by Karma Brown
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Children can be trained. So can husbands, I suspect.” Sally
winked, winding golden twine around the thorn‑ free stems. “I
should be on my way, but before I go, what did you come across
in Nellie’s letter?”
Alice dug at the dirt with her gloved fingers, creating a
doughnut of space around the roots. She started to tug, but it
wouldn’t give. “Nellie wrote to her mother that she was preg‑
nant, but I remember you saying she never had a child.” She
grasped the base of the shrub and pulled, hard— too hard,
because she ended up on her back with the shrub on her chest,
her face sprinkled with dirt. She spat earth off her lips and started laughing.
“Oh dear, are you all right?” Sally asked, covering her mouth
with one hand to hide the chuckle.
“Everything but my ego.” Alice laughed as she stood, shaking
off the dirt. “Anyway, I was curious about what happened, if
Nellie had been pregnant but never had the baby.”
“Hmm,” Sally said. “No children, I’m sure of it. But I am
sorry to hear that, as I’m sure it was difficult for Nellie. I re‑
member Mother saying she would have been an excellent mother.”
Sally picked up the bundle of roses. “It wasn’t easy to be married
and childless in those days. The social expectations around family
were rigid. “
“I can only imagine,” Alice said. “They’re still fairly rigid
now, if you ask me.”
“Yes, I suppose they are,” Sally replied, giving Alice a long
look and a gentle smile.
One of the ovulation kit’s test strips had been on the
bathroom counter that morning, right beside Alice’s tooth‑
brush. Nate had slapped a sticky note with a smiley face and the
insinuative words Drink lots of water! next to it. Alice had com‑
pletely forgotten about the kit, her housewarming gift from
Nate, but clearly her husband had not. She knew she should
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hand Nate the unopened test strip when he got home and finally
tell him the truth. But annoyed and wearied by the reemergence
of the ovulation kit (and Nate’s stupid sticky note), Alice had de‑
cided it was easier to play along for now. She’d dropped her
pajama shorts, opened the strip, and peed on its end. Then she
brushed her teeth and set the urine‑ drenched test on the counter
beside the water glass for Nate to find later that evening.
“Alice? Where’d you go there, honey?”
Alice shook her head. “Sorry, I’m distracted today. Not
enough coffee, I think.” She smiled at Sally, but then gasped
and clutched her side as an intense pain gripped her abdomen.
Sally dropped her bundle of roses and leaned toward Alice, her
arms outstretched as if she intended to try to catch her despite
the distance between them. “Alice! What is it?”
“I’m not sure, I . . .” Alice took in a deep breath, the pain
gone as quickly as it had come. “Maybe I pulled something
when I yanked that bush out.” She was light‑ headed and mildly
nauseated.
Sally’s wrinkles deepened as she watched her younger neighbor
rub at her side. “Where’s the pain, exactly?”
Alice pointed to her left side, near her hip. “It’s gone now. I
think I’m okay.” She arched her back, then stretched from side
to side. “I’m good.”
“You sure?”
“A muscle spasm, I think,” Alice said. “See? I told you I’m
not cut out for gardening.”
Sally smiled, bending somewhat gingerly the way older people
do, and picked up the fallen roses. “Maybe no more gardening
for you today. Go put your feet up and get something cold to
drink. Doctor’s orders.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’m spending the night with my friend, but I’ll see you
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tomorrow,” Sally said. “We’ll figure out what else to put in those
foxglove holes then.”
After Sally left, Alice absentmindedly rubbed her side, staring
at the three holes in the garden, which she decided to just fill in with dirt and call it a day.
“Did you call your mom back?” They were in bed, Alice flipping
through a Ladies’ Home Journal magazine from a new stack
she’d brought up from the basement, Nate with Alice’s laptop
propped on his thighs. She didn’t love him using her computer—
worried he’d discover how unproductive she had been with her
book— but his was going through an update and he wanted to
research bathroom tiles.
“Not yet. I’ll call her tomorrow,” Alice said. Nate had men‑
tioned it wasn’t urgent. Something to do with them taking a trip
to California for Thanksgiving. Alice had been on the couch
most of the afternoon— a heating pad on her still sore side— and
so they’d had leftovers for dinner and were in bed earlier than
normal. Nate had obviously found the test strip Alice had left
out, because it wasn’t on the countertop when she went in to
wash her face. But he hadn’t said anything about it, and she
didn’t mention it either.
“What do you think of this black‑ and‑ white honeycomb?”
