by James Gianetti
The Miracle
A device with a cord slid around Mother’s belly button, beside her tattoo, and over her scar tissue. I watched it glide over us the way fish watch boats skim the surface. When Mother saw us on the blurry screen, she reached for Father until their fingers interlocked. They named us after our grandfathers. Matthew and Joseph. Our bodies curled; backs touched against the membrane until we looked like the butterfly tattooed on Mother’s stomach. She pinched the cross on her necklace, asking for strength. It wasn’t the first time she saw a miracle.
The Reveal
We woke to the pop of balloons spilling blue confetti and the muffled sound of cheering. Brother and I were ready to kick when everyone began to feel Mother’s stomach for the first time. Our feet pressed hard against the placenta. I told Brother not so hard when he kicked, nearly pushing through the uterus. The outline of our toes jutted against the skin, and they shouted with amazement. In the bathroom, mother poured a bottle into her plastic cup. She asked us for forgiveness each time the rim met her lips.
The Checkup
The doctor asked Mother questions. Medications, exercise, family history, genetic testing. Mother wondered if we’d get her green eyes or Father’s jagged nose. Brother and I caressed the curves and bends of our faces with our thumbs. Then we felt for each other’s to see if we had the same chin. Nose. Lips. Brother’s face wasn’t like mine. The doctor asked Mother about alcohol consumption. Blood rushed to her face.
The Nursery
Our room was prepared with wood cribs and walls painted light blue. Brother told me I could have the right side of the room. Just like we were arranged in Mother’s belly. Brother didn’t sleep easily. Mother’s palms blanketed her belly, feeling his restless body extending and flexing throughout the day. When her lullabying failed, Father’s fingers tickled guitar strings. He hummed the verse before whispering the chorus of a John Lennon song. Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy. The vowels were enunciated with melancholy. It wasn’t the first time he’d performed it.
The Promise
Brother and I planned our futures. We’d have the same classes, jobs, and house. We couldn’t wait for the endless games of hide and seek. We pledged to always wear the same clothes and outfits. Cowboy hats, pirate jackets, superhero capes. Didn’t matter how bizarre. Our pinkies tried curling. The promise was binding. Mother finished a bottle of wine while Father worked his night job. She slurred whispers to us in third person. Apologetic, succinct phrases. Unintentionally and nearly haiku. As the last of the bottle flowed through my cord, she promised us it was the last time. Brother would be the gullible one.
The Fight
Father pointed toward Mother and the empty bottles he found in the closet. The veins bulged on his neck when he shouted, “not again” and “get help”. Brother cowered when Father broke the bottles against the corner of the dresser. To calm him, I told him we’d play our favorite game where we each guess what the other is thinking. We guided our foreheads against the membrane until we felt the hardness of each other’s skull. I counted down from three. A second between each second. Brother interjected. “You think father is right” he said.
The Seeds
I tugged on Brother’s cord, telling him it’s almost time for us to go. I tapped and tickled him, but he didn’t giggle or turn to play. Mother wiped the parts of her face the tears made moist. When she finished drinking, she buried the empty bottles in the garden at night while Father worked. When the sun and the rain came, nothing grew. Flowers didn’t bud or blossom. Everything remained still like Brother did.
Joseph
I still took the right side of the room. All the aunts and uncles spoil me equally. I dress in whacky outfits only on Halloween. Kids tease me and when they shove my chest I kick and punch and wait for you to tell me “Not so hard”. When I’m alone I press my head against soft surfaces and search for your skull’s hardness. I play hide and seek in the house, and sometimes in the stores where Mother buys food and clothes. I hide in small, tight spaces. Then I wait. Sometimes for hours imagining you searching for me. I curl my body. Head down, knees to my chest. I wait.
James Gianetti’s stories have been published in or are forthcoming in places like SmokeLong Quarterly, Driftwood Press, Stanchion, The McNeese Review (Boudin), and Fatal Flaw. His short story “Anastasia” won the Driftwood Press Adrift Short Story Contest judged by Dean Bakopoulos. He is also the author of the novelette, “Calvin Klein” (ELJ Editions). Beyond writing, James holds an M.A. in special education and teaches middle school special education in New Jersey. You can find him on Twitter/X @Jamesgianetti, on Instagram @james_gianetti, and at JamesGianetti.com
Emerge Literary Journal 