“The average size of the womb excavation is three metres square, with a depth of one metre. Existing soil is removed and replaced with a mixture of purified soil and organic fertilizer, hydrated with distilled water only. The seed is then planted half a metre deep. The area should be blocked off from animals to reduce the risk of toxoplasmosis and covered to prevent rainwater from seeping in. Your gardener will use ground-penetrating radar (GPR) to measure growth and other indicators at twelve and twenty weeks. Between visits, you should take regular soil pH, mineral content, and hydration measurements. If these measurements are not within the normal range, contact your gardener immediately.
“If all goes well, approximately thirty-eight weeks after planting, your gardener will come to deliver your baby!”
- from the introduction of Seed to Sprout: The National Guide to Prenatal and Neonatal Care
###
Your quiet cul-de-sac is lined with cars, and the party is in full swing. The doors of the house have been flung open so guests can pass through and eat the catered food. You chose an assortment of salads and proteins, and a juice bar—very tasteful. When the gardener arrives, Jackson’s parents shoo you into the backyard to get ready. They also redirect anyone still hanging around the womb, letting them know that the delivery is about to begin.
Beth from next door is the last to leave. “I’ll get out of your way,” she tells you, despite still being in it. “Good luck! And Ellyn—you look lovely today.”
“Thank you.” You try not to read too much into that—does she mean compared to how terrible you normally look? You touch your hair to make sure your hairspray is holding up, that the wind hasn’t disturbed your bangs and exposed your extraction scar.
It’s just you and Jackson, now, and the gardener, Dr. Klein, setting up his equipment. Many people choose to do this part publicly, but you opted for a private birth. Your mother’s well-worn story about your birth at the community garden, other families unearthing their kids not ten feet away, isn’t something you want to re-enact with your own child. When you told Jackson about it, he joked that it was better than being dug up under a bridge somewhere, like you hear about on the news. You didn’t find this funny.
It’s natural, you think, to want a moment alone with your child when they first arrive in the world. Especially when there is so much that could go—
Stop that. Nothing is going to go wrong.
“The womb looks healthy,” Dr. Klein says after removing the tarp covering it. “If you’re ready, we can begin.”
You take Jackson’s hand. “We’re ready.”
“Good. I’ll start by clearing the area above the baby.” Dr. Klein’s been a blessing throughout the whole gestation period, always giving clear explanations and patiently assuaging your nerves as a first-time mom.
Wearing long rubber gloves over his surgical gown, he sweeps through the soil, digging down to the seed. “I’ve got the amniotic sac here. The placenta is below.” You lean in closer to look. The sac’s membranes are translucent, but with the dirt covering it, you can’t make out any details.
Dr. Klein trades his rubber gloves for latex ones and takes a scalpel from his bag. “I’ll go ahead and cut it now.”
He makes a shallow incision, penetrating the sac carefully, and it spills open under the knife, amniotic fluid and blood flooding out into the soil. He reaches down into it, and when he straightens up, he’s cradling the delicate body of your newborn son in his hands.
You hold your breath. You’ve been to a dozen births, and this is always the most nerve-wracking part. Dr. Klein rubs your baby’s back, and relief surges through you when he starts to cry. Dr. Klein smiles. “He’s got a great set of lungs on him.” He gives him a quick once-over and turns him around to face you.
And that’s when you see the bottle cap.
It’s bright red plastic, embedded in his left cheek just below his eye. It’s turned inward, so there’s no visible brand name, but that means it’s deep, the rim of the cap level with his skin. A small drop of amniotic fluid rests at the bottom of it.
Dr. Klein is a professional. His expression doesn’t change as he goes through the routine of your son’s first moments: antibiotics in the eyes, weighing and measuring him. “Exactly four kilograms,” he says. “Big and strong already.” You nod, hoping your trembling isn’t noticeable. He goes through an inventory of the rest of the baby’s inclusions. Aside from the bottle cap, there are only a few, bits of foil and tire rubber, all in places easily hidden.
You can’t look at Jackson, who has dropped your hand to cut the umbilical cord. You stare into the middle distance as Dr. Klein cleans your baby and wraps him in a towel, only snapping back into yourself when he passes him to you. The baby abruptly stops fussing and looks up at you with curiosity. You offer him a finger, and he wraps his tiny, pruny hand around it.
