Bird Shelf

Magda rubbed her huge belly as she looked out the round window of her apartment. Well, fuck it, she muttered when she saw the unscathed birdseed on the clear shelf. She looked across at Technon House, a veritable aviary of birdlife flitted around the thousands of apartment windows. Same seed, same seed shelves as her’s. Try not to take that one personally.

She jabbed at the Murphy button beside her bed petulantly and as her bedroom folded up, crumbs on the kitchen floor were revealed. Dinner muffin from the night before. She gathered some up in a pregnant squat, no mean feat, walked to the window, pretended to grab more seeds, pushed the glass aside and sprinkled the contraband on the shelf. 

The far wall of her kitchen had a smart-dumbwaiter; a microwave-shaped machine that produced her daily requirements when she required them, even before she knew she required them. Even when she didn’t require them. Her sludgy green smoothie arrived chilled with two printed notes. An e-card from Jen, a friend who had barely been able to make eye contact with her for almost nine months. A friend who had tried to belittle Magda’s plans, talk sense into Magda as she had called it. Callous cow. An apologetically cutesy baby crib adorned the front of the card and something about how brave Magda was and how excited Jen was to meet the new arrival written on the inside. Neither was true. Magda put it back in the dumbwaiter, where all the rubbish went. 

The other was the day’s schedule. She hastily scanned to the most important part. 3:30; Outdoors. Her heart squeezed and leapt. It had been weeks since she had the 3:30 slot. She closed her eyes to relive the moment. The gurning baby, contorting his face with every range of emotion as the buses slowed in front of him and dozens of adult faces gazed out and screwed up dementedly to get his attention. Magda’s was one of them. Probably more demented than the others, and that’s saying something. The mother, a real mother, clapped her hands jealously to regain the baby’s attention. She looked expensively ethereal, serving her obligation to keep the plebs’ morale up by allowing them tantalisingly close to what they’ll never have. Three women stood nearby, the only people within radius ignoring the duo. The Corporattis’ minders no doubt. Billionaire-sitters. The memory had become a treat for Magda, something she’d dip into from time to time when things were tough. That baby’s face. She tried not to think about it too much, as if the memory had a finite amount of viewings available to her. But, now she could use it up. Now she could waste the memory, because in a few hours it would be replaced by a fresh new one. Oh joy. 

Magda sipped on her smoothie, gazed out at those distant fucking birds and rubbed her rubbery belly. She imagined that gurning baby inside her own tummy and attempted to smile ethereally. 

As soon as she finished her smoothie, she felt the pain, sudden and overwhelming. Not mental pain, as usual, but physical. An explosion. It started in her back, searing waves of heat and pressure, right down to her anus. Her eyes darted back to the schedule. 8am; Green smoothie. 8:15; Labour. 8:30; Birth. 9:00; Maternity leave. 10:00; Work. 1:30; Lunch… And so on. 

8:15; labour. Well, fuck. 

Her nipples stung, steely and cold. Her pelvis felt as though it was being crushed. Everything ached, everything. This, of course, was how it should be, this was the plan. This is what Magda had signed up for, literally. This is what happens when you drink a cocktail of what are basically pro-psychotics that are about to enable your brain to feel every single inch of childbirth. 

 Midwife entered her apartment dressed in a polyester blend tunic and plastic shoes. She walked straight to the bathroom without looking at Magda and started unpacking items that tinkled gently against the ceramic sink. She called out absentmindedly, You’ll have to do it in here, with a lilt that suggested she was chewing gum. 

The pain volted through Magda’s seizing body. Sounds howled from her throat. She felt parts of her body she’d never known existed catch fire in a vice. Her womb, her cervix, her vagina, her crotch.

Midwife lazily raised her voice; Come on now, in you come. And a triple pop of gum bubbles against her teeth. 

Magda attempted a step but fell to the ground, guttural noises that seemed to start in her knees, cramp through her body and tear out her throat. She crawled, attempted to crawl, dragging her knees and collapsed.

Ah now, that’s a bit dramatic is it? Hello? Hello? Can you hear me? Ah jesus. Another gum poop.

Magda woke up in her bed. Midwife was hovering by the door, her coat folded over her arm. She said lazily, Okay, so it’s not normally that bad but they do some of them like that, to be more realistic I suppose. You didn’t get the whole experience, I had to turn it off, but from the looks of you you didn’t want it, so. You might get a refund I suppose. Anyway, do you have a name for her?

Poppy, Magda replied, too exhausted to attempt ethereal. 

Okay, I’d like you to meet Poppy. Congratulations. Midwife was not good at any of this. 

She plonked a basket on the end of the bed, looked out the window at the birdshelf, went to say something, didn’t bother, turned and walked out the door without another word. 

Magda was afraid to move, the memory of the pain made her afraid to even breathe, but it was all gone. No aches, no stitches, no tears, no engorgement. Efficient, clean, smart. She shuffled closer to the basket. 

There was a stick with a feather at the end poking out, and a folded blanket. And when she pulled it closer, she saw the tiny ball of tortoiseshell fur. 

Hello Poppy, she said, picking up the tiny kitten. Still no birds for you.