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Show Woodworth/1^1 tries to take a nap in the afternoon. Sundays are the worst, with Ned home all day. There should be something holy about a Sunday. All day long, the bells from different churches seem to be reminding her that this is a holy day, this is God's day. A day to be thankful. Since Jake's funeral, she hasn't been inside of a church, or a chapel, or any of it. Even the thought of the muffled sound, the monotonous drone, the hymns sung on a scale of five notes, make her feel like she's suffocating. The bed still isn't made since morning, and she writhes and tosses in it, feeling the soggy grip of the twisted sheets. Throws an arm across her face to block out the day, the sight of the ceiling. Jake, Marty, Megan. All her children were conceived on this bed. Funny word, "conceived". Like an idea. Too technical. Like the difference between knowing about anatomy and biology, and then realizing that you really aren't going to get the curse, not this time. Back and forth from the doctor's office, where they are technical about diet, and exercise, and prenatal and postnatal. Then home, And there you are with your stomach getting bigger and bigger, and feeling worse and worse, getting so fat like that. It's more of a curse than the other. Until it kicks. You aren't sure at first even if it is a kick - it could have been something to do with digesting - say, the sausage you had for breakfast. But then it comes again, and this time you hold Ned's hand right there where it was, and it kicks and kicks against his hand until he says, "I bet it's a boy," and he holds her, the baby pressed warm between them. She lays her hands on her stomach. Fat again, but this time, it isn't children. It's alcohol. Gin in the morning, sometimes straight. And then gin and tonics at lunch. And scotch. Or bourbon. Scotch and wine at dinner. But it's not so bad. The pills •»~^_ frad »ll,AhID xj-im11 j stop the pills. But it's not a matter |