“Hi,” you whisper. “Hi, baby.”
It could be worse. It could be so much worse. You saw it all growing up: diapers and condoms, jagged pieces of styrofoam covering entire limbs. A bottle cap is nothing, nothing—
“I assume ‘baby’ isn’t the official name,” Dr. Klein jokes.
“No,” you say. “No, it—it’s Forrest.”
“Forrest Jackson Davis,” Jackson clarifies.
“Good name.” Dr. Klein takes a file folder from his bag. “Let’s make it official.”
There’s the first feeding and diapering to get through, a blood sample taken for testing. Jackson buries the amniotic sac and placenta in place while Dr. Klein gathers his things. “I’ll wait back here until you’ve introduced him, then sneak out,” he says. When you’re dressing Forrest in his party outfit, you see Dr. Klein slip a business card into Jackson’s hand from the corner of your eye. “For a colleague of mine who does extractions. They are, of course, optional, but the results are always better if they’re performed early in life. If you’re interested, start thinking about it now.”
“Thanks,” Jackson says. “We’ll keep it in mind.” To you, he says, “You ready to show him off to everyone?”
Of course you’re not. You want to take Forrest and run, rather than face the vultures waiting in the front yard. But you don’t have a choice. “Let’s do it,” you say, plastering a smile on your face.
You walk through the house to the front door. Neither you nor Jackson speaks. He knocks on it loudly, and the chatter outside dissipates into shushes. When it’s quiet, you open the door and go out onto the porch, holding Forrest upright for everyone to see.
The crowd breaks into applause almost immediately, a few people whooping and calling out their congratulations. But you saw it, in that split second before people cheered: the cringes, the flinches when they saw your baby’s face. A kid from the neighbourhood pointed, his mother smacking his hand down before anyone but you could notice. You falter; you were supposed to make a speech, but you can’t make yourself say anything for fear you’ll bare your teeth.
“Right,” Jackson says, seamlessly taking over. “Everyone, this is Forrest. Forrest, this is everyone.” That gets a laugh. “Come say hello to him, though maybe not all at once. There are masks and hand sanitizer if you want to hold him. There’s also cake,”—he gestures to the table that’s been set up on the lawn—“so enjoy!”
There’s another small round of applause, and then people disperse, back to their conversations or over to the dessert table. The first people to approach are Jackson’s parents. His dad has a beer ready for him, but nothing for you.
“Let me see my baby!” Jackson’s mother cries, sweeping him out of your hands before you know what’s happening. “My God, just look at him. Alan, doesn’t he look just like Jackson when he was born? With the big blue eyes?”
“I’m not sure.” His father looks at Forrest, then at you. “I think he’s got some of his mother in him, too.”
“Nah, he’s totally my twin,” Jackson jokes, leaning in beside Forrest and looking up at you. “Don’t you think?”
“I guess we’ll have to wait and see,” you say. One of the servers finally offers you some juice; you sip it neutrally. Of course Jackson’s father thinks you’re the reason his grandson has trash on his face. None of them has so much as a microbead anywhere visible, or anything comparable to the forehead pop tab you were still sporting the first time Jackson brought you home for dinner.
“Did the delivery go alright?” Jackson’s mother asks.
“Yes, everything was perfect,” you say. “Dr. Klein says he’s very strong.”
“That’s great. We’re so lucky to have such an excellent gardener in the community,” she gushes. “Although… it’s such a shame your parents couldn’t be here, Ellyn. I know that, if they could have been, they’d have been as overjoyed as we are.”
Maybe one of them would have been. If your father is still alive somewhere, you doubt he’d care. But she’s right about your mother. If the cancer hadn’t taken her in her fifties, you know she’d have been here fawning over Forrest. And probably also talking shit about how pretentious everyone in your new neighbourhood is.
“That’s kind of you to say,” you tell your mother-in-law.
After a few more minutes of Jackson’s mother cooing at her grandson, the two of them move on. “Congrats, Jackson,” his father says before they go. He doesn’t look at you again.
A couple of moms from the neighbourhood take their place, their husbands converging on Jackson and separating the group into two by gender. Forrest, of course, is left with you. “Congratulations, Mama!” Beth says. “How does it feel?”
“A bit overwhelming, but good. I can’t believe he’s finally here.”
