December 30th, 2002

Expressive Aphasia

  Title

My baby kicked, hard. I put both hands on my belly. I felt it turn, then kick again with impatience and aggression. This one, I knew, would be a boy. His father's son.

The bus rumbled and shook as it pulled away from the curb. A little girl holding a doll peered at me from the seat ahead. I smiled. The girl stared at me with wide, dark eyes, but she did not smile back.

My baby kicked again.

I said to myself, I will not think of baby Roberta. I won't. Not even that little girl staring at me will make me think of Roberta. I’m going to clear my head and think of something else.

Mike. I wondered if I should say to him, "Hey, Mike! Your son's in here, already kicking and I guess he doesn't like the accommodations. He's ready to storm out. And he probably doesn't want to hear one peep out of me. Just like his old man."

No, I don’t think so. Mike wouldn't put up with that kind of sarcasm, he'd put me right back in my place.

Collapse )