Ali 35

The Containers

By Nawal Ali

Ilias's left toenail is ingrown and he winces when Suraya cuts through the flesh with one dexterous swipe. A drop of blood beads at the cut, cool against her fingertip. Ilias wraps the toe without a word.

After dinner, Suraya takes her time scooping the vanilla ice cream.

"That's a lot, baby," Ilias says, unbuckling his pants, eyes wide with raw hunger.

Suraya feels a flutter. She pulls up her shirt, exposing her belly.

"Touch," she urges.

Ilias bares his teeth. Suraya winces, resting a hand on the lump. Ilias smooths out the expression. Then he kneels in front of her, tracing the swell, curving a finger along the many winding roads of her stretch marks.

"I know what we should call it," he says quietly as if the thought just occurred to him. He puts a finger to his mouth. A secret.

That night, they fold together, trying to figure out where they fit and where they fall clean out. The lump sits between them, solid and unmoving. Ilias whispers the secret through a moan. She barely catches it— gasps. He drifts off into sleep.

She stays awake deep into the night, measuring the uneven ceiling plaster with her exhausted gaze.

The midwife comes early, white-gloved, hair tucked into a pink barrette. She fusses over Suraya with homemade chicken liver pate. Then orders her to sprawl on the sofa. Suraya does as she's told. The midwife lifts her tunic and records some measurements in a spiral notebook. She presses both sides of her belly until tears spring into Suraya's eyes.

"How often does the baby move?" she asks, tapping a pencil.

"Three," Suraya hesitates, "maybe four times a day."

"Does it follow the same pattern?"

Suraya has to think. "Yes. I believe so."

The midwife smiles. Suraya notices her teeth. They are unnaturally white, like carcass bone.

"Do you have any cravings?" she says, rubbing her palm, circling her stomach.

Suraya nods. She's grown fond of peanut butter with beet relish—that sour tang and grease speak to a newly awakened corner of her mind.

But there are other cravings, too.

The midwife cocks her head like she knows. An amber light glints in her eyes.

That evening, Ilias's tie is wrinkly. His cuff links dangle noose-like from his wrists. Between commercial breaks, she catches him sliding a burner phone into his pocket. Hope ignites in her belly—maybe he's planned something after all? It's been months since they found out about the baby and called that clinic out of town. He made all the vital arrangements. He began marking dates on the calendar. "We can still stop this," he would say as if it were a matter of timing. To get ahead of the procedure, he pounded herbs; she chugged them with seltzer. But the effects were minimal: some mild nausea and a trickle of nosebleed.

As the weeks passed, Suraya made up excuses not to make the appointment. The weather wasn't good. Too rainy. The roads were slick. She didn't know what had changed, only that she had looked at the growing belly one day, the veins running under her skin like the flow of a river, and felt a shift. How could she fight it?

Ilias clears his throat. "I saw the order you made online."

She rests a hand on her belly and looks away. Her mother had suggested it. But how can she explain it without hurting him? If she had gone to the appointment, none of this would have happened.

"Why?" he says quietly.

"I might need it for storing milk." And meat, she thinks.

He combs back the fringe. His green eyes are coin-dull. She wonders whether boys steal their fathers' good looks the way little girls steal their mothers’. The thought makes her uneasy.

"We still have a month," he hesitates, hands coiled into fists (she flinches). "We can make a plan."

She says nothing.

He drops his arms to his knees and stares off into the distance. She's seen that look before. In a minute, he'll excuse himself and spend an hour alone in the bathroom. She'll find nothing afterward. Not even a rusty drop.

That night, she circles his slumped figure on the futon on her way to the kitchen. She rips three strips of jerky out of the vacuum seal. Dips the meat in a can of Greek yoghurt, hoping it might soak up the gritty ash at the back of her throat. She settles in bed and lets her hand drift over the cold sheets, then carefully sifts through her memories: the wedding lace and the chocolate stain, their first kiss.

Her mother calls on her the next morning. At half past eight, the old lady, an eerie replica of Suraya—short brown hair, thin purple lips and an upright figure—is shuffling past her toward the kitchen.

Suraya was working her way through the pantry, even has it down to a system: biscuits, tinned fruit, dried meat. The hunger is expanding to her limbs.

Unperturbed by the mess, her mother thumps a canvas bag on the counter. Her knobby fingers sink into the bag.

"What's all of this?" Suraya says, watching the stack build on the counter.

"Containers," her mother says as if this explains it all. "Did you order the freezer?"

Suraya swallows.

"When is it coming?"

"The day after tomorrow."

"Good. Very good."

She leaves without a word. Suraya stares at the countertop, a funny feeling travelling up her spine. Not quite relief, but close.

Ilias arrives a little after five and startles when she greets him at the door in the red lace. She beckons for him to follow her. He trudges behind, like a man wielding a cane, fumbling over furniture and carpet ends. The bathroom tiles are littered with tulip petals. A whimsical pattern forms as they edge closer to the tub.

