My Unborn Brother & Other Stories by Swetha Amit
Three new short stories by the wonderful Swetha Amit
My Unborn Brother
The day after I turned six, during summer vacation, Pa said I would have a baby brother in a few months. Together, we cleaned up my room to make space for the baby. I was excited to have a sibling finally. Being the only daughter, I felt lonely sometimes. All my friends had siblings. Ma was in her room resting. For a few weeks, I noticed her tummy getting bigger. I thought it was all that chocolate ice cream she'd been eating lately, besides the yucky egg yolks. Ma always told me to eat less sugar and fat and more vegetables. When I told her the same thing, she started crying. Pa said she was extra sensitive now and shushed me. "It's all those hormones," he said. I never understood what he meant.
Pa took me to the toy shop the next day to help him choose something for the baby. I was trying to think what my baby brother would like. A toy car? A stuffed toy? Pa took me to the rattle section and said the baby would like to play with a toy that made a jingling noise. Among the giraffe, zebra, and panda rattles displayed, I picked the panda. It had a cute face with a button-shaped nose and a polka-dotted red bow around its neck. I could imagine this in my baby brother’s hands. I named it Bobby and played with it daily, imagining how my baby brother would coo and giggle whenever I tickled him.
One Sunday morning, Ma came out of her room panicking. Her face was red from crying. Pa’s face was pale. He grabbed the car keys, ushered her downstairs, said something to Granny, and shut the door. I wondered if it was time for my baby brother to come out. I quickly drew a card with a sunflower and wrote, 'Welcome home.' Granny had come to live with us for a few weeks. I could hear her shuffling downstairs, muttering a prayer. I arranged my toys and placed the panda rattle on the cradle. Then the phone rang, and Granny picked it up. She gasped loudly and then spoke in whispers. Later, I heard the sound of her muffled sobs as she was preparing breakfast.
When I went downstairs, Granny was quiet, and there were traces of red in her eyes. She placed a plate of boiled eggs and toast on the table. The eggs were half-cooked, the way Ma liked it. The yolk spilled on my hands as I cracked them open. I wrinkled my nose. The rotten smell felt like the trash bags Papa always took out. I wonder how Ma could bear to eat them this way.
"The eggs are not cooked," I complained to Granny.
She quietly wiped the gooey yellow liquid from my hands and boiled another round of eggs. Then she sprayed some vanilla scent across the room, removing the bad egg smell. The flames were high, and I could hear the water making a sizzling noise. I nibbled on the buttered toast. There was silence until I asked about Ma.
Taking a deep breath, Granny muttered, "Your Ma will come home after a few days."
"What happened?" I persisted.
"Do not talk with your mouth full," she scolded me.
After some time, she switched off the stove and cracked open the eggs. The yolk was intact.
Granny looked at the new hard-boiled eggs wistfully. A tear rolled down her wrinkled cheek. She sprinkled pepper on the eggs, put them on a plate, and handed it to me. Then she shut herself in her room, leaving me to finish the eggs. Later, I went upstairs and played with the panda rattle.
A few days later, Pa brought Ma home. Her long blonde hair was tied into a bun. She looked thinner, and her tummy wasn't so big. I ran to hug her, but Pa said she needed rest.
“Where is my baby brother?” I quipped. Ma avoided looking at me. Pa quietly led Ma upstairs. Granny shut herself in her room.
Later that night, I heard Ma sobbing in the room next to mine, and Pa was comforting her. I could only hear a few words from their whispering.
I clutched the panda tightly and drifted away to sleep.
The following day, Granny and Pa were setting the breakfast table. Ma was still asleep. Pa took out the eggs from the carton. He accidentally dropped one while trying to put them on the table. The brown eggshell cracked open, and the marble-white floor was splattered with bright yellow liquid. The rotten trash bag smell filled the room. It was worse than that day when granny only half-cooked them. I felt like throwing up. The mess on the floor resembled the butterfly drawing I made in art class at school. As the teacher pointed out, the wings were short and uneven. It didn't feel right. Pa stared at the mess and suddenly left the room. Granny began to clean the floor and spray the room. When my tummy started to growl, Granny handed me an apple from the fruit bowl.
"But my eggs," I began.
"It will take time," she replied.
"Where is my baby brother?"
Granny had a sad expression. She stroked my head gingerly.
"Your Ma needs rest."
"But what happened to Ma?"
Granny picked up the broken eggshells.
"She will take some time to recover," she said.
After breakfast, I went upstairs and heard Pa tell Ma, in hushed tones, "It was so complicated…" His voice trailed off. Ma was sobbing.
I went into my room. My welcome card was still on the table, and the panda rattle was on the cradle. I picked the rattle up. The jiggling sound drowned out some of the noise of Ma crying and Pa trying to say something. I wondered if all that chocolate ice cream and raw egg yolk made Ma sick. I continued to shake the rattle harder.
The Night Walk
After putting the toddler to sleep, you step out for a little stroll. It’s chilly again, and you feel the slap of cold breeze on your face. You grab a large black jacket and tuck a thin, multicolored enamel bangle designed with flowers and butterflies in one of the packets. It was your husband’s first gift when you began dating almost twenty years ago, which your toddler found on the floor and began to suck on it. A time when your wrist was tiny enough to slip the bangle on. You try it on again, only to find it wouldn’t go past your knuckles. It hurt like hell. You manage to remove it with some soap.
