Sprouts of Grace

Story includes themes of child loss that may be triggering.

Helen skimmed her fingers over the pastel knitted blanket draped over the dark cherry wood cradle. If she inhaled deep enough, she swore she could pick up on the faint lingering scent of baby powder. Logically, she knew too much time had passed for that to be true, but it made the sinking feeling in her chest a little lighter from pretending. The floorboards creaked behind her, but she didn't bother turning around. She could already see the pity written across her husband's face. It was a look she knew all too well; deep furrowed lines between his brows, and a frown that had morphed into flattened lips from months of overuse. 

“I'll start on dinner soon.” She quietly offered. Dan grunted in reply, leaving with another creak from the aging floorboards. 

This was now their routine. It should have been a home filled with giggling children, gentle pecks on the cheek, and murmured bedtime stories. Instead, Helen learned to suppress her sobs against faded blankets and the sound of distant groaning wooden planks. 

Helen wiped her clammy hands on her tattered apron. Peeling potatoes had always left a strange coating of film on her fingers that made peeling rather difficult with more frequent accidental knicks from the peeler. Considering her lack of appetite, she had probably more than enough potatoes prepped in the pot, but it always made more sense to peel enough for a family of three. She dug into the burlap sack to retrieve another russet potato, but paused when her fingers brushed against deep grooves. A perfect oblong potato that filled her palm with a comforting weight. She rotated it and gave a soft gasp. Two deep lines gently curved into sleeping eyes, a small raised bump as a button nose, and a round divot formed a parted mouth. 

“Hello, little one.” She cooed with a budding smile. 

She plopped the potato into the apron pocket, frequently patting her hip to ensure it was still there. As she made dinner, she swayed and softly hummed to herself. 

 Helen skipped on the mashed potatoes, but stuffed herself on roast, veggies, and red wine. After much lighthearted conversation, Dan's scowl softened into a crooked grin she hadn't seen in months. 

“Dance with me.” He urged, turning up the radio and standing to offer his hand. 

He didn't ask why she was still wearing the apron, nor did he notice the way she only pressed one side of her body against him. The alcohol kept her in a blissful warmth that allowed her to laugh and sway with her husband while he sang off key and kissed her neck with every exaggerated dip. They made love, then Dan held her until he started snoring in her ear. Helen carefully slipped herself free from his deadweight arm to grab the potato from her discarded apron. She knew which boards to avoid as she tiptoed her way to the nursery with the potato nuzzled in her bosom. The cradle was much too big for it, but she padded the extra space with the homemade blanket so the tiny brown body was cushioned in a pastel rainbow. She draped her upper body over the wooden slats to hum and run her fingers over the potato's sleeping eyes while using her foot to keep a steady rocking motion that caused her to eventually drift off to sleep. 

“I thought we made progress last night, Helen.” Was all Dan said with a defeated sigh the next morning. 

“We did.” She murmured to herself, tucking the potato deeper into the blanket. “We did.” She repeated with a small smile. 

After a night where Helen startled awake from a phantom baby's cry, she knew she couldn't keep the potato in the nursery anymore. She stuffed the drawer of her nightstand with small blankets to keep it in close proximity. Once Dan was asleep, she'd open the drawer to lovingly pet the potato's lumpy cheeks until she fell asleep. Helen stopped having nightmares after that. 

“Haven't seen you wear dresses this much since we were newlyweds.” Dan remarked. 

Helen gave him a playful twirl to fan out the fabric, to which he grinned and pulled her into a kiss. It hadn't taken her very long to figure out that unlike her pretty church dresses, a lot of her pants were lacking pockets. 

“Hmm?” He bent down to pick up the familiar weight that Helen instantly realized was missing from her dress. “Are we having potatoes for dinner?” He sniffed and scrunched his nose in disgust, holding the potato at arms length. “This one needs to be thrown away. It's gone bad and is already starting to sprout.” He made his way across the kitchen, but Helen was quick on his heels to snatch it from his hand. 

“No, it's okay, I'll handle it.” She interjected a little too loudly. Dan side eyed her curiously before allowing her to safely curl her fingers around the potato. She silently exhaled in relief. 

Once Dan was preoccupied in the living room, Helen filled the kitchen basin with lukewarm water. She lowered the potato into the sink with one hand supporting its back, and the other splashing handfuls of water down its oval body. She began to sing an upbeat tune to cover up her winces from each gnarly green sprout she snapped off and set on the counter. She rubbed dish soap along the potato's cheeks, booped its nose with a chuckle, and wrapped the potato in a tea towel. Helen ran her thumb over a small hole on the forehead that was the result of breaking off the sprout. She tugged free the silk ribbon from her hair to tie around the potato, efficiently covering the hole. 

She had yet to give it a name. The logical part of her brain wouldn't allow her to name something that belonged in the earth. She looked down at the pink ribbon bow on its forehead. A girl. 

