by AHWA
I see a girl walk out about my age, she’s walking with what I assume is her mother. She’s leaning on her a little, but not much. Her face is pale and she looks a bit disoriented, a bit lost. But no tears. No emotional displays. It’s all a bit muted, just like the sky.
We go inside. I see the counsellor I spoke to at the clinic and she gives me a smile as she comes over. I don’t feel like talking, so I don’t. Dad talks to her instead. She asks how I’m feeling and I shrug. I don’t know how I feel. I don’t feel angry or sad. Just nothing.
There are forms to be filled in and signed. And then we wait. It’s awkward, like saying goodbye to someone at the airport and then their flight’s delayed; no one knows what to say.
I sit a little away from them, my hands resting on my stomach. Dad’s just staring out in front of him and Jake’s flicking through a car magazine; he turns the pages until he gets to the end and then starts again.
I watch them and because I watch them they don’t look at me. Don’t dare lift their eyes and make contact. I guess if they did they’d feel like they might have to say something and I don’t want that any more than they do, I just want to sit here feeling the bump beneath my t-shirt. It’s not much of a bump, maybe I’m even imagining that there is one, just to … well, I don’t really know why.
I picture it inside of me, like one of those photos you see: a little red bean with a black eye floating around in there, minding its own business, unaware of the world outside. Or it could be bigger than that now? I’m not sure; I can’t remember what they said in Biology class.
I think it’s in there and it’s scared. Poor little bean.
And then I think, no it’s not, that’s impossible—I can’t feel anything. Just emptiness. There’s nothing there and there never was and this is all a big mistake. I should just leave. Get up and walk out of here, there’s nothing stopping me, not really. What can they actually do—Dad and Jake? But I continue sitting there trying to sense it, trying to do more than imagine something which seems to slip out of reach just when I think I’ve got it. Felt it. Believed in it.
And when the nurse comes over and asks me to go with her, I do. Because there’s nothing else that can be done.
* * *
After it’s all over I ask for the parts.
I say, “Put them in a jar for me. Put them in a jar and I’ll take them home.”
They do. They put them in a jar filled with that special liquid that preserves stuff, you know, like you see in labs with animals or body parts floating in them; snakes and brains. They put them in a jar and give them to me. Because that’s what I asked for. That’s what I wanted. And the nurse looks very solemn, almost grave, as she hands it over. Which is only right, because of what’s in the jar.
It’s bigger than I thought, than I imagined. More formed. This surprises me as I really believed, deep down, when I’m being honest with myself, that it did not exist. Even with the test results and all the appointments and discussions, it was really all just pretend. I was pretending, they were pretending, we were all pretending so we could make a fuss about something. Have something happen instead of just carrying on as we were.
Looking at it, I wonder how long it would have taken to have felt real.
* * *
Jake’s gone when I come through. Dad doesn’t mention it and neither do I.
I tell my dad, “I’m going to take the bus home.” He looks concerned when I say this but I feel okay considering, and so that’s what I do. I take the bus.
I sit at the back of the bus, right in the middle so I’m looking down the centre of the aisle. I sit there and hold the jar on my lap. I hold it firmly with both hands. I feel I could hug it close to my body, close to my heart and tits, tight as if I’ll never let it go. I feel I could do this, but I don’t as I want to look inside the jar. Look at the pieces floating around in there. The individual bits. Where they were torn from each other and how they should fit together.
And so this is what I do; I sit and look.
And so do the other passengers.
Some of them crane their heads right around to have a look. Others, facing my way, peek from behind newspapers or from the corner of their eye.
A woman in the seat in front wiggles her fingers at the jar, cooing. She has soft skin like dough and I can see thick white hairs protruding from her chin. She smells like potpourri and cigarettes.
“Ain’t he sweet. It’s a boy, right?” She says in a phlegm-filled voice.
“Yeah,” I say, “a boy.”
“He’s a lovely little fella. Got your eyes.”
And I hold the jar tighter, beaming with pride. “He does, my eyes and mouth. But his dad’s nose. His daddy’s got a pushed up nose just like that.”
“You’re very lucky,” she says approvingly.
I nod and smile and agree, because I am lucky.
“And,” she adds, “he’s so quiet. Barely a peep.”
“I know,” I say, quickly adding so as not to jinx myself: “touch wood he stays that way.”
And we both touch our heads and laugh. It feels nice to laugh even if the joke is lame.
We look into the jar and watch him. And he stares right back not blinking once.
“Ballsy little bugger, isn’t he?” She says, grinning.
“Yup. Don’t know who he gets that from.” And I think about what type of person he’s going to be, whether he’ll be more like me or more like his dad. What bits he’ll take from each of us and what traits he’ll develop all of his own. It frightens and excites me and I hold the jar close covering him from view, covering him from other eyes.
The woman smiles at me, she’s not offended, and asks “What’s his name?” as she presses the button for her stop.
“David.” I answer without hesitation.
“Suits him,” she says getting up and waving, “Well, good luck, darl’.”
