“White Biped Form, 1954”
by Mary Thorson
The Doctors tell you that there are things that put mothers at risk during pregnancy. Weight, of course, lifestyle. Being too active or too inactive. Drinking. Diet. Smoking. Sleep. No sleep. But there is the one M’s Doctor skips: men. The number one cause of death for a pregnant woman is homicide. Specifically “death by man.” Murder is followed by preeclampsia, heart disease, hemorrhaging, but there is a woefully large gap between men and the rest of it. There are symptoms to watch for. Signs of impending doom. M watched The Doctor, and she could see certain things, new patterns that indicated something was wrong.
Only two years after they married, while their son was still so small, she smelled something. The smell was light and floral and it was on his face. It was young.
Well, he’s a doctor, she thought. There must be occasions for him to get close to people. Still, she thought to say something. Make a kind of joke about his new aftershave.
“So what of it,” he said, without laughing. With a brand new look in his eyes.
Oh, she thought. I see.
He had insisted on inviting friends over, and the tone of his voice made her skin goose up. He sounded too much. Too enthusiastic. His smile was too wide. His teeth too white. His hand on her wrist too tight. He stared too long.
“Sure,” M said. “That would be fine.”
“Great,” the Doctor said, and then paused for a moment. “Thanks.” And he was trying much too hard to be sincere.
But M knew. She already knew it all in her bones.
“Who is she?” M heard herself sound so pathetic but she couldn’t stop the words from bubbling up in the back of her throat like bile and spilling out over her tongue. She said it with their boy in her arms. She said it while he played with her hair. The Doctor got closer and smiled so genuinely at their son that her own heart ached for the same long gone regard.
“I can’t stand it,” M said, but really she begged. Pleaded. The Doctor looked at her then, clinically, coldly.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Maybe you should get some rest, I’m sure it’s hard being home all day with him, doing nothing.” The edged of his words made little slits in her skin. He took their boy from her arms and she did nothing to stop him. Like a dog rolling over to die.
Their friends came over, a couple around their same age, but people M had never said real words to other than, “oh I just put him to sleep,” or “yes, The Doctor works so hard.” They laughed and the noise was tinny in M’s ears. They ate the food she cooked. The salisbury steak and a cucumber salad. The couple drank. Both M and The Doctor did not. M didn’t know if The Doctor noticed, but she did.
The Doctor got into bed and she could smell everything. Her, the gin, the cold air outside, the cigarettes. M looked at the clock on the nightstand and it was too late. She felt the buttons of his his Oxford shirt against her back. He started to grab her hips.
“No,” M said. “Haven’t you gotten enough tonight, anyway? You didn’t even bother showering. She’s all over you.”
He separated her thighs with his hands from behind. His breathing changed. M tried to press them back together, but even though he was drunk, he was strong. He got what he wanted.
“Oh look, the Good Doctor has fallen asleep,” the couple noticed. M watched The Doctor’s face, knowing it was not true.
“He works so hard,” M said. There, just like breathing.
“Welp, we’ll get out of your hair.”
“Won’t you take something home? Let me make your a Tupperware.”
“Just some of that yummy salad.”
“Oh, sure, The Doctor won’t eat that anyway,” M said, alluding to the possibility of a joke about eating vegetables , but she had to save her energy.
M didn’t want it to be true. M didn’t want it, period. She ignored a lot for awhile. Until the nurse looked her in the eye and said “oh yea, you’re pregnant. Pretty far a long, I would guess. How are your pants fitting. “I’m mostly wearing dresses, these days.”
So you knew, was what the nurse said without opening her mouth. And then there was nothing else to say, because M was already so stupidly in love.
M said goodbye to the couple, all of them in hushed voices as to not wake The Doctor who was not sleeping. M locked the front door and the backdoor. She pretended, too. She padded around the house in silence. When she was in the kitchen, she trailed her fingers over the knife block and thought maybe it would be one of them. She knew he would use something too big. That was a long standing pattern, not new, but still true. She took something smaller, something that she could conceal and feel in control of. M held it against her chest, trying to expose her skin to the expensive steel, the set they had got from her parents when they married.
She walked the hallway and saw her sleeping boy. His fingers close to his mouth, but not in it. The Doctor would be pleased. It was a habit he wanted gone. It embarrassed him. M went in and kissed their son on his warm, soft cheek. She nuzzled her face into his and inhaled his smell. She didn’t want to exhale. She wanted it with her until it was time. She closed his bedroom door and continued down the hallway. She heard something, then, downstairs. Someone was getting up.
