My Own Voice

by Uvi Poznansky

  With him, every little thing is huge—or else he’s gonna make it so. And every gesture—even as trivial as a wink—can be a trigger, like, for a whole big drama, which may be the case here, in this story. I’m gonna read it later. I have time. At least, I think I do.

  Here’s another crumpled page, which is nearly empty—except for a single sentence, parts of which is crossed out. Between the scratches, it reads:

  He’s gone, but still, I’m thinking about him, about how he has touched on that time, the lost time nearly five years ago, when I went out the door, swearing I won’t come back to him, not ever. What he hasn’t said—and what left such a bitter taste in my mouth—is how he told me, back then, You are a nice kid. Go, go back to where you came from. Go back to your mama.

  These are my words—not his.

  I’m so surprised to find them here, suddenly on paper. I bet he hit Rewind, Rewind, Rewind and ended up going back more than he’d intended, which is how he found what I’d said on tape that night, when I couldn’t fall asleep, on account of that nightmare.

  I reckon he listened. Yes. He did.

  Now I ain’t sure how I feel about that. Part of me is glad; the other, not so much. I take the page with me, ‘cause like, even if it’s in his hand—or maybe because of it—this a part of me, of who I am.

  And I go inside, into the living room, and sit there, on the piano bench, and lay my head on the surface, which covers the keyboard of the piano, which is kinda cool to the touch. And then I dream.

  I dream about Lenny: How he’s gonna come home this evening, and ask me to tell him something again, about myself, and about things I remember, things I’m painting in my head. After a while he’s gonna go away, leaving me alone with the tape recorder.

  Record. Stop.

  Once my story is done, he’s gonna come back to take some notes, and edit them over and again, scratching and erasing all night long, and like, going into the trouble of finding a way—just the right way—to carry my voice in letters, and in marks.

  I reckon it won’t easy for him to fix the way I talk—and at the same time, remain true to how I tell it, and to the feel, the real feel of how it happened.

  I can just see Lenny in my head: He’s gonna torture himself trying, somehow, to do it, so that tomorrow morning, at exactly the same time, when I’m gonna be sitting here again, on this very bench, I’m gonna be startled to find—out there on his desk—a gift.

  A little something from him to me: A little piece of paper, scribbled side to side, top to bottom, with dense writing, and barely a space between the words.

  As usual, it would seem as if he’s sucked up all them spaces, because—even when he gives—Lenny don’t really want you to get it. Or else, he wants you to work hard at getting it.

  And even then, he wants you to figure out only small parts, some here, some there. Any which way, it won’t help him. I’m gonna get it, ‘cause them spaces, and the lack of them, may be his—but the words are mine.

  I’m gonna snatch the paper, and find myself blown away, ‘cause right there—in his hand, black on white—I’m gonna read the scrawl, the words of my voice, my own voice:

  I’m here, and this is amazing.

  And then:

  Crumpled in front of me is his first attempt at telling my story.

  Above All, Survival

  Chapter 9

  I don’t know how we got to this place, Lenny and me, and I don’t really care to know. Let’s just say that what’s happening between us isn’t exactly clear. Yes, let’s leave it at that. At first I tried to tell myself he won’t touch me because of the pregnancy. I refused to admit that the heat between us had been cooling off even before that—but now, like, there’s no warmth left here no more.

  Like ma used to say, when she called her customers to offer her usual special—I mean, the three dollar palm reading special—she said, “No, really? No warmth left? Trust me, it just looks that way—till you touch them embers. Red hot passion like that, it can’t never die out. But see, it can change its color and blacken him inside, and like, turn to hate, or contempt, or jealousy.”

  “You better be careful,” she said, “‘cause when you least expect it, it’s gonna flare out again.”

  Which forces me to take a hard look at where I stand, and like, avoid wasting time dreaming, or wondering about matters of the heart, fluid matters which may take me nowhere in a hurry, and which no one—not even ma—can’t never predict. I have a hunch that I must be real careful now, and stop acting on a hunch.