“See, good as new.” The other part of her brain said in sing-song to the freshly cleaned bundle of joy. 

That night they had spaghetti for dinner. She decided they would never have potatoes again. 

“Can't you smell it? I'm telling you, there's this weird funk in the house that I can't quite place.” Dan snapped one day, searching the house with aggrevated stomps. 

“It's probably just the incoming storm. You know how tornadoes can give the air a different smell.” She justified while tucking herself pocket-first into the corner. 

“No, it's not that.” He shook his head with certainty. He continued his determined search until stopping in front of her. His eyes slowly scanned her body before landing on her face and narrowing. “Helen.” 

“Dan.” She swallowed, subtly pushing her dress to the side to protect her pocket. Dan was already stepping forward to snatch her wrist, yanking her dress forward to allow the potato to tumble onto the floor. They both stared at it; Helen with wide panicked eyes, and Dan with growing disgust. 

“What the hell is this?” He grabbed the potato, pinching the pink ribbon between his thumb and index finger until it came free from around the potato's head. He held it accusingly in front of her face with his gaze alternating between her and the rotten potato with equal disgust for both parties. “You were getting better. Better, Helen! What is this!” He asked again with his voice rising in anger. 

“I-I am better!” She cried. “Because of her!” She held out her shaky palms, waiting for the potato to be safe in her hands once more. 

“No, I'm not doing this. This is insane, Helen.” Dan spun on his heels and marched to the side door. He slammed the screen door open, causing whipping wind to bang the door repeatedly against the wall. The slams and whistling wind barely drowned out Helen's screams when Dan cocked his arm back and launched the potato outside. She sprinted to the door, but was stopped by her husband's brute strength that kept her trapped in the kitchen. 

“Please! Just let me get her, Dan! Ple-” She wept. A piercing siren cut through the noise, silencing her cries and Dan's curses. “Dan-” Panic flooded her as large droplets of hail began bouncing off the concrete step and landing into the kitchen at their feet. “No, wait, there's still time. I can-” She tried to free herself once more, but Dan's grip remained firm. She wildly scanned the front yard in an attempt to find the potato through the darkening haze. She could find it, she swore. Mother's intuition would lead her to it. 

“Come on, we need to get to the basement.” Dan pulled her away from the door to close it, and began dragging her towards the basement stairs. Helen's screams were louder than the wind, hail, and sirens. Her throat was raw, and her eyes burned from the tears streaming down her cheeks. 

“I can't lose another child!” She pleaded once more with Dan. 

He paused their descent on the stairs to look at her with a pained expression. 

“And I can't lose you.” 

Helen's chest heaved from the exertion, but she was finally silent. Shrieking wind pierced the quiet, followed by a violent shaking of their foundation that caused them to tumble down the stairs. Her head smacked on the hard ground, cutting out the horrendous sounds and filling her vision with black. 

Helen awoke with water dripping onto her face. She shook her head to make it stop, causing her stomach to lurch from the swirling vertigo. She blinked at the water that continued to land on her blood matted hair, and realized it was raining in her basement. 

“Dan?” She croaked. No answer. She dragged herself onto her hands and knees before getting to her unsteady feet. “Dan?” She called again. 

She groggily lifted her head to the ceiling but instead was greeted with open sky. The heavy rain washed diluted blood down her cheeks and she briefly closed her eyes with a sigh. Her teeth chattered from the cold, but the rain felt nice on her flushed face. 

With a single step over toppled stone, she was outside and able to take in the remnants of her home. What she had known for half of her life was now a skeleton of lumber and stone. 

“P-potato.” She mumbled to herself and dropped to the ground to crawl along the wet grass. She made her way around to the side of the house where her kitchen once stood, but was now no more than shredded wood and strips of curtains. “Dan.” She remembered and called for him once more. “Dan?” 

There was no reply as she kept combing the grass with her hands while the rain continued to pelt her. Deep down she knew that she wouldn't receive an answer from him. She didn't know if he was dead or had simply left her. Nor did she know which was the better answer. 

She stopped when her fingers landed on familiar knitted material. The blanket that had rested on her swollen belly while her metal needles clacked together from busy hands. The blanket that was clutched to her chest when she returned home from the hospital empty handed. 

She had grown used to seeing the pastel colors through blurred vision, but now she could only make out mud through her teary eyes. She held up the soaked portion of material now no bigger than a washcloth. 

 Helen dropped back onto her knees to hug the ripped blanket to her chest, allowing herself the scream that had been trapped in her chest for the past two years. 

She was once a mother. She had a warm home. A loving husband. Now she had none of those things. Helen flopped back into the muddy ground and stared up at the raindrops falling onto her face. If she had been allowed to name the potato, she thought that perhaps she would have been named Grace.