And I smile and nod because she’s nice, and because I know I won’t need luck. I know everything’s going to be just as it should be.
* * *
When I get home the car is missing. Dad must still be out. Maybe he went to Uncle Jeff’s. Or maybe he didn’t. I’m not really concerned, I’m just glad that I’m alone.
Gerbil, our cat, comes mewing out of the shadows and wraps himself around my legs, moving in and out, round and round. He had another name once but I don’t remember what. Dad just kept calling him fur-ball, and then I would singsong ‘Gerbil the fur-ball’ at mealtimes and at night. And so Gerbil stuck. Funny how stuff like that happens. Things start out as one thing and turn into another. Or maybe it’s not really funny; maybe that’s just the way it is. Like with me and Jake and how we were at the beginning and how we are right now. Where we’ve ended up. Different: both of us, not just as Izzy and Jake, but singly. As individuals.
I think about that as Gerbil starts rolling around in the dust, how Jake and I were crazy for each other when we first met. I reckon we said our ‘I love you’s’ within three weeks. And the thing is we did. Or at least I did. The feeling just leapt up all over me and I felt giggly and sick whenever I knew I was going to see him. When we were together it felt just right. It felt like we could talk forever and never run out of things to say but we could also shut up and just sit or lay about together in silence without it feeling awkward or weird. It was as if we’d known each other our whole lives.
And when we were apart, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. I would even imagine our wedding; all the people we would invite and how it would be a party in a garden, not in a church and not stuffy and formal. I’m not religious, so I just think that would be weird. I’d feel like a fake standing there with a priest or a Father or whatever, being solemn and talking about how we were in the presence of God. So it would be outside with lots of tables set out, a bit like a tea party. And the
re would be baskets of hydrangeas hanging above, different colours: blues and pinks and purples. And loads of little fairy lights and lanterns. In my head it would have been perfect with family and friends dancing and having fun, and my dad making a speech, nothing long but really sweet, and Jake and me getting teary because that’s what happens. You cry because you are so happy.
But in truth I didn’t really account for Jake in the whole thing. Jake would’ve most likely gotten drunk with his friends, ended up out on the road in their cars doing burn-outs, and then the cops would be called in, and it would just be this horrible mess.
Or he would’ve run off into the darkness, ended up in some park, freaking out because he was pissed and that’s what he did a lot: got drunk, got scared, and ran away. Sometimes with another girl. And I could never find him till he turned up of his own accord.
But I think I did that a lot about Jake: ignored the reality and carried on with the fantasy, regardless. So I guess that’s why I was so shocked at his reaction when I told him the news. Past experience should have warned me otherwise, but I was so excited and caught up in it all. Thought it was the real beginning of our life together. That he would stop running and finally stand still, with me. That’s what was in my head as I’m saying the words. And as I say them, it’s weird but I could see him slipping away. Moving out of reach even though there he is, sitting right next to me. His body all rigid and his face really still, like Jake’s up and left his body behind, and there’s nothing I can do about it because there’s nothing to grab on to. Nothing that’s Jake, anyway. He’s just found a new way to run away. And my voice is getting higher as I’m trying to get him excited, trying to get him to see that this is a good thing, something to celebrate, not to be scared of.
And when I finish I’m trembling and he’s not moving or saying anything. In the silence, I take a deep breath and my voice wavers but I get the words out—“You still love me, right?”
And he says “yes” in a voice that means ‘no’. The way he says it is like he hates me and I sort of feel like throwing up or banging my head really hard against something to ease the pressure that’s building up inside.
But I don’t do either.
I just ask him to go home and think about what I’ve said and tell me what he wants to do when he has. He pauses by the door on the way out and looks as if he might say something, just for a moment. But instead he gets this expression that’s kind of shitty and scared all at once, and walks out.
When I think back now, what I hate most is myself. I hate the stupid question I ask and the way I ask it, like a dumb kid all frightened of what might happen. Because now I don’t care about his answer to that question.
Couldn’t give a rat’s arse.
Because now I know what it means to really love something.
* * *
I leave Gerbil outside even though he’s begging to come in. You have to be careful with babies and cats. Cats can be dangerous because they get jealous and then try to suffocate the baby by sitting on its head. Or at least that’s what I’ve been told.
The house is dark and quiet and cool. I don’t bother to turn the lights on; it feels nice in the darkness. It makes me feel like there’s no one else in the world. No one but me and the jar. Me and David.
I place the jar on the kitchen table and wash my face at the sink. I dry my face with a tea-towel. I bury my face right into it, breathing in egg and damp. My face probably smells like that now but I still feel cleaner than before.
I pick up the jar and take it upstairs to my room. I sit on the floor and carefully take all the pieces out. David’s on the floor in front of me now. He’s watching me with inquisitive eyes.
My son has inquisitive eyes.
My eyes.
His father’s nose.
I arrange the pieces just so and bite my lip thinking, what next? I can’t sew. I’m terrible and I reckon that might hurt.
I go downstairs and get some tape. Not the industrial type, that’s pretty harsh and ugly, but the type you use for wrapping presents.
