Morris 28

Doggy Hurt

By Laura Leigh Morris

Content warning: Cruelty to animals

Suppose you hear the hollow sound of baseball bat on bone. And suppose you run to your son and his new puppy. Suppose the puppy cries as he tries to pull himself across the concrete with his front paws, back legs limp and dragging. Suppose your son looks up at you and says, “Doggy hurt,” tears in his eyes. Suppose the bat clinks against the concrete, and you scoop your now howling son into your arms. You press his face against your chest as he screams, “Doggy hurt,” and the puppy continues to mewl, to drag itself forward. And you know the vet will say nothing when you sweep into their office with a crying toddler and a puppy with a broken spine, but their look will be enough. You will know that you cannot keep your eyes on your son at all times, but the vet will think, Monster, will think you shouldn’t be allowed to have kids, that you are, in fact, a bad mother.

Suppose you take your son inside and strap him in his booster seat at the dining room table. Suppose his plate holds the peanut butter sandwich and halved grapes you were preparing when you heard the thwack of bat against body. Suppose you tell him Mommy will be right back, and suppose he forgets all about the hurt doggy and takes a giant bite from his sandwich and gulps milk from a plastic cup.

Suppose you go back to the puppy and see blood and piss and feces trailing behind him. Suppose he now lies twitching, panting, and mewling, and you know there is nothing you can do. Suppose you pick up the bat and close your eyes as you bring it down once, twice, three times, until the dog is quiet, still. Suppose you walk to the edge of the patio and vomit into the grass. Suppose your son calls for you, and you wipe your mouth and return to the dining room. Suppose your mouth tastes sour as you listen to him blather between bites. Suppose you can still feel the give of the puppy’s body under the bat, and sweat beads your forehead.

Suppose the boy goes down for his nap without mentioning the puppy. Suppose you wrap the dog in a garbage bag and then dig a hole behind the garage. Suppose the soil is so hard that blisters form on your palms. Suppose the puppy’s body is still warm as you lower it into the grave. Suppose those blisters burst as you cover the body with dirt, and you lean into the pain, think, Good.

Suppose your son wakes with a smile on his face and reaches up to you with outstretched arms. Suppose he says, “Hug,” and you recoil. Then you lean forward, wrap your arms around his sleep-warmed body, but you stare at a spot over his shoulder, behind his tousled hair and stale sleep breath. Suppose you stare at that spot long after he lets you go, says, “Mommy. Mommy. Mommy,” but you do not recognize that he is speaking to you.

Rise

By Laura Leigh Morris

4:30 am, and Archie yells, Mommy, wake up. Bleary eyed and foggy brained, but I am awake. We run cars across the floor, stack Legos into impossibly high towers, read seventeen books. He throws two tantrums, poops in his new underwear, screams when I cut his toast wrong. The air conditioner already struggles to keep up with the heat. All before the sun comes up.

Post-breakfast, post-shower, post-tears. My head pounds as I strap the screaming toddler into his car seat. Sweat pastes my shirt to my back. I swear when I spill coffee on my pants, wipe at the stain with a used tissue, smear toddler snot on my leg. I close my eyes before putting the car in reverse, already exhausted. Archie is asleep before we reach the end of the road, jaw hanging open, face pressed against the side of his car seat.

Spreadsheets blur on the screen. I shake three ibuprofen into my palm, head pounding, and realize: I have no memory of dropping Archie at daycare. My chair falls backward. Heads turn. I run down the stairs, out the backdoor. People cluster in the parking lot. I run, stumble once, right myself, keep running.

Archie stands on the passenger seat, holds a spatula in chunky toddler fingers. Sweat plasters hair to forehead. He grills burgers on the dashboard, passes them out the window to the crowd, who are chatting, laughing. They compliment his perfectly charred burgers, request more ketchup.

No, he sits in his car seat. There is no crowd. He is alone, head slumped. I open the door, wrench him from the seat, pull him against my body. He is so hot he burns my skin. Blisters blossom on my hands, my arms, the cheek I press against his face. My skin blackens, chars, peels away, but I do not let him go.

