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Family Tree
by Charlotte Jones
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The labor pains are much worse than I expected, but Harry is steadfast, despite
my screams. "It'll be over soon," he says and wipes my brow with a
cool cloth. "Just breathe."
"You bastard!" A guttural roar emerges from my throat between heeee-
heeee-heeee, hahh-hahh-hahh. "Why did I let you talk me into this?"
"OK, I want you to push now," the doctor says while the nurse hovers
beside him. I can only see eyes above their masks and I try to read what they
are thinking.
With a final screaming shove, it is over. I feel the warmth and relief between
my legs. The operating room is silent. There are no cries, no spanks. The nurse
swoons, drops to her knees and hits her head on the table. The doctor's eyes are
wide, unblinking with a certain godlike fervor.
"Is it . . . is it alive . . .?" Harry says.
"Well. Yes. I'd say it is," says the doctor. "Congratulations Mr.
and Mrs. Johnson. You are now the proud parents of a live oak." He wraps
the sapling in a blanket and places it on my chest.
"This was a crazy idea!" I yell at my husband.
My husband holds my hand and beams at me. "I tell you," he says,
"this stem cell research is amazing."
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Charlotte Jones has never given birth to
anything except for a few peculiar ideas. Her friends who have trees tell her
that the teenage years are the worst. "Those young whipper-saplings start
fruiting all over the place. They drop leaves at the wrong time of year, and
entertain unsavory characters like squirrels and woodpeckers. Sadly, some
even begin to experiment with fire." She and her husband are
relieved to not have a bunch of twiglets running around.
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