Wake the Wicked Page 3

  Michael, my boyfriend at the wheel, gives me a quick once over and says, "Monica, we'll be at the park in fifteen minutes. Put your clothes back on. Being naked won't help make a good first impression . . ." He pauses. "To this half of the family anyway."

  "I'm sticky and disgusting. And I'm not naked. I'm keeping my undies on," I explain, balling up my dress and tossing it behind me. Although sweat glues my ass to the vinyl seat, I feel better. "Guess you should've fixed the AC last year like I wanted you to." I adjust my sunglasses and tug at the metallic flats suctioned to my swollen feet until they're free. I fling them to the floor.

  "I'll drop you off right here." He smiles, tightening his grip on the steering wheel.

  At that moment, something hits my neck and I feel a sharp pain, like the prick of a needle. I slap the area and take hold of something small and crawly—a wasp. I crush it between my fingers and toss it outside.

  "Shit," I squeal, giving my neck a savage rubdown. "Bee stung me."

  I hear Michael hit the gas pedal with his hiking boot and flick on the four ways. "Let's go to the hospital?" Michael asks me, turning his head back and forth from the road, to me, then the road again.

  "No, I'm not allergic. I'll be fine. It only hurts a little," I say, examining the sting from the passenger side vanity mirror. A small red dot centers the white swollen wound where the stinger struck me.

  Once the ticking sound from the four ways stops, I flip up the mirror. The stinging pain dwindles after a couple minutes, and becomes itchy, more irritating than my clash with poison ivy last summer. I try to hold back, but I lose control and begin scratching the hell out of it.

  "Stop that," Michael yells, trying to knock my hand from my neck while keeping his eyes on the road.

  I dab the sweat off my forehead with a napkin I find on the floor and prop my right leg out the window. We enter a road with a sign at the entrance, "Wespenkopf State Park." Below it, a florescent yellow sign sticking out of the ground with a wooden steak reads, "Welcome Ricci family reunion!"

  I wrestle my sticky face and arms through the dress and force it the rest of the way down my torso. Since my stomach is in the way and my feet are swollen, I wait to put on my flats until we park. I open the door, hand over my flats to Michael, and ask, "Hun, can you help a pregger out?" He closes his door and kneels next to me on the hot pavement.

  We gather and arrange the things from the trunk: soda, cupcakes with icing dripping down the sides, and a perspiring plastic container holding pasta salad, and place them into a basket. We follow another yellow sign, "Festa Famiglia!" with an arrow pointing up. We walk down a grassy hill leading to a lake where a noisy group of people cluster around four picnic tables covered with food and dirty paper plates and cups.

  A sudden bombardment of voices yells Michael's name. All heads turn to him, then me, then my stomach. I also look down. Sweat bleeds through my dress.

  "And who’re you?" a tiny woman flaps her mouth at me and smiles. "The wifey?" She winks.

  The sun blinds me and I have to squint through my sunglasses to see her. "Monica," I say, holding out a hand. "Michael's girlfriend." I feel all eyes on my bulging waist.

  Without giving her name, she lowers her eyes to my stomach. "And who’s this?"

  "We don't have a name yet," I say.

  "Boy or girl?"

  Michael butts in, "Not sure yet. We want to be surprised. We're hoping a girl."

  "You're gonna pop." A boy wearing a red and white shirt tugs at my waist.

  "I hope so," I respond, holding up crossed fingers.

  "When are you due?" a woman with blonde hair asks.

  "Two days ago. Can't wait to meet her," I say, wishing I was still "naked" with the breeze hitting my bare skin. I feel my stomach cramping.

  Michael waves to someone in the distance, hands the food-filled basket to the boy, and drifts away into a crowd of men playing bocce by the lake. And now I'm left with a gaggle of excited women around me, prodding and groping my stomach and asking me things I don't even discuss with Michael, like, "So how gassy do you get?" and "Did you lose your mucus plug yet?"

  I could kill Michael for leaving me.

  I take a seat at one of the weathered picnic tables. It creaks under the weight of my fat ass, and splintered wood hooks to my dress. The tiny woman offers to get me a bottle of water and make me a plate of food. I don't often allow people to pick out food for me because I'm finicky, but I'm pregnant now.