No, he holds a bouquet of balloons that lifts him through the sunroof. Sweat runs down his body, dripping from his toes. The drops sizzle as they hit the blacktop. He rises. I wave.

The Giving Mom

By Laura Leigh Morris

After Shel Silverstein

Once there was a woman, and she was pregnant with a little baby. And every day that baby would grow, and its heart tube would pulse, and it would form buds that would become its arms and legs. It would develop kidneys and a liver and grow teeth and eyelashes. And after weeks had passed, it would stretch its legs and open its eyes, and when it was tired, it would sleep. The baby only knew this dark, warm home, and the woman was happy.

But time went by.

And the baby grew bigger.

And the woman grew uncomfortable.

Then one day the woman said to the baby, “Come. It’s time for you to be born.”

But he said, “I am too comfortable. I do not want to be born.”

And so the doctors took her into the operating room.

“You can have my womb too,” the woman said when the c-section did not go as planned. “And then you will be happy.”

And so the doctor removed the baby and her uterus and said, “I am sorry that your womb is gone, but you have a baby boy.”

And the mom was happy.

But the baby was always hungry, and so the mother pressed her nipple to his mouth and said, “Come, Boy, latch onto my breast and drink my milk and be happy.”

The baby fussed and fretted, but he latched onto her breast and mangled her nipple with his suckling. Then, his teeth came in, and his bite sent ripples of pain that made her cry out.

And she said, “Come, Boy, drink without using your teeth.”

But the baby said, “I cannot eat without chewing.”

The baby chomped on her nipples, but he grew chubby and round cheeked. And so the mother’s nipples were ruined, but she was happy.

The baby grew and grew and grew some more, and when the mom again noticed her body, the baby was a toddler who hung from her left leg, begging for sweets—cookies and candy and cake.

“Come, Boy,” she whispered. “Come and eat this apple.”

“I do not want an apple,” the toddler said. “I want a piece of cake with blue and pink icing that will stain my teeth and make me run in circles.”

But the mom would not give him cake, and so the toddler continued to pull on her left leg until it popped off, and he carried it away.

And the mom was happy.

But not really.

After a long time, the toddler grew into a boy and pulled on her right arm as he begged for the toy gun all his friends had.

“I’m sorry, Boy,” the mom said, “but I cannot give you a gun. It will teach you violence, and I do not want you to be violent.”

“I want a gun,” the boy yelled. He pulled on her left arm until it too came off.

The mom balanced on her one leg and held onto the counter with her remaining arm and said, “I am sorry, Boy.”

And the boy screamed and slammed his bedroom door.

And the mom was happy.

But not really.

After a long time, the boy grew into a teenager and woke her early in the morning by wiggling her foot. He sat on the edge of her bed and shook her foot until her eyes opened. “I want a car,” the teen said. “A new car. With a ragtop and leather seats and alloy wheels.”

“I’m sorry, Boy,” the mom said. “But I don’t have the money for a new car. Definitely not one with a ragtop and leather seats and alloy wheels.”

The boy continued to wiggle her foot. He said, “I want a car so a girl will like me, and I can go out and not sit at home with you.”

He wiggled her foot until it too fell off. Then, he said, “Thanks for nothing,” and slammed the front door behind him.

The mom closed her eyes.

She was not happy.

Not at all.

And after a long time, the boy came back again, a man now.

“I am sorry, Boy,” said the mom from the chair where she spent her days, “but I have nothing left to give you—my uterus is gone. My breasts have no milk. I cannot walk. I can’t even hug you tight.”

“I don’t need much now,” the boy said, “just an ear. I don’t know where my life went wrong.”

“Well,” said the mom, “I still have two ears that I will share with you. Sit, and tell me your problems.”

And the boy did.

And the mom was happy.

Laura Leigh Morris is the author of The Stone Catchers: A Novel (2024) and Jaws of Life: Stories (2018). She's previously published short fiction in STORY Magazine, North American Review, Redivider, and other journals. She teaches creative writing and literature at Furman University in Greenville, SC, USA. To learn more, visit www.lauraleighmorris.com.