Claraâs mirror is showing her a peculiar image: that of a thin child of thirteen in her underwear, with two distinct wet spots on her bra, on each of her nipples. Her senses, sensing fuck-all, gave up and rebooted themselves; but when her mind cleared it was still there. There, her collarbone. There, a birthmark like a star. And there, her wet-pebble breasts.
Clinically she is able to lift up her baby blue baby bra to study her aching lumps of flesh; they are leaking. Not sweat, not blood. White sap drips down, a steady trickle on the way to her navel.
She sees this. And takes it in, and in, and in. A couple flashes of light and now sheâs in the shower, now sheâs getting dressed, now sheâs taking her thickest jacket out of the closet, puts it on, and buttons it all the way up to her neck.
She has a willowy twin named Marya. Marya is eldest, responsible, has perfect wide eyes and silky black hair straight down her back. She has long fingers and a too-blunt nose. She has cool eyes and a slightly detached demeanor.
Clara has a headache, and nausea, and sheâs vomiting down the barrel of a toilet. The force of the projectile splashes the water around in little yellowbrown waves.
âWhat is wrong with you?â Marya says. The sisters look around; one looks to the floor, the other to the ceiling. Either way, there was not an answer to be found.
Her mirror has been seeing much traffic recently. Dripping wet she surveys her naked body in the mirror. Her stomachâs pudging out. Her feet are swollen. Lately, her stomachâs been all cramp-y.
Some symptoms, but not all. Only about half of the checklist checkboxes checked. Plus itâs all out of order, the cart before the horse and all that, bodily-function-wise. Maybe this is just what puberty is. Maybe the nuns were right. Her mind wanders, frolics, trips over a rock and limps back. The train is arriving, has arrived, has ridden off, will ride again later. Yeehaw, etcetera.
Out loud she says, âSometimes, I worry Iâm not making any sense.â
Her reflection, predictably, doesnât have anything intelligent to say.
Her breasts are heavy and swollen. They no longer dripâ it could be called streaming, the steady flows of clean white cleaving through her torso, turning every shirt wet and kind of sticky. The sweat and the discharge had cooled Clara down somewhat from day to day, but thereâs only so much dampness can do for heat in a parka of a jacket. Marya, in the middle of stripping Claraâs things off, lecturing her about the perils of teenage insecurity and heatstroke, suddenly pauses. And visibly thinks to herself. And says, âOh. Oh my. Thatâsâ is that milk?â
Clara, from where sheâs passed out on the floor, blinks a bleary eye and says, simply, âYeah.â
Hours pass. Marya argues, wants to taste the nipple discharge to make sure, but Claraâs disgusted at the very thought.
âDâyou think you might be the next Virgin Mary?â Marya worries. âIt shouldâve been me. How would you be able to do this alone? Plus, Iâm literally named after Mary!â
Clara, humiliated, bursts into tears.
Marya convinces her to get really into the swing of thingsâ the baby things. They try stockpiling stuff, stealing from grocery stores and looking through old storage boxes for tiny onesies. Clara starts doing prenatal exercises every day. Marya lists all the gifts sheâs going to give her niece.
âOf course itâs going to be a girl. I just know. Plus, Jesus was a boy already, so the next one has to be a girl. Do you think sheâll be the type to like Barbie? Or, like, will she like tomboy things? You donât have a Joseph so Iâll be like the Mom. Not that you would make a bad mom, I just⌠worry.â
Her belly swells round as a watermelon. She watches it, rubs it, feels for kicks. It rumbles all the time, and hurtsâ little sharp stabs of pain. She thinks of it as worth it, though. A baby. A little girl. With the grace of God inside her.
Itâs been a month. Marya points this out. âHey, itâs almost the fortieth dayâŚâ she says. Implications coat her tone. Clara doesnât get it and says so. Marya laughs and floats away.
And the fortieth day comes, rises above a tableau of two sisters in the bathroom, one throwing up and one holding the hair back with one hand. The other hand is behind her back. Marya tries to soothe but sheâs very bad at it. Clara tries to get through this, just get through this.
And somehow she does. But when she sits up, wipes her mouth, blinks awareness into her body, Maryaâs tone abruptly changes. âHey, Clara, I love you. Itâs time.â
Before an I love you too can be stammered out, she strikes.
A couple flashes of light and now sheâs slashing, now sheâs tearing, now sheâs stretching a hole with her fingers and digging in. Claraâs in tears on the floor, Claraâs crying out, Claraâs throwing up. Redyellowbrownred.
Marya, vomit all over her, frowns. âThis is a way harder delivery than I was lead to expect.â
âWhat the fuck are you talking about?â Clara croaks.
Marya surveys the mirror. Wipes her face, twists long black hair up into a knot. And looks at the body at her feet.
There isnât a baby. Sheâd looked everywhere and there just wasnât. This was proof, proof that Clara just didnât have enoughâ enough gumption, enough strength; this was something to be gotten through together. And just how do you coalesce with the lesser twin?
Marya kneels, bends down, and starts scooping blood into her mouth. Slurping, licking, trying to bite at nearly-detached pieces of flesh. She hasnât had breakfast yetâ itâs only a quarter to sevenâ so she fills her belly with the grace-laden flesh. When sheâs had her fill, when sheâs sure the holy ghostâs very essence is inside her, she crawls up her sisterâs chest and starts suckling on a cold, rubbery breast. Warm liquid squirts into her mouth. It doesnât taste like milk; it tastes heavier. Like pus. Like responsibility.
Clara, this is how we get through this. The only way we get through this.
When the sun rises on the forty-first day, there are high-pitched cries spearing a hole through the sky, and Maryaâs shirt is heavy. Blessed is she with the miracle of milk, obvious precursor to the miracle of life.
Hand on her belly, she smiles.
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