“It must be overwhelming for him, too!” Lydia says. She gets down on his level to wave to him. “Hey, little man! I’m surprised he’s not crying—my Haven cried through her whole welcome party.” You’re surprised, too, with her getting in his face like that.
Another woman joins the circle, blustering in like the wind. “Sorry, sorry,” she says, “I wanted to be first in line, but Nova needed feeding!” Dove, who is ostensibly your closest friend, has her six-month-old daughter strapped to her chest.
“It’s okay,” you say. “You’re here now.”
“Yes, and I’m so excited to meet Forrest! Oh, Ellyn, he’s a blessing. And he has such a unique look. That’s the best thing about kids, isn’t it?”
You could not disagree more. It’s easy for Dove to say, because she’s blonde, and even though she has the biggest facial inclusion in the group, it’s seaglass that matches her photogenic blue-green eyes. She gets a lot of clout online for talking about things like uniqueness and natural beauty. Her daughter’s skin is as clear as crystal.
“Let’s take a picture of us together with the kids,” she suggests. “We can put it in the newsletter, and I’ll post it on my socials, too.”
“Sure,” you agree, though you’d rather eat rocks. You pose together, and Beth takes Dove’s phone and takes the picture.
“Adorable,” Dove says, reviewing it. “They’re going to be in the same year at school, and I bet they’re going to be best friends.”
“Maybe it’ll even be love,” Lydia suggests.
Dove laughs, loudly and awkwardly. “They’re a little young for us to be speculating about that.” She says her goodbyes, lamenting the fact that she’s just so busy and hurrying off again, and the others follow her. It occurs to you that none of them asked to hold the baby, despite the fact that you held all five of their children at their births.
After a few more conversations with people you don’t know as well, the wives of Jackson’s coworkers and distant cousins, and one middle-aged woman from down the street who asks if you “know anyone in the city who purposely got an inclusion implanted? Because I saw that on TV, you know,” Forrest finally saves you by bursting into tears.
“Sorry, he probably needs his diaper changed.” You book it away from her and over to Jackson, who’s still hanging out with his friends. “Can you take him for a minute? I’m going to get the diaper bag and make some formula.”
Jackson glances down at his crying son. “Can’t you take him with you? I’m eating cake.”
“I need both hands to make the formula,” you say tightly, lowering your voice so his friends won’t hear, “and you haven’t taken him this whole time.”
“Fine.” He sighs, but he accepts the baby, putting his cake on the table.
You go inside and prepare the formula, then leave it on the counter and go sit on the toilet. It’s not the first time you’ve hidden in the bathroom at a party, and it won’t be the last. This isn’t so bad, though, you tell yourself. No one has said anything mean, or called you a bad mother, or waved any pitchforks the way they sometimes do in your head. You can deal with this. You—and Forrest—will be fine.
You take the formula and the bag outside, but when you approach Jackson, his hands are empty. “Where is he?” you snap, already beginning to panic.
“Over there,” Jackson says, pointing with his beer. “Making new friends.”
You follow his line of sight. Oh, Goddamnit, you think. Not her.
“Hello, Germaine,” you say when you make your way over to the woman happily bouncing your baby in her arms.
“Hi, dear. Oh, good, you brought the diaper bag. He’s wet.” Before you can take him from her, she bends down, setting him on the grass.
“Wait! I have a pad.” You quickly get the changing pad under him. “You can’t just put him directly on the ground like that.”
“Sorry, sorry. I forget that things have changed since my day. Parenting is so different now!”
Of course things are different now; everything about Germaine is different, down to the couch springs that mingle with her curly hair, which she refers to as her accessories, and the fossilized chewing gum stuck on the side of her neck. She thinks of herself as a matriarch of the community because her husband was a well-respected member of it, and because she raised her four children here, but her husband has been dead for a decade, and her grown kids rarely visit.
You change Forrest and offer him the bottle. “He’s a lovely baby,” Germaine says, tucking the soiled diaper in the bag for you. “The cutest I’ve seen in a while. The party has been wonderful, too. You did an excellent job with it.”
“Thanks,” you say grudgingly. No one else complimented your party planning or called your kid anything but unique. As much as Germaine unsettles you, you could never say she was unkind.