  A wasp hovering over a soda can catches my eye, and a second later I see another fly under the table. It lands on a nest the size of a walnut. I scoot over, inch by inch, then pound my left foot over it, destroying the newly started vespiary and killing the wasp.

  A moment later, the tiny woman sits next to me and I thank her. "A pavilion with shade would be perfect," I say, wiping the sweat off my brow and huffing down forkful after forkful of gnocchi della nonna.

  "Nah, we wouldn't have gotten this view then," she says, spreading her arms over the dreary lake and hazy mountain view. "Take one o' those rowboats out over there. You see?" She points to a blue and white painted shack where rowboats, kayaks and paddle boats festoon a rocky shore. "Splash each other a little, you know? And if you row to the other side, it's shadier. See? Go ahead, it'll cool you off."

  "I guess it can't hurt," I respond, imagining the cool lake water on my skin.

  I feel a tickle—down there. It startles me and I spit out a mouthful of half-chewed dumplings onto my plate. As I raise my dress to scratch the irritation, it melts away as fast as it had started.

  After I finish my plate, a tiny woman hands me green freeze pop. It tastes like artificial lime; artificial, laboratory-concocted ice, soaked in a mountain of sugar. It cools me off, so I ask for three more.

  I try to boost my leg up over the bench. Tiny woman sees me struggle and helps me up. I still don't know her name, and I don't want to be rude, so I make a mental note to ask Michael about her later. He'll probably get mad and think I wasn't paying attention, but I'd rather him be offended than her.

  "Hey, Michael!" the tiny woman screeches out to the group of bocce players. "Your wife's getting hot. Take her out on the lake to cool off, would ya?"

  "We're not married," I correct with a whisper and continue waddling forward. I feel another tickle down there. I reach to scratch it, but stop at the sight of the bocce players gazing this way.

  The tiny woman puts a sweaty palm on my sweaty stomach and winks. "Yes you are." Startled, she jumps back. "She kicked!"

  Before I can respond, a sharp pain shoots through my lower abdomen. This sort of discomfort isn't something new; it's been happening over the last couple days now. A thought snaps to mind, If I had the choice between staying here in the sweltering heat with Michael's family or giving birth, I'd choose the latter.

  Michael takes my sticky hand and walks me to the boat shack. "So Aunt Keet is something, no?"

  I laugh, not because what he asked was amusing, but because I'm relieved I don't have to ask him about her name.

  I breathe in. The closer we near the lake, the stronger the smell of decomposing plants and rotting fish become. He catches me scrape my nails over my neck and yells, "Stop itching. You'll get an infection."

  "I'm supposed to be the pissy one, not you. Okay?" I say, lifting one leg into the shaky metal rowboat. Michael holds on to me until I'm seated, hands me a can of soda and starts pushing the front end into the water and hops in. The pressure on my pelvis feels awkward and I can't find a comfortable way to sit. Maybe this boat ride isn't a good idea after all.

  I look down. Trampled gum wrappers litter the floor. A trail of dried slime coming from somewhere below my flat metal seat leads to a bright yellow fishing lure with a rusted hook. I think I smell rot.

  Pain strikes my lower abdomen and I feel more irritation down there. "How long till you row us to shade?" I ask, kicking one sticky shoe off at a time. I dip my swollen feet over the side of the boat and feel an immediate sense of relief. I fa
n the lower part of my dress with one hand and prop myself up with the other, a laborious and tricky task.

  "I don't know, hun. It's a big lake."

  "Hurry, I'm on my last ice pop," I say and begin to feel sick to my stomach. I hold down vomit lingering in my throat. I must've gotten too much sun exposure. Although the lake stench doesn't help either.

  I feel an immediate blanket of cool shade wrap around me, and at that moment I jolt backward, feeling a tight band of contractions starting in my back and radiating across the front of my stomach.

  Michael's eyes widen. "You okay? Let's head back." He begins reverse rowing.

  "No, I'm fine. It's from the sun. The shade feels good. Stay here, okay?" I plead, trying my best to relax, but excruciating pain constrains my back, forcing me to hunch over.

  Without thinking, Michael releases both paddles and sits me on the floor of the boat. I can't focus on anything but the pain. I lean my back against the metal ledge of the seat. Michael pushes up my skirt and spreads my legs.

