12
The couple had met at a hidden lake around ten months ago. They had met through wildflowers, drawn to each other by the hum the woman had been keeping in her throat, she was twenty (he only a year older), he knew she had been humming Wonderwall.
The new father stands, and flicks the switch beside the door. Up and down,up and down. His desire to see his child conquering all logic in his brain, he will keep trying until the lights come back on. Finally, they do. Basking the room once again in bright, white light. All of them blink in surprise, the light catching on the mother’s tears that had formed during labor. Her thin, brown hair is plastered to her forehead, and her skin looks clammy. With each ragged breath, her collar bones appear to try to escape from her skin. She reaches out for her baby, demanding with her eyes what her mouth cannot verbalize. But the doctor is staring at the baby boy with new–found horror, guiltlessly wishing the lights had stayed off. Or that he hadn’t gotten to the baby in time, and it had died from lack of air. So its skin had stayed blue, instead of turning back to a healthy red. One glance at the baby he saw everything; the betrayals, the pain, the manipulation. The doctor saw it all in the eyes–one red and one brilliant blue–of the child. In the eyes that should not be open, should be squeezed shut in a cry. But the baby has stopped crying. It stares up at the doctor, it’s round face calm and collected, then it closes his eyes.
The couple stares at the doctor, the mother’s arms still hanging in the air alongside the questions in the father’s eyes. With cautious movements, the doctor hands the small bundle to the mother. The mother’s name is Emile Freelie (still going by her maiden name because her and the father, Don Balk, are not