It takes me a while but I get there in the end. I do a good job too. He’s perfect. Just as he should be.
I hold him and we look at each other for a while. He’s going to know me. Know just who I am. And I’ll know him and that’s what we’ll have, a knowing of each other. A knowing and still loving.
He stretches out his neck like a turtle from its shell and squeezes his eyes shut. Tongue flickers out, lips smack, suckling air.
I go and sit up by the window so he can see the view as he feeds. Outside the sky has turned a brilliant shade of pink. I feel like it’s blushing at the sight of my son at my bare tit. Not because it’s gross or pervy, but because it’s kind of a private moment.
Looking out, I feel peaceful. The view’s not especially beautiful, in fact my neighbourhood is kind of ugly; all concrete and yellow brick. But from up here I can see the tops of a few lonely gums. Their blue is washed with the pink of the sky and there are a load of birds flying in and around them, calling to each other. I sit and listen to them and to the sound of David feeding. It’s quiet and noisy all at the same time. From here I can imagine that I’m somewhere else, that I have my own little house out in the country, far away from anyone else. A house that looks like it’s grown up from out of the ground and is surrounded by eucalyptus trees and wild flowers. Not like the rows of carefully manicured roses around here; red and yellow ones that clash with the houses. I never thought flowers could look out of place anywhere until we moved here.
And I know it might seem silly, but I see me sitting in a rocking chair on the porch. Sitting and rocking and feeding David. Playing with David. Talking to him and telling him how I feel and what my dreams are for us. I think how nice it’ll be, just the two of us, with Dad occasionally visiting.
And I close my eyes, because I’m so very tired, and half dream of this. Half dream because I’m holding David and I don’t want to drop him. I don’t want to be a bad mother.
And in the distance I hear a car pull up. I hear the door open and shut and Dad’s voice. He’s calling out. Calling out from downstairs. Calling my name. I open my eyes and sit up.
And I can’t help but think his voice sounds a little frantic, a little bit concerned.
But it will be ok, I think. He’ll feel better once he holds David. Once he holds his grandson for the first time.
And I settle back, shut my eyes, and wait.
Glenn Chadbourne
In the Art,The Dark with David Schembri
It’s difficult to view the landscape of Glenn Chadbourne’s portfolio and not be impressed. The American artist has been crafting artwork for the horror and fantasy genres his entire career, with works of terror, mood and complexity published in over fifty publications. Chadbourne’s best known pieces exist within the pages of Cemetery Dance Magazine, Subterranean Press and Earthling Publications. A noteworthy appearance was his artistry in Stephen King’s Secretary of Dreams, Volume 1 and 2, and a powerful edition of King’s Colorado Kid.
Join me now as I talk with Chadbourne, not only about his past and current works—one which is published exclusively for this issue—but also venturing back to the early days in Maine.
Where it all began.
* * *
In a quiet street near the town of Damariscotta, there was a child that lived inside his own imagination. Some children that grow-up where there are no others to spend playful hours with take to whatever comes naturally.
A young Glenn Chadbourne began to draw.
From the young hands of an aspiring artist came images of a spooky nature, and when speaking of his first inspirations, Glenn reflects:
“When I was a little kid the TV stations around here—that was long before cable showed Creature Feature films on weekends, and I remember drawing the assorted g
houls and ghosties I saw on the old flicks. I was probably six or seven at the time.”
Through countless pieces of artwork that saw his style develop, Glenn was finally able to sell his work. I asked him if he could describe that first moment of publication.
“I won a cartoon drawing contest in Cerebus Comics that was a series about an adventurous aardvark aimed at adult humor and situations. That was my first ‘published’ work. The feeling was orgasmic! As far as support goes, teachers at grade school then high school always encouraged me, along with a host of friends.”
After achieving publication, Glenn allowed inspiration to flourish and he wrote, illustrated and self-published a couple of comics titled ChillVille and Farmers Fiend’s Horror Harvest. It would be wonderful to see the covers or samples of these early books, but Glenn regrets to say, “God, I wish I still had some of my old comics kicking around to show off, alas those are long gone … ”
A shame, I know, but hey, we could at least grab a tiny insight to what he was thinking at the time. Glenn says: “My ideas just sort of dripped out of my brain onto the page. I was influenced by genre stuff I’d read and seen over the years of course.”
Chadbourne went on to see publication in magazines and comics, and I thought it would be interesting to know if his style of art required adjustments in technique to meet the growing demand for his work.
“Quite honestly, I still do things the same way I have since childhood; same table, pens brushes, etc. Of course practice makes perfect, so I’d like to think I’ve gotten a bit better at certain things over time. Some jobs demand specific realistic things and they tend to draw, pardon the pun, that out of me. Basically though, I do things the way I always have,” Glenn says.
The publications kept coming in Chadbourne’s career, counting into over fifty books and a multitude of comics and magazines. A noteworthy achievement that has shed a great light on his portfolio, was the work he had done for Stephen King’s Secretary of Dreams. Glenn now reflects on how this opportunity came about.