“At your age?” The Doctor said, like he wasn’t listening.
“I’m only 31,” M said.
He put down his fork because it was time to go to work.
“You can come in later this week, one of my buddies does them. You won’t feel a thing.”
M put her hands over her belly, “No.”
“Well then, I guess I’ll just have to get rid of you both.”
To show he was only joking, The Doctor leaned over and kissed the top of M’s head, a firm hand on her shoulder that squeezed until she cried out.
M sat in bed with the light on. It would make it easier for him to see, to find the parts of her he needed to find. But she needed to be able to see, too. She heard him walking nice and slow down the hallway. Not particularly quiet, but he did tread more carefully outside of their son’s room. This produced a feeling, a remnant of something that M could not help. When he turned the corner, they both said the same thing.
“You’re awake.”
He got closer, walking the way a tiger might walk, but M didn’t know for sure because she had never seen one in the wild. Until now. Because she saw it in her own hands as she reached for the lamp. Her body instinctively knowing that the knife would not work the way that she wanted it to. That it might be clumsy, but the brass lamp that threw a floral pattern on their white walls would be more useful. Instead of watching him, the way his face and the glass part of the lampshade collided and both broke apart, M watched the muscles in her arm flex in a way she had never seen or not known them to be capable of. It swung again and again. 27 times. But no, that wasn’t right. It did not swing on its own. It was not independent of herself. It was directly connected to her intention. She would survive him. The new patterns on the white walls told her everything she needed to know. She would be cured.
Mary Thorson lives and writes in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. She received her BA in Creative Writing from the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee and her MFA from Pacific University in Oregon. Her stories have appeared in the Los Angeles Review, Reckon Review, Cotton Xenomorph, Milwaukee Noir, Worcester Review, Rock and a Hard Place, Tough, among others. Her short story, "Book of Ruth," was included in Best American Mystery & Suspense, '24, edited by Steph Cha and S.A. Cosby. Her work has been nominated for Best American Short Stories, A Derringer, and a Pushcart Prize. She hangs out with her two feisty daughters, the best husband, and a dog named Pam when she isn’t teaching high school English, reading, or writing ghost stories. She is represented by Lori Galvin at Aevitas Creative Management. She is currently working on a novel.
by Mary Thorson
The Doctors tell you that there are things that put mothers at risk during pregnancy. Weight, of course, lifestyle. Being too active or too inactive. Drinking. Diet. Smoking. Sleep. No sleep. But there is the one M’s Doctor skips: men. The number one cause of death for a pregnant woman is homicide. Specifically “death by man.” Murder is followed by preeclampsia, heart disease, hemorrhaging, but there is a woefully large gap between men and the rest of it. There are symptoms to watch for. Signs of impending doom. M watched The Doctor, and she could see certain things, new patterns that indicated something was wrong.
Only two years after they married, while their son was still so small, she smelled something. The smell was light and floral and it was on his face. It was young.
Well, he’s a doctor, she thought. There must be occasions for him to get close to people. Still, she thought to say something. Make a kind of joke about his new aftershave.
“So what of it,” he said, without laughing. With a brand new look in his eyes.
Oh, she thought. I see.
He had insisted on inviting friends over, and the tone of his voice made her skin goose up. He sounded too much. Too enthusiastic. His smile was too wide. His teeth too white. His hand on her wrist too tight. He stared too long.
“Sure,” M said. “That would be fine.”
“Great,” the Doctor said, and then paused for a moment. “Thanks.” And he was trying much too hard to be sincere.
But M knew. She already knew it all in her bones.
“Who is she?” M heard herself sound so pathetic but she couldn’t stop the words from bubbling up in the back of her throat like bile and spilling out over her tongue. She said it with their boy in her arms. She said it while he played with her hair. The Doctor got closer and smiled so genuinely at their son that her own heart ached for the same long gone regard.
“I can’t stand it,” M said, but really she begged. Pleaded. The Doctor looked at her then, clinically, coldly.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Maybe you should get some rest, I’m sure it’s hard being home all day with him, doing nothing.” The edged of his words made little slits in her skin. He took their boy from her arms and she did nothing to stop him. Like a dog rolling over to die.
Their friends came over, a couple around their same age, but people M had never said real words to other than, “oh I just put him to sleep,” or “yes, The Doctor works so hard.” They laughed and the noise was tinny in M’s ears. They ate the food she cooked. The salisbury steak and a cucumber salad. The couple drank. Both M and The Doctor did not. M didn’t know if The Doctor noticed, but she did.
