How to Disappear Completely
By Mileva Anastasiadou
She’s not that young, already in her mid-twenties, when the double lines appear on the test. She is careful enough most of the time, yet that’s how it goes; life happens and spoils all plans.
At first, she’ll panic. That doesn’t mean much, her boyfriend will say; everybody panics at the prospect of responsibility. She’ll have to take some time to think about it before she makes up her mind. She doesn’t need to, for the decision is already made, yet she pretends to consider all options, because that’s what’s expected of her. Being a mother was never her dream. Nor was being an astronaut. Or a lawyer. So she’s not an astronaut, or a lawyer. Does she have the right not to be a mother, though? She’ll wonder for a while if motherhood is a choice or an inevitable fate, yet she’s certain and firm. Her partner is not negative about a pregnancy, as usually expected in stories like this one. She won’t blame it on an irresponsible boyfriend. We could start a family, he’ll say. It’s up to her and she knows it. She’ll shake her head. She can’t even picture herself as a mother. He’ll hold her hand and ask her if that’s what she wants. She’ll nod.
She’ll make the arrangements next morning. She’ll remain detached, not out of second thoughts, as expected in stories like this one. She only regrets not being careful enough. She doesn’t enjoy unnecessary medical procedures. No one does. Nor does she enjoy her body being invaded by an alien creature, even if it’s her future offspring. She’ll sing inside that Radiohead tune about how to disappear completely. She’ll recognize it’s a sad song.
The doctor will see her partner standing beside her and won’t know what to tell him. In his mind, it’s the boyfriend’s fault. The girl would love to be a mother, he thinks, had she found the proper man. Wouldn’t every woman? She’ll keep her boyfriend away, go and fetch some sandwiches, she’ll tell him. Now that they’re alone, the doctor will feel more comfortable asking her. Are you sure? She’ll nod.
She’ll come home to sleep. Not out of regrets, as expected in stories like this one. She’ll be exhausted but glad the whole thing is over. I’m more than just a womb, she’ll say to herself. She’ll wonder if love is only about procreation. She’ll know, though, she did the right thing. She’ll be happier without a baby, so will be the unborn kid. What would life be like for a child growing up with an unwilling mother? Next day, she’ll go to work like nothing happened. Her colleagues will ask if she enjoyed her day off. She’ll nod.
She’ll still be child free at forty, privileged enough to live a life of choices. She’ll have been careful enough to not go through the same situation again. She won’t see the ghost of her unborn daughter, as usually expected in stories like this one. Strangely enough people only imagine unborn daughters, not unborn sons. People will wonder why she doesn’t have kids. Not all people are made out to be parents, she’ll say. They’ll assume there’s something wrong. Physically or mentally. They’ll ask questions and offer unsolicited advice. To avoid further explanations, she’ll nod.
In an alternate universe, the girl won’t have a choice. She’ll have to keep the baby no matter what. She’ll look at it and every single time she’ll be reminded of the life she hasn’t lived. She’ll hate it, only she won’t be able to admit it. People never do. She’ll raise it like a committed mother and little by little she’ll love her kid, like all parents do. Or most of them.
By forty, she’ll have completely disappeared, enslaved in a life unchosen. That’s when the ghost of the life she could have lived will come to haunt her. The doctor will hand her the appropriate pills, asking her to calm down. She’ll take them without hesitation and she’ll nod. Not out of determination this time, but that nod will be the white flag signaling acceptance of defeat.
Mileva Anastasiadou is a neurologist, from Athens, Greece. Her work can be found or is forthcoming in many journals, such as the Molotov Cocktail, Jellyfish Review, Sunlight Press (Best Small Fictions 2019 nominee), Ghost Parachute, Gone Lawn, Ellipsis Zine, Queen Mob’s Tea House, Bending Genres, MoonPark Review, Litro and others. Follow Mileva on Twitter @happymil_.
Photo credit: Carlos Ebert via a Creative Commons license.