  From now on I’m gonna knock myself out doing something totally different, like planning every one of my next moves.

  At this point there’s one worry which is, like, blocking everything else in my head, and this is it: I’ve fainted once, I may faint again. So I can’t go on alone. And even if I could, I shouldn’t, really.

  I must find someone here I can trust, someone willing to hold my hand and steady me, in case I’m too weak to stand straight. I don’t give a damn what this someone thinks of me. I swear I can take it, ‘cause now that I’m pregnant, it’s more than just me. My little one is curled here inside me. I must take care of him. That’s all that matters. I so wish ma was here. Without her, the place I’m gonna hear the sound—the sweet sound of my baby’s heartbeat—is gonna be among strangers.

  With her gone, where can I go? To whom shall I turn? Don’t laugh, even if—on the surface—my solution may seem absurd, totally absurd to you. I reckon I must win the trust of the women in this family, which is to say them Rosenblatt sisters, armed with their knitting needles, and spearheaded by dear old aunt Hadassa.

  At the time I told her not to trouble herself with coming to my wedding, and to stay as far as she could from me, which may have been the wrong thing to say to the old witch—but boy did it feel right!

  You may think me crazy, totally crazy to even consider her. And maybe I am, ‘cause how can I forget: it was aunt Hadassa who came up with that bright idea, the idea of abortion. With the sweetest fake smile you could imagine, she told me that for sure, there was still time, it wasn’t too late to have it, and like, it could make things so, so much easier for me, because the way she sees it, I like to run around, and have my fun and stuff.

  So right there and then I had the best fun I’d had in a long while: it was like, such a pleasure for me to let her have it! I swear, I was rude as hell! I shouted at her with such goddam delight, so she would know who’s who in this place, ‘cause guess what: the future of this family is right here, in my womb. Now don’t you forget it!

  But from now on I must swallow my pride—even if it chokes me to death. I must hold my tongue with them sisters, and like, be nice, and show respect, which isn’t gonna be easy for me, ‘cause you can look far and wide—but for sure, you can’t find no witches more uglier than them.

  I remind myself: above all, survival. So I must do something to turn them around, somehow, from hating me. I must, like, charm them into thinking of my baby as one of their own—even if to them, I’m always gonna remain the stranger.

  Me, I’m used to being the enemy, but if they know what’s good for them, they’re gonna come around real soon and make peace.

  It’s in my power to bring them out of that slow death—that endless, idle boredom of old age, and make them come alive again, the way it must have been for them back then, twenty-seven years ago, when Ben was a newborn baby.

  I can just picture them spinsters, crowding around the crib, fat bellies hanging over the little wool blanket, trying to walk on tiptoe, stepping over each other’s warts, and carrying a bucketload of free advice, for which they wasn’t even asked, let alone thanked, ‘cause you see, there he was, so, so frail, and always crying it seemed.

  So they must have wondered, like, was the little bundle of joy hungry or wet or sleepy, or was he just too cold or warm or sick or something. I can just see it in my head. They would tell his mama to burp him, and to clean his little tush and powder it—even though the thre
e of them hadn’t taken care of one, I mean, not even once in their life.

  And Natasha, she must have been close to tears, ‘cause like, being new to being a new mama, I bet she wasn’t sure if she’d done things right, and she couldn’t tell if there was enough milk in her breasts, ‘cause like, the baby won’t stop wailing. And them nipples, I’m sure they was hurting like hell.

  It would be just like aunt Hadassa to say that if she was in Natasha’s place—which thank God, she wasn’t—she would ignore the pain. My, my, she would say, never mind a little discomfort, because you know, breast feeding is not for sissies, dear.

  And she won’t back down, I’m sure—even though the three of them hadn’t done nothing even slightly close to anything of the sort.

  And when all that advice won’t do much in the way of calming the baby down, they would tell Natasha that it was fine, just ignore the crying, because anyway, it was meant to make his lungs strong and healthy—even though aunt Hadassa had to stuff her big ears with a couple of cotton wads, ‘cause in spite of her own advice, I bet she couldn’t stand hearing it no more.

