Infinite Regression

It’s a place to relax and put your feet up, my husband said when we toured the house next to his childhood home. Mother will cook for you and Auntie will clean for you. He kneeled and leaned his face against my core. He told me every day he plans to kiss my stomach and say, don’t work too hard.

Don’t work too hard, I say before he leaves in the morning. I put my feet on the coffee table and wait for the day to begin.

In the city, there was always something to do. Walking was something to do. Staring at art was something to do. Drinking a sixteen dollar beer was something to do. Memories from my former life resemble whirlpools of flesh and concrete. In my mind, my former apartment is a ghost, I can no longer remember the bedroom or the kitchen or whether there was floor or carpet. When I try to recall my commute to work, I imagine myself walking down empty boulevards and into black hole subway stations.

Now, I sit on the couch and stare out the window as Auntie sweeps under my feet. I look up and see Mother standing above me, cradling a pot of mashed potatoes.

When I was pregnant all I ate were mashed potatoes. She tosses an inch of butter in the sludge.

I’m not pregnant, at least not yet, but I still nod.

When I was pregnant all I did was nothing, Auntie says. She places two cucumbers on my eyelids.

How do they know? I think. Are they tracking my period? Did they plant a camera in the bedroom and, while checking my ovulation dates, watch me fuck their precious son-slash-nephew raw?

Before I realize what is happening, Mother places a spoonful of potato in my mouth. Auntie presses the cucumber into my eyeballs. Back and forth they take turns until my head tips forward and I snooze like a child.

When Husband comes home, I’m on the bed like a beached whale. He unhooks my bra and I undo his belt, then he grabs my head from behind and kisses my lips. I quickly look around the room to search for any hidden cameras. Husband follows my gaze, then covers my eyes.

They were right. There has been a living thing in my body for six weeks. Mother, Auntie and Husband all knew before me, of course they did. This morning, I woke up to three faces staring at me.

Husband puts his hand to my forehead.

Auntie pinches my ear.

Mother pulls out my tongue.

To celebrate, dinner was scalloped potatoes sandwiched between thick slices of gouda, topped with mini pickles and a splash of dijon mustard.

The tubers make me dream about birthing everything. In my dream, my husband stares in shock. I can’t believe you fucked a whale, he says, as a baby orca fills up the maternity ward.

Mother places a television remote in my hand and Auntie picks up my calf.

When I was pregnant all I wanted to do was watch soap operas. Mother turns on Days of Our Lives.

When I was pregnant all I wanted to do was get a massage. Auntie presses her knuckles into my soft leg. I wince and she presses harder.

How did you know about the pregnancy? I ask. I still don’t feel anything inside. No symptoms, just constipation.

Mother feeds me from a pot of mashed potatoes again. When I’m full I turn my head away but Auntie pushes me forward and Mother presses the spoon down my throat until all the potatoes are gone. No one answers my question.

Husband does not think it is funny when I say we should name the baby Spud.

There’s a potato in my stomach, I think. Months later, I am still on the couch and Auntie is still sweeping under my feet. There’s a potato growing eyes and ears. Whenever I think of a living creature inside my living body, I heave.

I’m sick of potatoes, I say to Mother. I don’t want to look at another one again in my life.

You need them to make your baby stronger.

If I eat another I’m going to give birth to one.

I promise you, that is impossible.

Mother sends me to bed without dinner. For the first time, I feel the fingerling move inside, surfing along the waves of hunger.

Potatoes have eyes. They are formed when the potato is neglected.

I am alone. After I refused to eat, Husband, Mother and Auntie went on strike and refused to come over. I think about escaping. Lately my memory’s been getting worse and worse. I search everywhere but there is no front door. Holding my lumpy middle, I walk in circles and slowly realize I have never left the house. I look outside the window and the view is obscured by fog. I lean closer and notice the window is painted over. The cupboards are empty and the fridge holds one dehydrated tuber.

I think about the thing inside me. I think about myself, trapped inside a house. Layers of houses and wombs, spiraling and simultaneously growing together.

I wake in the hospital to three faces staring at me.

Husband puts his hand to my forehead.

Auntie pinches my ear.

Mother pulls out my tongue.

The trio smile with all their teeth. My hands instinctively reach for my middle.

Where is it? I ask. Where is my little Spud?

Before leaving the room, Mother and Auntie touch Husband’s back.

My husband kneels on the floor so his face is level with mine. This much I remember: I have lived no life without this face. When he locks eyes with me, he turns back into Husband, the son-slash-nephew of Mother and Auntie, the dutiful Husband who leaves me at seven in the morning and returns at seven at night, who forgoes dinner to pleasure me in our small bedroom.

I feel Mother and Auntie’s eyes burning through the window. I touch my stomach again, shocked at its concaveness.

Mother. He strokes my damp hair and places his face on my core.

Mother! Mother and Auntie enter the room, holding a celebratory bouquet of orange yams.

A living thing, all wrapped up in blankets, is placed in my arms. I inch the cloth away and see a lumpy mass, dotted with moles and growing sporadic, wiry hairs.

I turn to Husband and my body acts appropriately, even though I feel nothing. Water cascades down my face and my mouth is open and making noises. Husband smiles. The thing coos.

I look up and see Grand Mother and Grand Auntie newly wrinkled, holding canes that were not present seconds ago. Husband is gray and I am no longer in the hospital bed, I am holding the sticklike hand of an orange-tinted human as it grunts and heaves. Dirt spills on the floor and again, I feel water on my face.