Kidney Bean

Leave.

I couldn’t see her on the sonogram until the doctor pointed her out. Snowy static and flickering shadows, like an untuned television set. Then whispers of limbs started to emerge. Curled knees tucked close to a head, partially illuminated like a waxing crescent moon. Tilted as if listening to secrets. A tiny kidney bean. She looked like me. My body curled just like that.

Like in the beginning when we spent whole days in bed together, her dad and I. Him pressed against my back, knees slotted behind mine like a jigsaw. My chin resting on his arm as it wrapped tight around my neck. Stroking his tattooed hand. Locked together. Us against the world, that’s what he always said.

Leave.

Or when I would snuggle into my mother on the couch while we watched TV. My head on her lap, her stroking my fine blonde hair while I sucked my thumb contentedly. She would let me stay up late on Fridays to watch her favourite show. I loved that time together, just us, before the revolving door of bad boyfriends. Safe and warm, cocooned together. She’s gone now.

Or when my best friend Jo and I would lie in her room when we got home from clubbing. Facing each other, curled on her bed, knees touching as we laughed ourselves silly over whatever had happened that night. We had our own secret language, Jo and I. Inseparable since school. I loved her openness and vivacity, her easy way with everyone. A social connector, always surrounded by people. I’m more reserved, guarded. But she said she envied my quiet confidence. That always made me feel good.

I don’t see Jo much any more. They don’t get along. I would try to defend him to her. He has a good heart, people don’t get his humour. To him, I’d explain how dear Jo is to me. He thinks she uses me. That I’m her lap dog, in her shadow. He’d say it over and over, couldn’t let it go. That I was too blinkered, couldn’t see reality. I started to doubt myself. Could this be true? I took longer to respond to Jo’s messages, accepted fewer invitations. Over time we grew more distant. I’d feel strange calling her now. But I really miss her.

Happy baby. It was my favourite yoga pose. Lie on my back, clasp my knees to my head. Then grab my feet and rock gently. So relaxing and playful. Like when I was a child. I used to go to my yoga class at least three or four times a week. It was my sanctuary, a place where I could really unwind. I was so flexible then. And powerful. Warrior pose, like the arc of a bow. He would tease me about it at first. It’s all nonsense, bunch of hippies. He’d send me memes about wellness influencers while I was at work. I’d respond with the laughing emoji. Over time, I got the silent treatment every time I came home from a class. Sitting on the couch like a loaded spring, glaring at the TV while I made myself small and silent. In the end, it was just easier to stop going. He’s nice when he’s not in a mood.

Leave.

Curled like a kidney bean. On our IKEA rug, the one with the Aztec print. Hands over my face, knees raised to protect myself. Crying out as each punch landed. Him spitting insults, viciously but quietly so the neighbours won’t hear. The humiliation always hurt worse and lasted longer. When it was over we’d stay in separate rooms for hours. Me numb with disbelief. Picturing myself walking out the door. I’d have to explain to people. I was too ashamed to tell. Eventually he’d come in, bowed and contrite. He was sorry, it would never happen again. He’d hold my head in his lap and stroke my hair. He’d make a joke and it felt like the good times again. It was mostly good times, just a few bad bits here and there. We’d turn on a movie and pretend it never happened.

You’re beautiful, amazing, I can’t live without you. You’re pathetic, dumb, nobody else would put up with you. 

I’d die without you. You’ll die without me.

Here I am again, a foetus on a bed. A hotel bed this time. All alone. Light drifted softly through the drawn curtains, weary and thin. It pooled in pale, uneven circles on the worn carpet. Damp patches bloomed on the wall like bruises. The person at the front desk was so gentle and kind when I checked in that I nearly broke down in tears. What must I look like? It was worse this time. I’m not sure how it happened, what I did to provoke him. The lights were out. He held me against the wall by the neck. There was a knife. Stab, stab against the wall, getting closer to me. I stayed silent, terrified to move, to say anything. I ran out the front door at the first opportunity, sprinting in the dead of night in my socks. The hotel was a few blocks down our street. I’d always wondered what it was like inside.

Leave.

Now I’m gazing at my little kidney bean. Clutching her grainy photo as I lie curled on the flowery hotel duvet. I put my hand on my stomach. I can feel her existence, soft as a whisper but sharp as a plea. I’ve felt her calling to me ever since that day in the doctor’s office. Leave, leave, leave. I’d stopped listening to my own little voice and eventually it had fallen silent. But hers grew in strength and I couldn’t ignore it. 

I stood up. Walked to the window and opened the curtains. The road stretched out, a ribbon of quiet possibilities. Headlights cut through the dark. I saw not what I was leaving behind but where I was going. Where we were going.

I lifted one leg, raised my arms in tree pose and exhaled.