Nate asked, squinting at the tile thumbnails on the screen. “Do
you want a neutral scheme, or something with color?”
“Sure. Okay.” Alice was immersed in an article about the
value of simple white vinegar in a housewife’s pantry ( poaching eggs, cleaning windows, a rinse for shiny hair). She remained bothered by Nate’s note and the test strip, and her maddening
inability to talk with him about it, and so had been quiet all
evening. Though he believed she was subdued because she
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wasn’t feeling great— the lingering pain of her “pulled muscle”
from gardening casting a shadow on her mood.
“Ali, are you even listening to me?”
“Hmm, what? I am. Just reading about the miracles of
vinegar. Big news for women in the fifties.”
He put the laptop to the side— at least a dozen tabs remained
open, a DIY bathroom tiling step‑ by‑ step blog on the screen—
and nestled beside her, resting his chin on her shoulder and
glancing at the magazine page. He flipped the magazine shut,
Alice’s finger marking the spot, to see the cover.
“Is this responsible for that?” he asked, pointing to Alice’s
head. She had wrapped strands of hair using sections of an old
T‑ shirt she’d cut up, tying up the pieces in small balls all over
her head. The technique promised a cascade of shiny curls b
y
morning, at least according to the old magazine.
“It is.” Alice patted a few of the hair balls, which felt springy
under her fingers.
“It’s a good look on you,” Nate said, and Alice smirked. It
wasn’t a good look on anyone. Then he set his palm on her side,
rubbing it gently a couple of times. “Feeling okay?” Nate pressed
closer, and his breath tickled her neck. His hands came around
her body to cup her breasts, her nipples hardening under his
touch. Alice then realized what the test strip must have shown—
she was about to ovulate.
Despite her determination not to participate— annoyed by
Nate’s presumptive move that morning and his transparent
agenda now— her body betrayed her, stirring at his touch. Nate’s
roving hands massaged her body through the thin fabric of her
nightshirt, and his lips continued their descent down the side of
her neck, pausing on her shoulder blade. Alice lifted her arms to
allow him to pull her shirt over her head. But the neckline got
caught on her homemade fabric hair curlers.
“Tug,” Alice said, her voice muffled by the shirt. Nate was
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being too gentle, trying to peel the shirt over her head. Not
long after, they were naked on the duvet, and Nate rolled her so
she was on top.
“It’s better if you orgasm,” he said. Of course it is. But Alice knew he meant in reference to her getting pregnant, and tried
to ignore his comment.
He held her hips and closed his eyes, his chin tipping back as
she moved over him, quickening her pace with every breath, a
tingling pressure building in her pelvis as Nate groaned under her.
“Oh!” Alice gasped, slamming her hands to Nate’s chest as
her fingernails dug into his skin. A fiery swath of pain stabbed
her abdomen. Nate winced and reached for her hands, chuckling,
not yet understanding what was going on. “Easy, babe,” he
murmured. “That’s going to leave a mark.”
Alice couldn’t catch her breath— the pain far more intense
than it had been in the garden, as though she were being cut in
half. She bucked off him and curled into a tight ball at the foot
of the bed, the way she’d seen potato bugs do in the garden
when sensing imminent danger.
Nate, catching up to the seriousness of what was happening,
sprang over to where she writhed, her knees up to her chest. She
was sweating profusely, a low hum of a moan coming out of her.
“Ali! What’s wrong? Is it your side?” Nate’s hands roamed the
parts of her body he could get to, trying to figure out what was
causing her extreme pain. For one delirious moment Alice un‑
derstood she was being punished. But for what, exactly? For all of it, she thought.
“Talk to me, babe. What’s wrong?”
She screamed, clawed at her side, and Nate held on to her.
“Should I call 911?” He fumbled with his phone, swearing
loudly as it dropped to the floor. He managed to keep one hand
firmly on Alice’s hip as he stretched for the phone. “Hang on.
I’m calling 911.”
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“No. Don’t call,” she managed, sucking in shallow breaths.
“Just give me a minute.” The pain was subsiding a bit, maybe.
At least she could draw in a full breath.
Nate, phone in trembling hand, rubbed her side— too hard—
and she wished he would stop because the motion combined
with the waves of pain was making her sick to her stomach. She
focused on her breathing. In. Out. In. Out.
“Better?” he asked, his voice high, his breathing nearly as
ragged as hers.
She nodded, but the pain had yet to abate. Hand leaving her
side, Nate placed it momentarily against his chest, where red cres‑
cents remained from her fingernails. “Are you okay? You scared
the shit out of me.”
