The Indicator x The Student: “Fertility”

1. Preconception
She’s walking through the woods by her house. The trees grow whole trees instead of branches, and soon enough she’s clambering through sideways, upside-down, criss-crossing, tangled trees. The ground is trees, the sky is trees, leaves brush her face and branches cut them. Through the branches she can see space, stars dotting the sky, but she can’t feel the heat, only the freezing breathlessness of space. She hears the voice of her partner calling her to wake up, the coffee’s warm, and she reaches for their voice through the thick branches, but she doesn’t know how to get to them and the cozy bed and the fresh smell of coffee. She’s not a lucid dreamer. She touches a leaf with a tentative hand, and flinches when it pulls away from her touch, Tantalus and the fruit tree.

“My poor darling. But you can keep trying, right? It can only have been a couple years of trying by now.”

“Well, yeah, we could, but uh — I just, I don’t know if it’s our priority right now. To be honest, I feel like now that it can’t happen, I’ve started to think of new possibilities for my future. Like now that the one vision for my future can’t happen, I get to look at all the other options, and I think I might like them even more. Like, I could plant a garden! We could get a dog like we’ve always wanted, and —”

“I know, darling, I know it hurts, but I don’t want you to give up hope, okay? People get pregnant after three years with a miracle baby. You don’t want to stop trying now when you could have the opportunity to get what you always wanted! I mean, it’s all you’ve dreamed of since you were a little girl…”

2. Kids’ table
The kids don’t really want their own table at family dinners, per say, but it’s tradition. The table floats in space, the stars are winking at her like a creepy old man you pass on the sidewalk. Her brother’s kids fill three sides on their little chairs, and she completes the square, but she’s freakishly large in the tiny chair and squirms uncomfortably with her knees poking into her chin. They are miniscule in the vast vacuum. The kids eat macaroni and cheese with forks made of uncooked macaroni noodles. They scarf down the mac and cheese, splattering her and the wall with food bits and kid-spit in the process. She shivers at a sudden chill on her spine, not like she’s being watched but like she isn’t, like no one’s watching her six (as her partner’s dramatic spy movies like to say), and the next time she blinks, the kids disappear. She’s left floating in empty space, alone. The table turns into a sigh that blows her back into awareness.

“Your mother and I were talking, and we just think that, uh … that maybe you should … hmm. See someone? Is that what they say?”

“Dad, what the hell? You mean see a therapist?”

“Yeah, that! That’s it.”

“Oh my god. First of all, I’ve had a therapist since college and she’s been very helpful to me. Second of all, why now? I’m happier than I’ve been in years.”

“Well, your mom is worried that you’re in denial. Stages of grief and all.”

3. Thanksgiving
They all sit around the dinner table, her mom and dad at the head and her nieces and nephews at the end. The table is bright green and the plates are all square and the utensils are all sporks. Someone, probably her dad, says to go around saying what they’re grateful for but not the obvious ones like your kids or your family or your health, haha! Haha, everyone echoes obediently. Her brother says something about finally learning to crochet and he crochets another line of plastic onto the tablecloth. The food, all animated like she’s in a cartoon or a Disney movie, floats off the table so everyone has a good view of each other and she finally gets her turn, but all the others get so quiet like they’re not sure what to say. She wants to scream, I’m grateful for art and good books! I’m grateful for my new friends! But it’s too late, they’ve all left the table, and her mouth is inflating like a balloon but her lips won’t open. She can hear their concerned murmurs from the kitchen. It’s so hard to see her struggle like this. Her mom says, It’s such a shame. I just want her to be happy.

“I tried to tell them, you know? I tried to tell them. I don’t know, I feel like I can expand now — I don’t have to contort myself into the box of Mom With Child and fit myself in the space around all the Mom Things. I can just, like, learn to sew a dress and buy myself a sewing machine. And I can go to work and chat with my work friends about things other than how’s-the-wife-how’s-the-kids. And I don’t have to save money for a college fund. I can just go on a spontaneous vacation. I don’t wanna give this up! And I don’t mean, I want freedom now but I’ll regret this later. I’m not naive, I know I might be lonely. But I think I’d rather be lonely — quote unquote — with a house full of dogs and you and my friends near me and a garden full of plants and a cute little house and books to read, than the alternative.”

“I know, babe.”

4. Baby driver
She’s in the backseat of the car but if she tilts her head right or left she can steer it, and if she stares really hard she can make it accelerate. She’s driving through the streets of her hometown and orchards upon orchards pass by and she has to swerve to avoid them. The sky is blue and the trees are bare and they reach up to the sun and spread their branches. But a tree without fruit is still a tree.