The Doctor got into bed and she could smell everything. Her, the gin, the cold air outside, the cigarettes. M looked at the clock on the nightstand and it was too late. She felt the buttons of his his Oxford shirt against her back. He started to grab her hips.
“No,” M said. “Haven’t you gotten enough tonight, anyway? You didn’t even bother showering. She’s all over you.”
He separated her thighs with his hands from behind. His breathing changed. M tried to press them back together, but even though he was drunk, he was strong. He got what he wanted.
“Oh look, the Good Doctor has fallen asleep,” the couple noticed. M watched The Doctor’s face, knowing it was not true.
“He works so hard,” M said. There, just like breathing.
“Welp, we’ll get out of your hair.”
“Won’t you take something home? Let me make your a Tupperware.”
“Just some of that yummy salad.”
“Oh, sure, The Doctor won’t eat that anyway,” M said, alluding to the possibility of a joke about eating vegetables , but she had to save her energy.
M didn’t want it to be true. M didn’t want it, period. She ignored a lot for awhile. Until the nurse looked her in the eye and said “oh yea, you’re pregnant. Pretty far a long, I would guess. How are your pants fitting. “I’m mostly wearing dresses, these days.”
So you knew, was what the nurse said without opening her mouth. And then there was nothing else to say, because M was already so stupidly in love.
M said goodbye to the couple, all of them in hushed voices as to not wake The Doctor who was not sleeping. M locked the front door and the backdoor. She pretended, too. She padded around the house in silence. When she was in the kitchen, she trailed her fingers over the knife block and thought maybe it would be one of them. She knew he would use something too big. That was a long standing pattern, not new, but still true. She took something smaller, something that she could conceal and feel in control of. M held it against her chest, trying to expose her skin to the expensive steel, the set they had got from her parents when they married.
She walked the hallway and saw her sleeping boy. His fingers close to his mouth, but not in it. The Doctor would be pleased. It was a habit he wanted gone. It embarrassed him. M went in and kissed their son on his warm, soft cheek. She nuzzled her face into his and inhaled his smell. She didn’t want to exhale. She wanted it with her until it was time. She closed his bedroom door and continued down the hallway. She heard something, then, downstairs. Someone was getting up.
“At your age?” The Doctor said, like he wasn’t listening.
“I’m only 31,” M said.
He put down his fork because it was time to go to work.
“You can come in later this week, one of my buddies does them. You won’t feel a thing.”
M put her hands over her belly, “No.”
“Well then, I guess I’ll just have to get rid of you both.”
To show he was only joking, The Doctor leaned over and kissed the top of M’s head, a firm hand on her shoulder that squeezed until she cried out.
M sat in bed with the light on. It would make it easier for him to see, to find the parts of her he needed to find. But she needed to be able to see, too. She heard him walking nice and slow down the hallway. Not particularly quiet, but he did tread more carefully outside of their son’s room. This produced a feeling, a remnant of something that M could not help. When he turned the corner, they both said the same thing.
“You’re awake.”
He got closer, walking the way a tiger might walk, but M didn’t know for sure because she had never seen one in the wild. Until now. Because she saw it in her own hands as she reached for the lamp. Her body instinctively knowing that the knife would not work the way that she wanted it to. That it might be clumsy, but the brass lamp that threw a floral pattern on their white walls would be more useful. Instead of watching him, the way his face and the glass part of the lampshade collided and both broke apart, M watched the muscles in her arm flex in a way she had never seen or not known them to be capable of. It swung again and again. 27 times. But no, that wasn’t right. It did not swing on its own. It was not independent of herself. It was directly connected to her intention. She would survive him. The new patterns on the white walls told her everything she needed to know. She would be cured.
Mary Thorson lives and writes in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. She received her BA in Creative Writing from the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee and her MFA from Pacific University in Oregon. Her stories have appeared in the Los Angeles Review, Reckon Review, Cotton Xenomorph, Milwaukee Noir, Worcester Review, Rock and a Hard Place, Tough, among others. Her short story, "Book of Ruth," was included in Best American Mystery & Suspense, '24, edited by Steph Cha and S.A. Cosby. Her work has been nominated for Best American Short Stories, A Derringer, and a Pushcart Prize. She hangs out with her two feisty daughters, the best husband, and a dog named Pam when she isn’t teaching high school English, reading, or writing ghost stories. She is represented by Lori Galvin at Aevitas Creative Management. She is currently working on a novel.