Motherless Courtney Morgan When I was ten years old my father told me a story of a man who swam the English Channel without coming up for a breath. He had been born with Becoming some amphibious defect like webbed toes, except his was gills behind his motherless is an ears. My dad told me that if I held my breath long enough, often enough, I untethering process. You begin floating could grow gills too—or my kids might be born with them. I spent two through space. Your hours each day for the next three weeks in the bathtub until I fainted home is sold and underwater and nearly drowned before he found me. when you go there, to this new home That was the summer Mom died and Dad spent every evening sitting in that is now your the rusted out Ford in the backyard, pulling weeds from between the dad’s house it is not floorboards and tearing vines back from the steering wheel. He said he was comfortable like it is yours. It is not yours going to plant lilacs in the engine box, her favorite flowers, but he never like it would be if did. When he grew tired of picking burdock, we would settle into the she was there. You cracking leather seats with cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon and he’d drive us to can still open the fridge without India or underneath the English Channel or to the dark side of the moon. asking but all you Dad was a real fan of the imagination. He thought you could make will find inside is anything happen if you just believed it enough. yogurt and mustard and a quart of milk. That’s why he was so pissed when Mom died. He was convinced she Maybe a carton of could have willed her way into remission. He would make her sit for hours leftover sesame chicken, but it will on the back porch, that was in the spring and he’d wrap her in the orange be old and maybe and brown blanket she’d crocheted in the seventies and he’d enact a play- molding. There will by-play of her killer t-cells attacking the cancer like Return of the Jedi. I’m be wheat thins and peanuts and black pretty sure she always fell asleep, but it’s one of the last times I remember licorice in the her smiling. otherwise empty By summer he couldn’t move her out to the porch anymore. Her arms cupboards. Instead of a room with your were the same size as mine when I lay next to them, but white and flakey yearbooks and high like bone and with skin hanging down like a bat cape. school photos there will be a foldout air mattress that fits in It was the day that it became fall again, that you could feel a sudden the closet, that you crispness in the air, that you woke up thinking about apple cider even can plug into the though you’d spent the day before in the sprinklers, it was that morning wall and inflate into a fairly comfortable that Dad started packing boxes. bed you can sleep in I can’t stay in this house any longer, was his only reply. with your son. There It began in a very clean and organized way. He grouped books, will be no toys for the boy. No extra photographs, knick-knacks together and labeled each box with a permanent diapers. You will marker. As he moved from the living room to the den, then to my bedroom, maroon through and finally to his own, it took on a frenzy, landing in piles of clothes your days, a ship set loose at sea, as if stacked atop cracked humidifiers, teddy bears stuffed with bottles of talcum this forward motion powder into the crock pot, and jewelry twisted in a nest at the bottom of a were always normal, laundry basket. which it is except the ocean is wider, I He began moving everything into the front yard. The orange metal mean, it has no end, lockers from the basement stood filled with moth-balled jackets next to when there is no port with untied rope boxes of ornaments, “Our First Christmas” inlaid in gold glitter; there were somewhere, waiting. third grade curriculum books, Easter egg wrapping paper, silver-plated It becomes difficult candle holders and antique flour sifters. Too much for him to look at, he to sustain a family, to understand the said. Too much to smell. meaning of that It rained the next day on my horse books and my fragile collection, word, when you are smearing the paint on my porcelain golden retriever named Misty. His old motherless. A motherless mother is hi-fi from the garage sparked and snapped and Mrs. Basel next door told an empty womb me, when she saw me loading my Barbies into an evac bus to escape the leading back to the puddle flood forming in the cushion of the futon, to tell my dad that she’d beginning, the alpha the omega which call the police if the stuff wasn’t gone in the morning. is—mother. Your Dad posted a big yellow sign in the night: Garage Sale. And with two son, or your half of changes of clothes, his tennis racket in a padded silver case, my violin and him nonetheless, was created within the picture of mom in her red scarf we’d rolled dad’s manila-yellow (not your own mother’s mustard) Mercedes down the drive in the pink light of dawn. We stopped at womb and at one the Grab ‘N’ Go for a box of doughnuts, an atlas and a six-pack, and we point –was it nine months or one— didn’t stop again until we hit state lines. you, all three of you, Southwest, he told me. In the dryness of the desert wounds do not existed inside one fester and weep, bread does not mold. We need dryness, girl. Aridity will enclosed space, as you existed in your air out the soul. grandmother and as Dad gave me the map and pronounced me navigator. I sat cross-legged a smaller particle, in in the bucket seat and laid the wide book across my lap. your grandmother’s mother as all women “It looks like Hwy 36 will take us to the edge of Illinois.” I flipped the do. After existing pages on my legs to M27. “To… Missouri.” I studied the squiggly lines together, wrapped in tendon and skin it is before me. “To the Mississippi River?” a disorienting, “That’s right, the Grand Ol’ Miss. And from there, onward west. backward sort of Manifest Destiny!” feeling to continue to exist when that I squinted again at the snaking blue line. solidity burns to ash. “I’ve never seen the Mississippi,” I said. It is a topsy-turvy He wrenched to look at me. “Never?” he asked. “I thought on one of sensation to throw bits of ash and those summer road trips with your mom…” pebble into a windy “We mostly went up north, to the lakes, or east” I answered, hoping February air and he’d return his eyes to the road. He was quiet. watch them settle into a name carved “How old are you now, Dani?” in a gravestone, not “Just turned eleven.” the name of Mother, “Eleven years, and never crossed the Mississippi. Never laid eyes on but a baby’s name, your nephew, the muddy waters.” stillborn, the He was still shaking his head. grandchild that lived “Well, doll, we’ll have to do this in style.” in her womb at your sister’s conception, And at last he looked at the pavement spreading out before us. before you were born. Something in I fell asleep and my dad shook me awake as we approached East St. the air becomes fuzzy in the act of Louis city limits. “She’s coming up now. You can smell her.” becoming We rolled down our windows but it smelled like Ottawa. After a rain. motherless. But dirtier and full of cars. It was beautiful and noises were everywhere. Something in the soil becomes We twisted and spun through cars and trucks that seemed to come from familiar. every direction. With a squeal of brakes we lurched right, then again, and then I felt gravel crumbling under the tires as he stopped on the shoulder. “Out,” he said, get out.” And he threw open his door in the wind of passing traffic. I opened mine and saw that we sat perched at the edge of a steep wall of earth dropping down to a bank, and beyond that a spreading sheet of water. Mississippi—the word, the string of s’s fluttered across my chest. It was wide and it was brown and it was laced across the surface with currents wrestling over each other in a mass confusion that looked also like a dance. My father took my hand and he led me to the place where the shoulder fell away to only air over water below. We stood, leaning tight against the rail as traffic buzzed behind us. “Let’s walk it,” he said. I looked ahead. There was no sidewalk, just a thin concrete shoulder pressed tightly between the bridge rail and white line of the eight-lane highway beside it. But he was already pushing me gently from behind, and I found myself shuffling forward.