Free Apart From Love by Uvi Poznansky Page B

ahead.
 
My little one would gurgle and coo right here, in my arms. I would be brushing my lips over his scalp—ever so gentle—careful not to touch nowhere close to the tender spot, right there at the top. I could almost feel the fine fuzz of his hair, real soft, tickling my cheek.  
In my head I could kiss, I could almost swallow his tiny fingers. They would wrap around my finger, their nails so pink, so incredibly clear. And the little hands, they would stroke my hair or like, search for my breast.  
 
Then I would touch the nipple to my baby’s lips, and watch him latch on and like, suck, suck, swallow, breathe; suck, suck, swallow, breathe.  
All the while his eyes would be fixed on me, curious to see, to separate my face out of that blurry chaos, that first, misty sight of lights and of shadows. And so I promised myself: I would give him that which I never got. I would become such a good mama, like no mama ever was! I would keep him safe right here, close to my heart.  
The loss of this hope, that was the thing that was so painful. I couldn’t hold it back, my grief. It came like, rushing, bursting out of me as I was lying there—even before I awoke, before I took full control of my body, or regained my spirit. It came out with every breath, every roar as it blasted off, soaring into the air above me. The roar of a wounded tigress.  
This was the Anita whose voice I heard, for the first time in my life, that day twelve years ago.  
Because who the hell cares? Who cares, really, if there’s still time , and who cares if it’s not too late , when your arms is empty. Who cares about the future, when your destiny is lost, and your promise—aborted, and by God, there’s no way, no way no more to undo the damage.  
A girl, a wild girl with green, kittenish eyes, that’s how most people see me in their head, how they choose to fancy me. But then, who’re they to decide? Can they hear what’s inside, in my head? Me, I know different. There’s a voice, there’s a roar of a tigress in me, like, a fierce mama tigress, ready to leap into action and do anything, anything to protect her cub.  
Beware, because this, you see, is the Anita I am today.

Chapter 7
N Over L
As Told by Ben

A lready she has a blue mark on her arm, and another one on her thigh, maybe more. And it is unclear at this point if these have happened earlier, when she collapsed, or in the last five minutes since my father found her, during which he has been trying, in vain, to lift her by himself. When the fact finally occurred to him that in his condition, he was too clumsy for the task, he made up his mind to call for help and so, here I am.  
Anita is lying there, legs folded, in the worst possible corner in this corridor, which is poorly lit and even worse, poorly ventilated. I slip one hand under her back, and another one under her knees, and pick her up. I find myself surprised not only that she has fainted all of a sudden, not only that she is now in my arms, untouchable and yet so close, her head bobbing up and down over my shoulder with each step I take—but more than anything, surprised at how light her body is.  
How can she be pregnant, I ask myself, and immediately answer by asking, What do I know. Her heart must be working harder now, working for two, really. No wonder she is lightheaded. Anita, I guess, is off-balance because for her, this must be a time of change.

Once inside their bedroom I lay her down, roll her knees over to the center of the bed, turning her away from the edge, and place a pillow under her head. Then I rise away from her, to throw the windows open.  
Hearing the squeak of his wheelchair behind me, I turn to my father. I look at him as if to say, Well, what now? And he returns a look with an equal measure of confusion, as if to ask, Look, Ben, can you tell, is she breathing?
I snatch a small, hand-held mirror from the dresser by her side and feeling important—at least as important as a TV brain