  Now I could make her feel needed again. I could even stun her, by inviting her right in, to meddle in my affairs in full view; which is what I did last night, when I couldn’t take that noise in my head no more, I mean the old alarm clock, out there in the hall, which had become awful pesky with that loud tick-tock, tick-tock.

  First I switched the light off, and held my hand just under the bulb to feel the air cooling off, and sat there in the darkening kitchen for a quite a long while, trying to amuse myself by touching my belly, and thinking about my baby, and about his future, about the long years ahead, which helped me tune out the minutes, ticking away.

  Then I stood back up, trying to find my reflection, which looked real small and buckled right there, on the round surface of that black bulb. I wiped my tears—even though I didn’t have no sleeves on me—after which I went to the hall and piled some papers and stuff, right on top of the alarm clock, to muffle that sound.

  Then I called her up, and said, like, “Aunt Hadassa, I need you—”

  “What for?” she said, real cautious.

  And I said, “I have an appointment, like, tomorrow at ten—”

  And she said, “You do, dear? Nu, what for?”

  And by the acid tone in her voice I figured she was thinking that by now, it was too late anyway, and that I should’ve listened to her when there was still time, time for a proper abortion, because my, my, now it was week number twelve already.

  So I said, “It’s a real surprise, aunt Hadassa. You’ll see. Anyway, let me ask you this: can you come here, like, early tomorrow morning, and help me get ready?”

  And she answered by asking, “You not feeling well?”

  And I had to say, “No, not that well, Aunt Hadassa.”

  “My, my,” she clicked her tongue. “I’ll be there, dear. We all will.”

  “I’m awful glad,” I said, and meant it. “Don’t know what I would do without you.”

  And I thought, In a few months from now, I’m gonna steal her heart. Aunt Hadassa is gonna feel, like, the grip of a little hand around her wrinkled finger. She’s gonna pinch a chubby little cheek, and listen for a thin, ringing voice calling her name. And me, I’m gonna smile at her, and place my baby right there, in her lap, and watch her droopy eyes light up. She’s gonna know that I know that she knows that from now on she owes me, ‘cause like, I can make her feel wanted again, which is a mighty strong thing to feel.

  It’s in my power. Without having to say any of it, it’s gonna be awful clear to both of us.

  Up to now she hasn't give it much thought—but with a little help from me, she will. And then, then she’ll change. She’ll be my aunt—the stolen aunt Hadassa—whether she knows it at this point, or not.

  I can’t wait till tomorrow. I bet I ain’t gonna forget the place where—for the first time—I’ll hear the sound, the sweet sound of my baby’s heartbeat. Only I wonder now, like, Will it be among strangers.

  The Heartbeat

  Chapter 10

  In spite of the light spotting I refused to admit to myself, even for one moment, how terribly worried I really was. Lenny didn’t come back, so all alone in the big bed I felt lost, like I was drowning, and had to hold my breath, somehow, till dawn, and then even longer, till the light of day, till my ten o’clock appointment, because I was so afraid I was gonna get some bad news, I mean, about my little one.

  So now I pinch myself, ‘cause at long last it’s ten already, and here I am, in a half-darkened office, lying on my back, waiting, like, for a miracle, straining to hear a sound—which isn’t here, isn’t here yet—the sound of my baby’s heartbeat. If something’s wrong then it’s time, time to find out.

  With a heavy sigh, a woman in her mid-thirties takes a seat right here facing me. She types my name, so that now, ‘Anita Kaminsky’ shines above me in large letters on a screen.

  If not for her red eyes, and them sharply pointed ears, she would seem the perfect clinical type. Her thin mouth is pursed pretty tight, except to let out, kinda under her breath, that she’s sick of all this, and who cares, nobody gives a damn, and really why should they, it’s her life, and her problem is no one else’s business, and to call her Debbie, she’s a sonographer, and this plastic thing, this gismo she’s gripping in her hand, that’s called a probe. With that she begins sliding it around the bottom of my belly.

