The Tree of Knowledge

Weekends mean no trips to Stone Works. Ryan doesn’t like it if we aren’t home when he is. I still try to maintain my exercise routine as much as I can. I’ve taken to working out in the living room. Sit ups, crunches, pushups, and squats followed by yoga. Little Bird chills out with me, big brown eyes following my movements. She’s getting so big. She turned six months old last week to much pomp and circumstance from Rebecca, who baked a baby pink frosted cake to celebrate and then cried. Little Bird has grown out of that squishy, wrinkly look and is just kind of thinking about talking. I’m been trying to teach her to say my name.

“Little Bird,” I say, “Say ‘Kit’.”

“Kawa lala bah.”

“That was so close!”

“You’re dreaming,” Mara says as she waddles into the living room.

Speaking of getting big, at five months along, Mara is rocking a serious baby bump. She’s also gotten like, really really fat. Mara is a blimp with swollen feet.

“I am not dreaming. There was a distinct “K” sound in there somewhere.”

“Shouldn’t you be teaching her to say ‘Mama’?”

“I teach her to say ‘Mama’ and she’ll start calling me ‘Mama’ and Rebecca will lose her shit and stop baking me cinnamon rolls.”

“I heard that!” Rebecca yells at me from the kitchen.

“How about ‘Dada’?” Ryan says as he walks into the living room. He scoops Little Bird up off the floor.

“Say ‘Dada’.”

Little Bird immediately starts balling, she face twisted up in despair. Ryan thrusts her back at me in disgust.

“I’ll be in the upstairs.” he mutters.

Mara lays down on the couch, staring up at the ceiling. She points up at a black spot.

“Kit, will you call the priest and see if we can get him to come out and look at that mold?”

According to Leviticus thirteen priests have to examine all mold, mildew, rashes, and skin lesions. This keeps them very, very preoccupied.

I yell into the kitchen, “Rebecca! Will you call the priest? There’s mold on the ceiling!”

“Call him yourself!” she yells back. “I’m doing the cooking!”

“I’m taking care of Little Bird!”

“Will you call her Esther? I hate that name!”

“You just hate it because I thought of it and she likes it better!”

“She’s twenty-five weeks! She likes binkies! And Elmo! She hasn’t developed a preference on names! If you don’t call the priest soon, we’ll have to burn the ceiling by the time he gets here! I’m sure the wait list is at least two months!”

“I’m busy! You call him!”

“Will both of you shut up?!” Mara yells from the couch. She shuts her eyes and winces, massaging her temples.

We shut up. Even Little Bird shuts up.

I summon a more dulcet tone and ask, “Another headache?”

She nods. “They won’t stop.” she says.

“Do you want some aspirin?”

She nods. I wander off in search of aspirin, Little Bird on my hip. She accepts the aspirin gratefully when I return.

“I think I’ll go lie down in my room.” she says, hoisting herself precariously to her feet.

More like go have a drink in her room, no doubt.

Mara starts up the stairs. Five stairs up, she stops. Her body sags as she leans against the wall.

“Your room to far away?” I ask.

Mara does not respond.

“Mara?”

Her body convulses and her knees give out from under her. She slides down the stairs on her back, her head thumping on the wood paneled floor at the bottom.

“Mara!”

I put a screaming Little Bird down on the floor and run to her. She’s spasaming wildly. Her teeth nash causing a terrible grinding noise.

“Rebecca! Help me!” I yell.

Rebecca comes running in, still clutching a mixing spoon covered in brownie batter, leaving a trail of sugary brown spots in her wake and screaming for Ryan to call an ambulance. I’m trying to hold her still. Her failing legs kick into my gut. Rebecca is praying aloud, feverently. She has the sense to force the handle of the spoon into Mara’s foaming mouth. Brownie batter splatters on Mara’s face. Her eyes have rolled back in her head. I sit on her trashing legs while Rebecca tries to hang on to her arms. She continues to convulse, her belly heaving.

After what feels like an eternity, the convulsions slow, then, mercifully, stop. She’s still unconscious. I check her pulse. At least she’s breathing. I shake her.

“Mara!”

No change. Rebecca slaps her.

“MARA! WAKE UP!”

Terrified, I scream up the stairs, “RYAN! CALL FUCKING 911!”