“Sorry. Me too.” She sat up, slowly, with Nate’s help. She
regretted it instantly, though, and pressed her hands deeply into
her left side, sucking in a breath as waves of pain coursed
through her.
“Still bad?” he asked, his eyebrows knitting together. He
placed a hand behind her shoulders, bending to see her face.
“Maybe we should go to the ER. This can’t be from a pulled
muscle.”
“It’s getting better.” But the pain was picking up again, im‑
patient for its grand finale. Alice’s heart raced. Maybe I’m dying.
Could it be her appendix? That was on the right side, she was
pretty sure. Wait . . . had she touched the foxglove plant? No,
Nate had pulled it out and she had only held the yard‑waste bag.
She was wildly confused, unsure of the order of events.
“Nate?” she whispered, turning to him. His eyes seemed too
big for his head, his mouth working but no sound coming out.
“What’s wrong with me?” He didn’t even have time to answer
before she screamed as the pain ripped through her again, so
forcefully this time it was as though her insides had liquefied.
“I’m going to be sick,” she mumbled, knowing with such
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clarity it was the only way to get the blackness out of her. She
scrambled off the bed and Nate held her up as her legs buckled,
his panic evident. They’d only taken one step toward the door,
Nate trying to get her to the washroom, when she violently
threw up, the new bedroom rug taking the brunt of it.
Nate cursed repeatedly as he propped her naked body against
his, his one arm tight across her chest and under her armpits,
crushing her breasts while she sagged against him. He dialed
with his other hand and tried to get her back on the bed, but she
resisted him.
“I don’t want to mess up the duvet,” Alice said, a temporary
feeling of relief filling her. “I’m sorry about the rug. I’ll clean it up.”
“Alice, stop. Stop. Just let me get you . . . Ali, stay with me,
okay? Keep your eyes open. Yes, hello? My wife . . . she needs an
ambulance . . .” Nate’s voice hitched and Alice wanted to tell him
she was fine, not to worry. But she soon gave up, too dizzy to do
anything but let Nate lay her on the bed. Alice tried to hang on,
but sleep promised a reprieve from the pain and nightmare hap‑
pening in their bedroom, and so she closed her eyes and suc‑
cumbed. The house hummed softly to her through its cracks, like
a mother serenading her child with a soothing lullaby, and she
drifted away, Nate’s frantic shouts disappearing into the void.
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31
&
nbsp; q
Nellie
septeMber 8, 1956
Rose Caramels
21⁄ 2 cups sweet milk
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
2 teaspoons chopped dried rose petals
1⁄ 2 cup molasses
1 cup granulated sugar
Heat milk, vanilla, and rose petals in a small saucepan and simmer for 5 minutes. Strain petals and cool milk mixture. Then in separate
saucepan boil molasses, sugar, and milk mixture for 15 to 20 minutes.
Pour mixture into greased tin and cut into small squares once cooled.
An excellent hostess gift!
R ichard had vomited into the front hedge only moments
before he and Nellie got into the Studebaker. They were ex‑
pected at the Goldmans’ in less than ten minutes, having already
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pushed things as late as possible due to Richard’s upset stomach.
He seemed unsteady on his feet, too, and Nellie wasn’t sure he
should even be driving. But when she suggested he lie down for
a while— they could easily cancel— he insisted he was fine and
told her to leave it be. A moment later he was doubled over,
gagging into Nellie’s front garden shrub.
“You obviously are not fine,” Nellie said, setting the bouquet of roses she’d cut and prepared for Kitty, along with the tin of
rose caramels, on the stoop to rummage through her purse. She
handed him a tissue to wipe his mouth, but he pushed it away.
Slugging back some Pepto‑ Bismol he had tucked into his jacket
pocket, he unwrapped a stick of gum and marched toward the
car. But Nellie noticed he leaned heavily on the car’s door,
pausing for a few breaths before opening it for her.
“Why don’t I go alone? I’m sure they’ll understand you’re
not well.” She had already tried to convince Richard, unsuccess‑
fully, to call Dr. Johnson to see if he could make a house call.
“Cool it, Nellie,” Richard said. “It’s probably something I
ate. It will pass.” Nellie didn’t bother commenting how they’d
eaten the same meals and her stomach was fine, understanding
that would only incite him further. Richard Murdoch would
not want to appear weak in front of their friends, especially
Charles Goldman. “We are going. Together.” His limp voice
belied his assurances.
Richard hung his head out the window as he drove, hugging
the curb in case he needed to pull over. Nellie had offered to