In Every Way by Nic Brown Page A

is. It is an irresistible and obvious craving—like a tsunami of psychic force, one that has been washing over her for days now—for contact with her own child. She wants to see her, to hold her, and to smell the down across her scalp. These urges first arose with what seemed like innocuous questions—how was she eating, how was her sleep, who has she started to look like. They then became coupled with a growing sense of loss. Because although Maria had felt confident in her plans to avoid the responsibility of mothering, in its place she has found very little. The pride Maria felt in those momentsjust after birth has been replaced with something like shame. There is no other way she can think of to ease this burden: she needs to know that her daughter is well.
    THAT AFTERNOON MARIA drinks white wine on the porch with Jack. He wears a long gray T-shirt with the sleeves cut off. It flaps around his lanky frame like a frayed flag.
    â€œThen let’s find her,” he says. They’ve been discussing Maria’s desire to see her daughter, to gather some sort of information about her, to confirm that she is healthy and in a good home. To learn anything. To put something into the void.
    â€œThat’s not what I’m saying,” Maria says, even though that is exactly what she’s been saying, in so many words. She is frustrated with her own increasing interest in the child, but is not necessarily surprised with it. It is Jack’s concern for their daughter that has come as a shock. Maria is afraid to encourage it. She can imagine Jack showing up on her doorstep one day, just like he did with Pinky, this time holding their child. And what she finds most terrifying about this possibility is not what Jack would then do, but what she would. “I just want to see her,” she says.
    â€œGoogle her,” Jack says.
    â€œShe’s three weeks old. She’s not online.”
    â€œOf course she is,” Jack says, running his fingers up Maria’s shin. “Don’t tell me that’s not why you named her something crazy.”
    â€œWhat’s not why?”
    â€œWith a name like that, she’s gonna be easy to find.”
    Maria has never considered that she probably could someday find her daughter, if only because of her name. She is so constantly surprisedat the connections Jack makes. He seems simultaneously older and younger than she, both more intelligent and less. He lifts the hair at the back of her neck and kisses her there.
    â€œBut you can do that later,” he says. “Now let’s remind each other how we made that baby.”
    â€œI have stiches,” Maria says, pushing him away.
    â€œThey told me they put in an extra daddy stitch,” Jack says, and slaps his hands together.
    Layers of gauze still line Maria’s underwear. She cannot at this point imagine ever again allowing anyone access to her body. Maria understands that Jack does not have this problem. She knows he longs for her, but she cannot bring herself to address him in any way that might bring him such pleasure. She pushes him away again as he draws closer and his face drops like he’s been told that he can’t have a toy.
    â€œWhat,” he says. “A man has passionate desire for his lady. You want me to deny it? That I have passionate desire? I cannot tell a lie.”
    â€œIn time,” Maria says.
    After Jack departs, Maria opens her computer. On the screen is a website about a Mexican clinic performing blood transfusions from guinea pigs. She might be a little drunk. She types “Bonacieux” into the search engine. Actresses in movie adaptations of The Three Musketeers appear. Maria can almost feel her mother’s exasperation at these digital priorities. She adds “North Carolina” to the mix and then “Philip and Nina,” and in less than two minutes, she’s looking at a photoblog called Isn’t Bonny Bonny?
    It’s not