jumping in for summer-afternoon swims with their friends, splashing one another and muddying the flow in some spots. Then one of the regular afternoon drizzles would start, a sun shower, or ghost rain, as her husband and his friends—a year or two older and thus considerably wiser—liked to call it. The devil was beating his wife and marrying his daughter, they said. The drizzle was both the wife’s and daughter’s tears. The sun was God drying their tears.
Another sun shower was also starting that afternoon when Gaëlle saw a tiny red koki lodged between two rocks. It was a baby frog, smaller than the size of her pinky finger, and it was lying on its side covered in ants, its four tiny legs stiff and up in the air, as though it had made some effort to crawl away from the ants and had failed.
Squatting down, she picked it up, slapping the ants away. They scattered madly, while others crawled up and downher arms, stinging her. The ants must have not been there for long, because the koki was still whole, its interior organs, which she could spy through its sheer skin, intact. Without thinking, she wiped a warm mist from her face and stuffed the koki into her mouth.
The frog stank of mold and decay and was slippery as it landed on her tongue. And though the koki was dead, she imagined it struggling as she pushed back her head and allowed it to reach her throat. Among the many dreadful, difficult things about her pregnancy, after the doctor’s dire verdict, was that she had grown to hate the smell of her own body. Most days she thought she smelled like a latrine. The very air that floated around her disgusted her. And sometimes, even though she had decided to keep it, the child growing inside of her repulsed her too.
Her body tried to resist the koki in her throat, her gullet forcing it back upward, nearly making her vomit. She took another vigorous gulp and forced it down farther until she could almost feel it land, somewhere deep inside of her.
Here they were, she thought, drawing the thought out in her mind. Two types of animals were now inside of her, in peril: her daughter, Rose, and now this frog. Let them fight it out and see who will win.
The sun shower ended and the sun peeked out brighter than before as she walked back to the house. She stopped walking now and then to fight the stirring in her belly, swallowing hard to dilute the bitter taste in her mouth. When she returned home, she was smiling more than she had for days.
“I was just going to come after you,” Laurent said, rushing to greet her at their front door. “Inès told me you weren’t feeling well. Did she prescribe rain?”
He was smiling his crooked smile. She was happy that he was smiling, but she was also happy that he had listened. He had come home early just as she’d requested. When he asked where she had been, she said, “Avec les grenouilles. Par le ruisseau. La douche solaire.”
With the frogs, by the stream, when the sun shower began, had been a good enough explanation for him. She needed to walk to help the baby drop, to make easier the labor that lay ahead, possibly in a few short days, she said. That’s why she walked to the brook every morning and sometimes in the afternoons too. He now understood that.
“But no more in the rain,” he said.
“It was not rain. It was a sun shower,” she said. But he no longer seemed to think there was a difference.
Her stomach now settled, she changed muumuus and that evening ate more of her cornmeal porridge supper than she had of anything else in weeks. She’d marveled at her own peaks of joy followed by self-pity, over the full course of her pregnancy. These dark moods, almost like strange premonitions, were normal, given the circumstances, the doctor had told her when she’d found it hard to trust that she and Laurent wouldn’t also die along with the baby.
“After we survive this, no matter what happens to the baby, our obituaries in
La Rosette
will say that we died after
Another sun shower was also starting that afternoon when Gaëlle saw a tiny red koki lodged between two rocks. It was a baby frog, smaller than the size of her pinky finger, and it was lying on its side covered in ants, its four tiny legs stiff and up in the air, as though it had made some effort to crawl away from the ants and had failed.
Squatting down, she picked it up, slapping the ants away. They scattered madly, while others crawled up and downher arms, stinging her. The ants must have not been there for long, because the koki was still whole, its interior organs, which she could spy through its sheer skin, intact. Without thinking, she wiped a warm mist from her face and stuffed the koki into her mouth.
The frog stank of mold and decay and was slippery as it landed on her tongue. And though the koki was dead, she imagined it struggling as she pushed back her head and allowed it to reach her throat. Among the many dreadful, difficult things about her pregnancy, after the doctor’s dire verdict, was that she had grown to hate the smell of her own body. Most days she thought she smelled like a latrine. The very air that floated around her disgusted her. And sometimes, even though she had decided to keep it, the child growing inside of her repulsed her too.
Her body tried to resist the koki in her throat, her gullet forcing it back upward, nearly making her vomit. She took another vigorous gulp and forced it down farther until she could almost feel it land, somewhere deep inside of her.
Here they were, she thought, drawing the thought out in her mind. Two types of animals were now inside of her, in peril: her daughter, Rose, and now this frog. Let them fight it out and see who will win.
The sun shower ended and the sun peeked out brighter than before as she walked back to the house. She stopped walking now and then to fight the stirring in her belly, swallowing hard to dilute the bitter taste in her mouth. When she returned home, she was smiling more than she had for days.
“I was just going to come after you,” Laurent said, rushing to greet her at their front door. “Inès told me you weren’t feeling well. Did she prescribe rain?”
He was smiling his crooked smile. She was happy that he was smiling, but she was also happy that he had listened. He had come home early just as she’d requested. When he asked where she had been, she said, “Avec les grenouilles. Par le ruisseau. La douche solaire.”
With the frogs, by the stream, when the sun shower began, had been a good enough explanation for him. She needed to walk to help the baby drop, to make easier the labor that lay ahead, possibly in a few short days, she said. That’s why she walked to the brook every morning and sometimes in the afternoons too. He now understood that.
“But no more in the rain,” he said.
“It was not rain. It was a sun shower,” she said. But he no longer seemed to think there was a difference.
Her stomach now settled, she changed muumuus and that evening ate more of her cornmeal porridge supper than she had of anything else in weeks. She’d marveled at her own peaks of joy followed by self-pity, over the full course of her pregnancy. These dark moods, almost like strange premonitions, were normal, given the circumstances, the doctor had told her when she’d found it hard to trust that she and Laurent wouldn’t also die along with the baby.
“After we survive this, no matter what happens to the baby, our obituaries in
La Rosette
will say that we died after
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