  In the corner of my eye, I see one of the paddles drifting away. I don't even bother looking to my left. We're stuck here now. Michael yells to shore, to his family. I don't know if they hear him. At this point, there's no way to escape.

  I suck in a quick rush of air, then exhale. Michael crouches between my legs and tears off my briefs with one rip. I feel something itching at my lower leg. Michael swats the area. A tiny dark mass projects into the shadowed lake. I feel more itching, this time coming from between my legs. Without standing, Michael swats and stomps at the floor with two quick pounds. He deflects eye contact with me; doesn't even say a word about the odd stomping.

  "What's going on?" I yell. Strikes of back pain force my attention elsewhere until I feel the itching again. I grip my legs as far together as I can, crushing Michael between them. Two wasps take flight from somewhere on the other side of my stomach and latch on to Michael’s face.

  Excruciating pain grips my back and I close my eyes and scream so loud it rattles the boat.

  Michael draws in a deep shuddering breath and says, "They're—crawling out." He leans back, and finishes, "from inside you."

  "Get them off." I cry, darting my gaze around in a frantic search. I'm lying on a nest, I think. I hold the sides of the boat and lift myself until I feel a deep tearing pain erupting from my lower back which forces me to lie back down. A wasp squirms on Michael's right eyelid, the other on his trembling lower lip. I feel the boat rocking as he whacks his face with stiff open hands like a madman. The two wasps maintain a fixed hold. Three more rise, from a place I still can't see and charge toward him.

  Severe cramps attack the top of my stomach, then a pattern of squeezing and twisting from within takes over and I feel the inherent urge to push, so I follow my instincts and push until it feels like my back is being torn open. I hear buzzing around me, but my eyes are still closed and I can hear screeches from Michael, but I can't open my eyes because the pain, from deep inside my body, feels like my lower half is being ripped away. The sweat from my face leaks into my open mouth, and I cry and pound my fist against the metal boat. I feel something small next to my hand. I squeeze it and a rusty hook splinters through my skin.

  Once the throbbing of my stomach and back peaks, I feel an instant rush, the same kind of rush I get after an orgasm. Only then do I open my eyes. My stomach is no longer a fat mound, but a wrinkled piece of wet leather, then I see it. A purple, blood-soaked newborn. Its arms and legs sprawled out, limp on the metal floor, head slumped to one side like a rag doll. I take the slimy thing in my arms.

  "A girl," Michael says, holding a hand over his swollen eye.

  "Michael, she's . . ." I pause. My stomach twists with panic. "She's not crying."

  He leans in closer, his face covered in huge welts, and turns his head to listen for breathing.

  "She's not dead, right? She was kicking inside me a little bit ago. Everybody felt it," I plead to him as if he can fix things, but he leans backward, disheartened by the sight.

  I've got to try something; resuscitation. I have to try. At this instant, the newborn's eyes begin to spasm, then the mouth clefts open. I wipe away bloody muck from her mouth and feel an immediate sense of hope. The buzzing sound returns. A single wasp squirms out of the infant's mouth and takes flight, then another, and another. And they dart out of the infant's hollow eyes like raged soldiers protecting their territory.

  Michael knocks her from my hand. She rolls to the floor and, before I can say a word, he begins a fury of stomping. He crushes the infant's head over and over and over with the heel of his boot until the skull cracks open and releases an army of wasps.

  Stingers pierce my entire body, inside and out. I take the umbilical cord and gnaw on the veiny thing until I'm free. And despite the swarm of winged beasts guarding the infant shell, I chuck her over the boat's ledge. Michael stands, still swatting the air like hell. He loses control and tips the boat so far to the left we both keel into the lake. I see the remaining wasps charge toward my exposed head so I take a deep breath and dip down under the water, holding myself for as long as my lungs will allow. The sun's rays beat down below the surface of the water, making it easy to see at least five feet in front of me. And as I was about to swim up for air, I feel a faint mass glide against the back of my lower neck. I turn around, hoping it's Michael.

  I release the air from inside my lungs at the sight of the bloody infant hovering in front of me like shark bait. I see loose flesh dangling from its mangled skull and a veil of wasps squirm on top of the lifeless body. I force bursts of water outward, pushing it away.