  I hold very still. I don’t barely move under that crisp, starched sheet. It has ironed pleats that stay there, like, straight as an arrow, even when it’s spread open, right here over my legs.

  Her movement is measured, precise—but all the same, I reckon my baby’s squirming inside, because of all that prodding. It tickles me, too. I’m afraid I’m gonna pee in my panties, because that probe thing which is resting here, on my skin, feels kinda wet, kinda cool to the touch. For her, I bet all this is just routine. Me, I have to hold a full bladder, which isn’t easy—but then, then the beat starts!

  It sounds faint at first, just like nothing, and then all of a sudden it grows awful strong. Now that she’s found it, and it blips loud and clear, the smile can’t hardly be wiped off my face. If not for them red eyes, I would’ve asked her, like, if I was to come back the next day, would she let me listen again.

  If not for them three witches standing there in the corner squinting at me—perhaps even wishing me ill—I would’ve lost all sense of shame: I would’ve cried and cried, and then cried some more. It’s the most sweet, beautiful sound I’ve ever heard in my entire life!

  But never mind me, or how I feel. You can see straight away that the most amazing change is beginning to take place right over there, out of that corner, when all three of them—aunt Hadassa, aunt Frida and aunt Fruma—come forward, like, in one heavy step, which makes the floor bounce right under me. I’ve taken a risk asking them to come here with me, and I hope, I so hope it won’t prove to be no mistake.

  I reckon they hate me, ‘cause from the beginning, from the time I fainted they’ve been hinting that this here pregnancy, it don’t seem to be viable, and it should be aborted, and there’s still time, like, to do it. Still, there’s no one else to offer a helping hand, no one else to lean on, in case I’m gonna feel dizzy again. From now on, hate don’t really matter no more, ‘cause I need them.

  Blip, blip, blip goes the sound, and them three aunts, they pop their round, bulging eyes and lean right over my belly, which is glistening in the dark with that clear gel smear, in which the probe thing is like, splashing around. And aunt Hadassa, she raises her painted eyebrows, and screws up her nose till it’s glued to the screen, like she hasn’t seen nothing like that in her entire life, which I bet, she hasn’t.

  Me, I thought I knew what to expect. From the book Lenny gave me I’ve learned that at week twelve, the baby’s fingers would soon begin to open and close. His toes would curl, his eye muscles would clench, and his mouth would make sucking movements.
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  By now his eyes have already moved from the sides of his head to the front, and his ears is like, right there where they should be. I thought I could see all that in my head—but for sure, it isn’t hardly the same as watching the real thing, ‘cause the real thing is like, much more confusing.

  “See, right here?” says the sonographer.

  And I say, “No, what?”

  And she points out, “The heartbeat, see? Down here, across the monitor?”

  So I turn to the screen, which is as black as night, and fix my eyes on that white worm, which is radiating there, all the way across, with them shining spikes pulsing through it, one blip after another, running off at the right edge and then, coming right back in at the left one.

  “Sure,” I say, real bold, like I know what I’m talking about. “The heartbeat.”

  “Yes,” she says, like we have a clear meeting of the minds between us. “This here, that’s what you call a Doppler waveform, see? And it shows the systoles and diastoles in the blood flow velocity.”

  “Looks good,” I say.

  “For you,” she says, “the important thing is this: Even in the presence of vaginal bleeding, which is what you have, we can depict a visible heartbeat. So obviously, the fetus is viable.”

  Here she lets me take a deep breath, and then goes on to say, “It means that the probability of a continued pregnancy is better than 95 percent.”

  “Looks good, awful good,” I say again.

  And from behind, them three witches mumble, “Nu? Looks good, doesn’t it.”

  And they turn back to retreat into that corner, from where I can still hear them, whispering, “My, my,” and clicking their tongue from time to time.