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But this morning she was back in the playpen and the feet were gone. The baby must have eaten them, and I worried about whether or not the plastic would dissolve in her stomach, whether it was toxic. Sooner or later, in the contents of her diaper, which I examine with the usual amount of maternal brooding, I knew I would find two small pink plastic feet. I removed the doll and later, while she was still singing to the dog outside the window, dropped it into the garbage. I am not up to finding tiny female arms, breasts, a head, in my daughter’s disposable diapers, partially covered by undigested carrots and the husks of raisins, like the relics of some gruesome and demented murder.
Now she’s having her nap and I am writing this story.
From what I have said, you can see that my life (despite these occasional surprises, reminders of another world) is calm and orderly, suffused with that warm, reddish light, those well-placed blue highlights and reflecting surfaces (mirrors, plates, oblong window panes) you think of as belonging to Dutch genre paintings; and like them it is realistic in detail and slightly sentimental. Or at least it has an aura of sentiment. (Already I’m having moments of muted grief over those of my daughter’s baby clothes which are too small for her to wear any more. I will be a keeper of hair, I will store things in trunks, I will weep over photos.) But above all it’s solid, everything here has solidity. No more of those washes of light, those shifts, nebulous effects of cloud, Turner sunsets, vague fears, the impalpables Jea
I call this woman Jea
The point, for me, is in the hair. My own hair is not light brown, but Jea
Jea
(By this time you may be thinking that I’ve invented Jea
There are two other people in the car with Jea
“First they’ll give you an enema. You know what it is? They take a tube of water and put it up your behind. Now, the gentlemen must put on this—and these, over your shoes. And these hats, this one for those with long hair, this for those with short hair.”
“What about those with no hair?” says A.
The nurse looks up at his head and laughs. “Oh, you still have some,” she said. “If you have a question, do not be afraid to ask.”
They have also seen the film made by the hospital, a full-colour film of a woman giving birth to, can it be a baby? “Not all babies will be this large at birth,” the Australian nurse who introduces the movie says. Still, the audience, half of which is pregnant, doesn’t look very relaxed when the lights go on. (“If you don’t like the visuals,” a friend of Jea
And she knows it is. Everything will be fine. But there is another woman in the car. She’s sitting in the front seat, and she hasn’t turned or acknowledged Jea
Jea