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Authors: Hannah Pittard
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ones she’d arrived with in Arizona. She preferred it this way. It made her feel like the genderless thing that she’d wished all along she could be.
The babies were easy. They were good and simple. They preferred the Mexican to Nora, which Nora didn’t mind because she, too, preferred the Mexican. Postpartum depression would have been too strong an expression, too dark, too complicated. There was no depression; there was simply a lack of connection, perhaps a lack of reality. In part, you could blame the fact that they were twins. They were so content with each other that it made sense for Nora to become more an overseer, a protector, than a mother. Most days, she was nothing more than a glorified babysitter or an affectionate but ultimately uninterested older sister.
The Mexican loved them all. It was from him that the girls would learn about love. Not that there wasn’t a tenderness to Nora. There was. A great deal of tenderness, but it was the tenderness of a hospice nurse—of one committed to caring but too familiar with pain and parting to ever truly or fully invest.
L et’s say it was a summer night. One that was uncharacteristically hot, even for Arizona. It was like this—it had to be like this—because heat alone—isolated, confined—can make a person crazy, can turn a good thing bad, if only for a moment. And don’t forget that we like the Mexican. We like him because, like us, he loves Nora. He has cared for Nora and her two babies. So let’s say it was hot. Let’s say there was enough heat to excuse any sin, any crime, any transgression, just this once.
It was night. The babies were asleep. They’d been in their crib for several hours, fingers intermingled just as Nora had once imagined them when they were still womb-locked, body-bound. Perhaps they sucked on one another’s thumbs that night, a habit they’d taken to only recently, one that turned Nora’s stomach, though she couldn’t explain why.
The house smelled like milk. It smelled like milk every night, the way that Chuck Goodhue’s house smelled when his aunt and her new baby came to visit. Nora took refuge outdoors, poolside in her folding chair. She’d dived in just before midnight, the Mexican still not home, and she sat now with her legs stretched out before her, her wet hair hanging loose over the top of the chair, her underwear dripping wet, her tiny nipples hardened by the faintest breeze coming up through the mint garden.
She didn’t hear the Mexican come in, but she saw the light from the kitchen hit the bank of the pool. At first nothing was different. Everything was the same. But when he opened the sliding glass door and waited in its frame, she understood.
“I am a man,” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “Of course.”
He followed her to the bedroom. He was crying. She pulled down the sheet and got in bed, then she slipped off her underpants and turned away from him.
“Take off your clothes,” she said.
“I am a monster,” he said. Even drunk, he overarticulated.
“You are a man,” she said.
It was fast, quiet.
Afterwards he turned away from her. It was Nora that held the Mexican that night. Their backs to the swimming pool, his back pressed into her chest, she held him, her hands locked tight against his stomach, just as he’d held her every night before the babies were born.
And Nora, possessing the bittersweet wisdom of premature motherhood, already knew what we could only imagine, that the Mexican would be hurt more than she by these events, would be more humiliated, more embarrassed, more ashamed. Out of pride, disgrace, or some feeling too strong to bear in the company of others, the Mexican would want to leave her.
He was crying still. She squeezed a piece of his skin between her fingers.
“I am disgusting,” he said.
She squeezed harder. “Don’t go,” she said. “Just please don’t go away from us.”
In the morning, he left her in bed alone and went to the babies. It was
The babies were easy. They were good and simple. They preferred the Mexican to Nora, which Nora didn’t mind because she, too, preferred the Mexican. Postpartum depression would have been too strong an expression, too dark, too complicated. There was no depression; there was simply a lack of connection, perhaps a lack of reality. In part, you could blame the fact that they were twins. They were so content with each other that it made sense for Nora to become more an overseer, a protector, than a mother. Most days, she was nothing more than a glorified babysitter or an affectionate but ultimately uninterested older sister.
The Mexican loved them all. It was from him that the girls would learn about love. Not that there wasn’t a tenderness to Nora. There was. A great deal of tenderness, but it was the tenderness of a hospice nurse—of one committed to caring but too familiar with pain and parting to ever truly or fully invest.
L et’s say it was a summer night. One that was uncharacteristically hot, even for Arizona. It was like this—it had to be like this—because heat alone—isolated, confined—can make a person crazy, can turn a good thing bad, if only for a moment. And don’t forget that we like the Mexican. We like him because, like us, he loves Nora. He has cared for Nora and her two babies. So let’s say it was hot. Let’s say there was enough heat to excuse any sin, any crime, any transgression, just this once.
It was night. The babies were asleep. They’d been in their crib for several hours, fingers intermingled just as Nora had once imagined them when they were still womb-locked, body-bound. Perhaps they sucked on one another’s thumbs that night, a habit they’d taken to only recently, one that turned Nora’s stomach, though she couldn’t explain why.
The house smelled like milk. It smelled like milk every night, the way that Chuck Goodhue’s house smelled when his aunt and her new baby came to visit. Nora took refuge outdoors, poolside in her folding chair. She’d dived in just before midnight, the Mexican still not home, and she sat now with her legs stretched out before her, her wet hair hanging loose over the top of the chair, her underwear dripping wet, her tiny nipples hardened by the faintest breeze coming up through the mint garden.
She didn’t hear the Mexican come in, but she saw the light from the kitchen hit the bank of the pool. At first nothing was different. Everything was the same. But when he opened the sliding glass door and waited in its frame, she understood.
“I am a man,” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “Of course.”
He followed her to the bedroom. He was crying. She pulled down the sheet and got in bed, then she slipped off her underpants and turned away from him.
“Take off your clothes,” she said.
“I am a monster,” he said. Even drunk, he overarticulated.
“You are a man,” she said.
It was fast, quiet.
Afterwards he turned away from her. It was Nora that held the Mexican that night. Their backs to the swimming pool, his back pressed into her chest, she held him, her hands locked tight against his stomach, just as he’d held her every night before the babies were born.
And Nora, possessing the bittersweet wisdom of premature motherhood, already knew what we could only imagine, that the Mexican would be hurt more than she by these events, would be more humiliated, more embarrassed, more ashamed. Out of pride, disgrace, or some feeling too strong to bear in the company of others, the Mexican would want to leave her.
He was crying still. She squeezed a piece of his skin between her fingers.
“I am disgusting,” he said.
She squeezed harder. “Don’t go,” she said. “Just please don’t go away from us.”
In the morning, he left her in bed alone and went to the babies. It was
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