You close the door after telling your husband to manage if the toddler walks up. He nods quietly, and his eyes are transfixed on the laptop screen. Ahead of you, the street is wrapped in darkness and silence except for an occasional rustle in the bushes, which you assume to be a raccoon. The sky above you is jet black, the shade your long, wavy, dark hair used to be a few years ago. Not a spec of grey cloud, you think enviously, ruing over the grey streaks sprouting on your thinning hair when you turned forty-two last year.
The houses in your neighborhood are sturdy and have weathered storms and earthquakes. There is a light burning in one of them. You see a couple, probably in their thirties, watching television. The man's arms are around the woman, the way your partner would snuggle up to you before the toddler was born. You stand outside that house in the darkness as muffled voices from the television drift into the air. You watch the couple throw back their heads and laugh while pangs of envy twirl in your flabby stomach.
You lean against a tree, watching the woman get up, holding an empty glass. You stare at her red dress, accentuating her slender waist, toned arms, and narrow hips. A passing car startles you. You almost lose your balance, but you grab hold of the tree as if your life is in danger. And you wonder if it would matter to anyone if you were gone. Another gust of wind blows. You tuck your hands into your jacket, which conceals your arms and chest. The bangle pokes you, and you immediately withdraw your hands. You can almost taste the flavorless cold air as it enters your mouth. The light inside the house goes off, leaving you alone in the darkness.
You decide to continue your stroll. Memories of those movie nights with your partner, rooftop dinner dates, or long night walks under the moonlit sky play in your mind like a bittersweet movie. It all feels like a distant dream. You think of the strained communication now, his long working hours, leaving you to quit your job and tend to the baby full-time. You try to comprehend the inexplicable change in him. You visualize him now typing on his laptop fervently, only to be interrupted if the toddler wakes up crying.
Above you, the sky lights up as the moon creeps out from the shadows. The entire road is suddenly bright. You feel like you are transitioning from one station of life to another on a speeding train. Your shoulders feel worn out from the days of constant cradling, burping, and feeding. Your hands look puffy. Your legs feel stiff and wobbly from those folds of fat. It has been a long time since you got any exercise, a stark contrast from those days of sweating it out in the gym before your tennis practices.
You pass a creek near your house and listen to the gurgling sound of water. You take out that bangle, stare at it briefly, and hurl it into the water. There is a loud splash before the gurgling sound resumes. Your shoulders strangely feel lighter as you walk back to your house and stand outside the door. Glancing up at the sky, you detect a face on the moon carrying traces of unhappiness. You smell the damp grass and feel wistful as you think about that hike in the rain where your partner proposed and later caressed your face lovingly. You wonder if he would ever look at you the same way again?
You suddenly see puffs of swirling clouds eclipse the moon. Drops of water trickle from the sky and sting your bare face. You hurriedly open the front door and retreat inside. Your husband is still on his laptop and barely looks up. You slip into an empty bed, listening to the gentle pitter-patter sound of rain on the roof. You close your eyes and feel your knuckles. It’s still a little sore. You pray the rain doesn't elapse into a thunderstorm. You don't want the toddler to wake up crying. You are tired and worn out. Everything seems peaceful at the moment. You hope the soreness subsides and the clouds dissipate with time.
Dreaming About That Fawn
I dream of that fawn again. The one with a dark line from its left eye that looks like a black tear. It has pointed ears and tiny white dots on its golden skin. In my dream, the fawn is scampering on the side trail road that leads to the Stanford Dish, trying to find its way home. And I am on the opposite side of the road, watching the fawn warily while waiting for the traffic lights to turn green. The fawn is staring at the cars whizzing by on the highway. I try to catch its eye and signal it to turn back and go home. But it never looks at me. My heart beats loudly at the thought of the fawn stepping on the road unknowingly. Every time, I wake up with a piercing scream until my throat is parched, and my eyes burn as though they are on fire.
I've never been fond of trails or hiking. I'm content in the cocoon of my research lab, conducting experiments. I can't understand the repeated appearance of this fawn in my dreams. Later, I learned that dreaming of a deer symbolizes compassion and gentleness—words I have been asked to instill in my soul for the past two years after that dreadful accident.
That incident always leaves me with a lump in my throat. I yearn to wipe away those memories forever. I wish to gaze into those black gem-like eyes and seek forgiveness. I want my voice to rise above the car horns and reach the fawn so that it can hear me say, "Stop, don't run on the road." I want to grasp its brown skin and hold it close. I imagine soothing it with comforting words and drowning out all those accusatory voices haunting my mind.
The voices that blamed me for being a phone addict and neglecting your whereabouts. The voices that labeled me selfish and irresponsible. All because I had to answer that emergency work call, and I thought you were playing on the slide and swings, not realizing you had strayed outside the safe haven of the lush green park. I noticed you were nowhere in sight until I heard the loud screeching noise of the brakes and the thud sound. I tripped and fell on the path trying to get to you and bruised my knee. But it was too late.
One night, I find myself walking barefoot on the street outside my home. The cold breeze slaps my face, and I shiver in my plain white nightgown. It's pitch black, and all I can see are shadowy silhouettes of the trees. I am not sure how I got here. I call out to the fawn, hoping it can hear me. “Don't venture far from your home. Your family is waiting for you.” I continue screaming until my voice turns hoarse. I only stop when I hear the screeching sound of a car’s brakes. The headlights blur my vision.