  And right before the murky water swallows the meat nest from sight, I watch the horde of wasps pivot. Their gaze cemented on me. Chills run down my spine.

  I feel a tap on my upper back. My heart leaps and I let out all the air from my lungs. I twist around. Michael’s legs flap about like two maimed earthworms. I thrust myself up above the water and tug at his shirt. Without speaking a word, we begin swimming toward shore. My legs, arms, stomach and mind are sore, but I push onward.

  Recent images begin skewing my mind’s eye. I see myself crushing the wasp that had stung me between my fingers and toss it outside. I see my foot stomping the wasp’s nest under the picnic table. I see myself spitting out gnocchi della nonna after the irritation down there had started. That’s when it all started. The itching was them crawling. They had reclaimed their nest, inside me; inside my baby.

  We reach shore. At once, I topple to the ground. Michael plops himself beside me. Our breathing is heavy, our voices silent. He holds me in his swollen arms as we gaze back at the lake to a spot where only surfacing bubbles emerge.

  END

  Psycho Pharm

  I can't escape the stench of my own urine and feces. It poisons the air around me. And it’s one of the reasons getting sleep around here is impossible. The flat iron floor beneath my bare hands and feet chills my entire body. There's nowhere I can escape it. It's worse than any night I've ever spent at home curling up on the tile floors. I'd give anything to sleep on them right now, with my baby girl curled up next to me in shredded cotton I’d collected from coats, drapery, and textiles in the parking lot. I don't have anything comfortable here, though. There's a shiny saucer filled with stale water and next to it, a dull metallic pan, which is usually filled with a couple dry pellets. They taste like drywall. I can only eat them when I'm starving.

  I hear a set of clicking coming closer from beyond a door, diagonal to where I lie. I walk from one end of the iron bars to the other, a 1.5 second distance across. The door opens, and I see a hand creep around the corner. And with the sound of another click, a joyless light beams on overhead. How I wish it were sunlight! But it's nothing like the sun. The sun hides from a place like this.

  I remember how afraid my daughter is after the sun sets and the owls begin a chorus of howling. But here it's much different. Here, the terror starts when the lights come on. It’s time to be afraid; not of snake or
feline, wasp or owl, but from whisker-less creatures dressed in white.

  At once, I'm blinded by all the whiteness in the room. Everything is white, from the walls to the iron bars below my feet to the table in front of me. White. White. White. There is however one shred of color. Under a table in front of my cell rests a hollow red box with a top capable of flipping up and down. Sometimes the box makes me go crazy. I don't know if it's because I’m entranced by it or if I hate it for being so different from the rest of the room.

  My heart races at the sight of a woman entering the big door. And although I haven't eaten in a long time, I become nauseous. I circle the cage. Once. Twice. Three times. The woman comes nearer. Four times. Five.

  A long white coat covers most of her body. Her head, with its short brown hair, slender face, and dark narrow eyes remind me of my girl back home. The feelings I get when I look at this woman, however, is nothing like the feelings I get for my girl; nowhere near it.

  The woman opens her mouth and takes out a tiny light blue wad. She walks in front of me and takes a step on the lower part of the red box. The top opens, exposing its hollow inside. She tosses the blue thing in and releases her foot. The box closes with a thud.

  She turns. Despite my feelings toward her, I stand, lean against the cold iron bars, and hold out a tiny hand, a plead for freedom. She glances toward me. Her acknowledgement is cold and unreassuring. She shifts to the right of my cell, toward my brown neighbor. I hear the squeak of iron and, seconds later, the woman lifts my neighbor by the tail. I spot crumbs dropping from his hands and mouth to the floor. My stomach churns at the sight of food. He wiggles for a moment, trying to get loose, then, realizing his actions are in vain, relaxes.

  What’s she going to do with him? My hunger, however, distracts the thought, and I begin scouring the cage for scraps of something, anything to eat. I sniff and lick the bottom of the empty pan. I taste a hint of the drywall pellets and scratch at the metal pan in frustration. Why have they stopped feeding me? All night I hear my neighbor crunching away. Why can't I have food? I put my hands over my eyes. I want to go home.