and the Willow across the street swayed in the wind.

"Do you remember why the doctor told you...." He paused, trying to find the right words: "what he told you."

"He thinks I'm sterile."

He shook his head.

"But he's wrong. I'm pregnant." She grabbed his hand and placed it on her belly. "Can't you feel it?"
He jerked his hand away. "You have to stop this."

"I can't just stop being pregnant."

"You're not pregnant."

"How do you know? Are you a doctor now?"

"I don't have to be a doctor."

"Well then tell me, Mr. Doctor, how do you know?"

He looked at her and let out a breath. He had to try and stay calm.

"Well?" she asked.

He didn't say anything for a while. He just stared out the window.  But she was looking at him, and he knew she was waiting for an answer.

"We've been through this so many times," he said, blinking back tears.

"I think I was pregnant before, and lost the baby."

"You weren't."

"I think you made me lose it."

He swiveled his eyes toward her. He was trying hard not to be angry. Her psychiatrist had told him that getting angry at her wouldn't help.

He sucked in a breath, and took her hand again. "I'm going to show you something now, and I want you to stay calm."

"I'm calm."

He left her at the table, and went into the bedroom. He stared at the stack of pregnancy tests on the dresser, then opened the top drawer and got out the picture. He looked at it. A young man in a suit and tie looked back at him. He took it into the dining room and laid it on the table in front of her.
"No." She shook her head and pushed it away.

He pushed it back in front of her. "Look at it."

"It's not true." She started to cry.

He felt the tears on his own face now. "It is true."

"It's not. I'm telling you, I'm pregnant."

He didn't say anything for a full minute. He just watched her eyes as they shifted back and forth between him and the picture.

"You know I love you," he said.

She nodded.

"And you know when I look at you, I only see a woman."

She picked up the picture and ran her thumb across the glossy surface. "But I'm changed. They changed me. I don't look like this anymore."

"They did change you. And you're beautiful. But there are some things that doctors can't change."

"But why can I feel it inside me?"

"Because you're not well. The psychiatrist says it sometimes happens like this. The schizophrenia, it makes you do....even think, strange things. That's why he gave you the medications. But you have to take them."

He went to the cabinet and brought out the prescription bottle. He sat it in front of her.

"But won't the pills hurt the baby?"

He sat and looked out the window again at the white picket fence. He looked back at her, and she was still looking at him, the question in her eyes.

"Is that why you haven't been taking them?"

She nodded, the tears rolling down her cheeks and over her lips.

"Just take one." He looked back out the window. "It won't hurt the baby."

"Are you sure?" She picked up the bottle and read the label.

"I'm sure." He watched the sun gleam off the white fence. The Willow swayed as the wind blew its branches back and forth. He wanted to be that Willow--to sway with the wind, to not be rigid, and to bend with the blow of life's breezes.

 

 

 

abraham myers

About the Author:

Abraham Myers is 42 years old, has a passion for helping others, and a love for all things literary. Focusing on stories about everyday people living everyday lives, he hopes to shine a spotlight on those that are often overlooked. Believing that all people are special and have something to say, his days are spent not only writing short stories and novels but also giving encouragement to other writers, helping them to express themselves. He resides in Michigan with his wife and two beautiful autistic children.

 

 

 

 

 

     
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