But of course, she has to ruin things immediately by saying, “You know, bottle caps are supposed to be good luck.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“It’s just a silly superstition. But I bet you’re hearing a lot about extractions already, and I know you’ve had one yourself—”
“I think I hear Jackson calling me—”
“—with all the cookie-cutter kids around here, it might not be the worst thing to let him stand out. One day he might even thank you for it—”
“I know what’s best for my son, Germaine,” you say, loudly enough that people glance over. Fuck.
Her face falls. “Of course, dear. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.” She waves you off when you try to placate her. “Go, enjoy your party. It’s time for me to be getting home.”
There’s no hope of you enjoying the rest of the party now, but thankfully, more people start to leave, those with kids ushering them home as the sun sets, dragging their husbands with them. You finally sit to eat a piece of cake, but it’s so free of additives and sugar and fat that it tastes like shit. At last the caterers pack up, and Jackson’s parents go home, and it’s just the two of you left. He goes inside, and you finish your crappy cake and follow him, shutting the porch light off.
You find him in the kitchen, putting leftovers in a lunch box for work tomorrow. You should take Forrest upstairs and put him to sleep—he’s already dozing in your arms—but you can’t help but stop. You put Forrest into his carrier and lean against the kitchen island, watching Jackson scoop chicken salad into a glass container.
“The party went well,” he says. “It still feels crazy that he’s really here.”
“Yeah.”
“Everyone complimented him—”
“Oh, just say it,” you tell him.
He sets down his container and gives you a suffering look. “What do you want me to say?”
“That you’re disappointed in him. That it sucks that he came out with trash on his face, that you had higher hopes for your kid—”
“I’m not disappointed in him,” Jackson says. “Obviously, no one wants inclusions, especially not such visible ones, but it’s not like he’s, I don’t know, covered in cigarette butts or something. We’ll just get the bottle cap removed like Dr. Klein said. The rest of them are small anyway.”
“It won’t be that simple,” you say. You can tell you’re pissing him off now, but you can’t stop. “It’s too deep; it won’t be possible to extract it without affecting his mouth or cheek. He might need a bone graft, or fat injections. It’ll definitely leave a scar—”
“Then it’ll leave a scar! We’ll do what we can, and that’ll have to be enough.”
“So that’s it, then? We’ll just get rid of the parts of him you’re ashamed of, and then he’ll be good enough? Just like his trash mother?”
“That is not what I said,” Jackson says, pointing a finger. “You’re twisting my words. You chose to have your extraction, let’s not forget. You’re the one that brought this up. You care way more about this than I do.”
“Because I have to! Because I have to prove myself to the people here every day!”
“I never asked you to do that!” Jackson shouts. “God, you weren’t like this at all when we met—”
“Because I wasn’t surrounded by people who look down on me constantly, you included!”
Forrest lets out a tiny noise. Your raised voices attracted his attention, but even with both of you yelling, he’s not crying. He just looks confused. It’s enough, though, to break the tension and send you rushing to his side.
“I’m not fighting about this anymore tonight,” Jackson says. He puts his lunch in the fridge and turns away. “You’ll put him to bed?”
“Yes,” you say. Then: “Do you even love him?”
Do you even love me?
“Of course I do,” Jackson says. He sounds exhausted. “We can talk about this tomorrow.” He tries to lean in and kiss you goodnight, but you brush him off. He pats Forrest on the head instead and goes upstairs. “‘Night.”
“Goodnight.”
You finish cleaning up the kitchen and take Forrest to the nursery. It’s woodland-themed, the walls covered with decals of cartoon animals. You feel their eyes on you as you put him into bed. There’s a twin bed in there as well—you agreed to sleep in the nursery with the baby to avoid waking Jackson up at night when he has to work. You’re glad for it now. You don’t feel like sleeping next to him.
“I hope you like your new room,” you tell Forrest as you get him ready for bed. “Everyone is so happy you’re finally here.” Your voice cracks. You set him down in his bassinet, watching him watch you.
He really is an excellent baby. You touch his little stomach, rocking him back and forth, then his tiny toes. He doesn’t smile—he’s too little for that—but he does wiggle a bit, then lets out the cutest yawn.
You begin to sob. A tear falls and wets his onesie, then another, before you pull back to wipe your face.
“I’m sorry,” you say. “I’m so, so sorry.”
You slump to the floor. Even though it’s his nursery, and his first night in the world, it’s you who cries like a baby.