"Undress," she orders in a light tone.

Ilias waves his hands as if unsure what to do. His eyelids are a little swollen. She suspects he might have cried in the car. She suppresses the guilt with a sigh.

He could leave at this point. But he doesn't. Suraya isn't quite sure why. Does he love the child in spite of the grief? Does he hope it's a boy? Sometimes these questions hang at the tip of her tongue. There won't be any appointment with an out-of-town doctor. Run. Run while you still have a shot at getting out.

He unhooks his belt, unzips his fly. She inches forward and helps him with the necktie. It curls on the floor. She notices the fresh wounds on his inner thighs. He's used a razor.

"Get in."

He uncoils inside the tub, flicking away the foam. For a while, she watches him only. Then she soaks the loofah, working up a lather on his left kneecap. She gently wipes at his thighs, at the small littering of wounds. He blinks one eye open.

"You're good at this," he says.

She lathers between his toes. Watches the water turn gray. Tries to commit it all to memory.

"Witch," he hisses.

He shivers slightly when she straddles him on the bed. The belly looms between her hands and his neck. Wherever she works the oil, a deep flush emerges. She can smell it. Knows without looking that one of the cuts has pricked open. He's been trying it for a while now, to cut and bleed out. Her mother says it will spoil the meat. Suraya sucks on her lower lip.

"I want you to know that I will always love you," she whispers.

She doesn't move when he lunges for her wrist, squeezes until his knuckle turns white. She can feel a pinching sensation along her spine. Silence settles. Inside it, his masculine power expands. She is nothing.

Finally he exhales through clenched teeth, lets go of her wrist. "I lo . . . love you . . . too."

"Good," she says, inhaling his hurt, massaging her hand. Her heart thumps a thousand miles an hour. "We're almost finished."

Suraya and Ilias are reading Kepler novels on opposite ends of the sofa—a Friday night activity they've come to enjoy—when a dull contraction breaks with a hiss. The sensation is a cold, strange one.

"Ouch," she yells, flinging the book.

Ilias looks over the pages, following her gaze. His eyes hover over the wet stain and the steady, pulsing rush of dark liquid. His fingers unhook. The book slides down his shirt collar.

"I love you," she says through the second contraction.

He swallows a sob.

The hospital is a ten-minute drive and Suraya screams the whole way. Dense pine woods flank the white stucco building. At the entrance, the midwife leans against a pole, a rolled smoke dangling from her mouth. She chucks the cigarette when she sees the black sedan, swiftly guiding the gyrating Suraya to a wheelchair. Ilias breaks into a trot.

The midwife turns. "I'll take it from here." Her tone is firm. Final.

A wrinkle cuts through his brow. Then it dawns on him. Not the birth—the rest of it. He comes to a halt. Suraya turns, almost says his name. But her gaze drifts past him, to the dark seam of trees beyond the parking lot. She wails through her fist.

The baby is born thirty minutes later on a floor that houses only three beds. There was no time for an epidural, they tell her. Suraya doesn't believe a word of it.

The baby is placed on her chest, still slick from birth. It has pitch-black hair, a sandy complexion, honey-brown eyes that shift with the light. It coos and arches its neck to suckle.

Suraya stays at home for weeks on end. Her mother comes to stack the freezer, now installed on a maple chest doubling as a nightstand and a cutlery drawer. Every morning Suraya opens the freezer and unclasps a carefully labeled container. Thyroid. She minces the meat and fries it up with a side of scrambled eggs. Liver. She eats with her eyes closed. Heart. Sometimes she cries.

The baby drinks liberally every two hours. She changes its pink cloth diaper without looking down.

The bedroom has been cleared up, except for a pillow she kept for herself. She sleeps on a twinset and sometimes she wakes reaching for the other side before remembering. The pillow still holds the faintest trace of jojoba oil and a sour tang beneath it, like old sweat trapped in cotton.

Her mother sits with her after her library shifts and strokes her greasy head. She doesn't ask to hold the baby.

"Why me?" Suraya asks. The meat has returned most of her strength. But at a cost. Sometimes her hands curl without reason. Her jaw aches from clenching.

Her mother shakes her head. "Did he give a name?" she asks.

Suraya's eyes prick.

Her mother cocks her head questioningly.

"Idris," she whispers. It feels like parting with a gift. Now there is nothing.

Suraya's mother grabs her hand and puts it in her lap. She strokes her palm the way Suraya sometimes strokes the baby's cheek when it trains its watery eyes on her—now fully green.

"He put up a good fight," she says as if this settles the matter.

Suraya swallows the ache.

"You had two brothers," her mother admits.

The shock is dull. They sit quietly with the horror.

Nawal Ali is a Somali-Swedish writer living in the Netherlands. Her short stories explore identity, culture, and belonging. Her work has appeared in Avalon Review and Barely Southern Review, among others. When she’s not out with her children exploring flora and fauna, she can be found in bed, nose glued to a paperback. Ali is currently working on a short story collection.