The Mole

“Congratulations, Sarah,” Dr. Thomas says. “You’re five weeks pregnant.”

Vast silence descends. Dr. Thomas recedes by a thousand miles.

Twice I miscarried. The first time, I cried in George’s arms. The second, I slit my wrist. George found solace in growing his vegetable garden and discovered a new strain of purple broccoli.

That same evening, I spot a tiny mole on my stomach.

##

Day by day, the mole stretches, its irregular edges spreading into the surrounding skin.

George is sifting through the mail in the kitchen.

“There’s something growing on my stomach.” I lift my top.

He squints through his reading glasses then dives behind a seed catalogue. “That’s pigmentation, hon.”

The next day, the mole goes from light brown to a deep red, as if it heard George. It itches, too.

#

“When did you notice this?” Dr. Thomas asks.

“Two weeks ago. After my visit.”

“Any pain?”

“No.”

He probes with a gloved finger. His breathing deepens.

“Is it cancerous?”

He chuckles. “Just a harmless pigmentation. Any trouble sleeping?”

“Sometimes. Every night this past week.”

“You’re exhausted, Sarah. These will help you sleep.” He scribbles on the prescription pad and hands it over together with a pamphlet. “Yoga breathing exercises will ease the stress.”

There’s a mole on his wrist. No wonder he thinks it’s harmless.

#

The mole has spread. I have an urge to scrape the weeping skin from my stomach.

George wanders into the kitchen and finds me with my nightdress pulled up. “Jesus, Sarah. Stop scratching.”

He dabs ointment on the raw, oozing spot.

#

I had a dream last night. My eyes were bloodshot, lips sewn shut. Dressed in black.

Inside the coffin was a deformed fetus, its face half-consumed by maggots.

#

The mole’s swollen now. No matter how I squeeze it, the skin won’t break.

The gardening book George leaves on his nightstand gives me an idea. Weeding.

I use his razor to shave off the skin.

#

“You should go out more,” Momma says on the phone. “Get some fresh air.”

George offers to sign us up for yoga. Neither of them understands. If I go outside, people will wonder why I’m scratching so much.

I can’t paint any longer because he won’t get me new supplies. He says my art is too morbid for our baby girl. I keep myself occupied by crooning to her. I sing the traditional songs Momma sang to me, music that feeds the soul. Bob Dylan and Joan Baez are legends. If only I could play the guitar.

#

The mole’s back. Black and hideous. I slice it off with George’s razor, holding my breath as I cut it open. Blood uncoils in my bubble bath, bright red rivulets that transform into strawberry swirls.

#

George says I’m depressed and takes me to a psychiatrist. Dr. Nicole praises George for being observant.

I observe things too. She keeps scratching at a spot under her sleeve. They steal glances, smile at each other.

I flush her prescription down the toilet.

#

George is coming home late more and more often. He’s having an affair with that Nicole.

The mole’s getting bigger.

Everything feels wrong. Time for another cleanse. My stomach burns, the wound still raw from the recent weeding.

#

I scream in the bathtub. The mole’s back. Something underneath is pushing outward, straining against my skin. Now it’s swimming across my tummy.

It’s trying to get to my baby.

I carve it out. My stomach is the canvas for my new art.

#

I killed a huge spider in the bathroom today. It was crawling out of the porcelain bowl. I smashed it to a pulp with my hairbrush. Its head resembled a human baby’s, blue and shriveled.

#

I don’t have the energy to sing anymore. I force myself one last time so I can record it and play it to my baby. It’s not a good recording. My voice is too soft. I’m out of tune. Out of breath. The mole’s making me ill. I’ve lost my appetite. There are clumps of my hair in the drain.

#

It’s Saturday night so George is bouncing on top of me. I’m worried he’ll hurt our baby. I keep my nightdress on to hide the scars. Has it only been four months? How many times do I have to cut the damn thing out?

Maybe it comes from George.

He must’ve gotten it from Nicole. I spotted the mole before I met her. How long have they been screwing?

George, Dr. Thomas, Nicole — they’re all in this. My baby’s in danger. I have to stop them.

#

I creep to our room with a carving knife. George will be stretched out on the bed without a twitch for a while after all that Benadryl I put in his coffee. I unbutton his shirt. Run my hand over his chest and stomach. Where is it?

It’s not on his upper body.

I manage to pull the pants down to his thighs. There it is. The goddamn mole. The stench of rotting fish stings my nostrils. Despite the throb in my head, the nausea, what kills me is the thought of how I’m about to ruin George’s life.

No, I’m saving him. Saving us.

The doorbell rings. The knife wavers in my hand. I draw myself upright.

Momma’s here. I put aside the knife, wipe my clammy palms on my dress, and open the door to let her in.

She places groceries on the coffee table and sits on the couch. “Everyone’s lining up for a roll of toilet paper these days.” She scans the room. “Where’s George?”

I’ll tell her the truth. She’ll understand. I sit next to her, my mind struggling to form the right words.

“Everything okay, honey?” Her hand rubs along my belly, reaching for my baby. Her fingers are icy even through my nightdress.

A chill shoots across me. The world stills. On the inside of her wrist is a mole.