Читать книгу Little Beast - Julie Demers - Страница 5

Rivière-à-Pierre, the Gaspé Peninsula, winter 1933. I remember it well because I was already the flicker of an idea in Mother’s belly.

That was the year Mother couldn’t stand up without help: pregnancy had her by the jugular. The family had turned their backs on her because she and Father had gotten caught up in the ultimate sin. Which is to say, they had touched each other’s difference.

So, winter 1933. I had spent the previous few months ruminating in Mother’s abdomen. I was bursting with life, which my arms and legs expressed without mercy. To help me settle, Mother would rain down fists on the refuge in her belly.

Being a fetus is serious business. It’s not like being an internal parasite; it’s a constant effort. There is no respite. Particularly since fetuses are responsible for the person carrying them but can do nothing to help them. As a fetus, I tried to help Mother. I pampered her. I made her laugh. I distracted her from her dark, unwholesome, smutty thoughts. But I soon figured out that I wasn’t quite up to the task. It doesn’t pay to get carried away with extreme thoughts. For instance, you can’t keep thinking about what it would look like if a fetus murdered an adult, although it is a serious topic that merits consideration.

I would often ponder these questions, and Mother had probably had enough of my philosophical musings. That is no doubt why, a few months before the due date, she lay down on her back and evicted me like a common tapeworm.

If I ever decide to return to the village, maybe she will still want me. Mother needs to be pampered, and I would do my best, just as I did when I was inside her belly.