Your Miracle Girl (Was Never Yours)
Fly away my baby bird; my angel, my only.
Fly away my baby bird; my angel, my only.
Infertility is like a slap in the face. The stark realisation of it dawns on your heated, reddened cheeks, and when you finally can get a grip on yourself and get rid of the paralysing shock that had overcame you, the stinging betrayal and irony of it lunges for your throat, and you can do nothing but sink into a whirlpool of bitterness and despair.
Also, it damn hurts.
See those pills on the table over there? No, not the steel coffee table --- they’re on the dining table, covered with scratches and crayon scribbles and milk stains from the numerous visits from your sweet nieces and nephews.
Those innocent looking white pills are your lifeline and the very source of your broken-heartedness, your grief, your frustration; why you lie awake in your stale bed at night, while your husband sleeps soundly next to you.
They’re Clomid pills, drugs designed especially for teasing and mocking you, though they’re originally given to you from your doctor to spur ovulation; which is a fancy word for saying “forcing your hormones to make the egg from which your baby is to be made”.
You want to know why they’re purgatory and Hell (all in one package; none sold separately) for your poor, tired, childless soul?
Well, first relieve yourself of the nausea that must be overwhelming you right now. Just do your business in that wastepaper basket over there.
Now that’s a good girl.
This may sound a bit abrupt and rude, but please feel your breasts. Are they swollen and sore?
You’ve read enough books about pregnancy by once pregnant, fertile women, so you probably know what this means --- you have the tell-tale signs of a sure pregnancy. Congratulations.
But not really.
See, remember those pills we were talking about earlier? They twist your hormones, sending you into a state where you believe that unicorns fly up high in the pretty blue sky and human beings poop rainbows. Anything is possible.
Even you being pregnant.
And those damned pills continue to wreak havoc on your abused hormones long after you stop taking medication, knowing that it’s no use, that your hormones and your body will present what looks to be your heart’s desire.
But you have no choice; your only hope lies with those pills. Without them, you can never get a shot at being pregnant.
Yeah, it’s kind of pathetic, but what can you do? All you ever wanted in your whole lifetime was just your very own baby girl to love, to care for and to nurture. Even when you were just a toddler, still lying in your cardboard box that was your make-believe house, you’ve always longed for a family to care for.
Perhaps it’s because your mum abandoned you, and you never wanted another little girl living on this Earth to feel alone and unloved ever again. Or it might be the fact you’ve always wanted to be a mother.
But I digress.
Don’t look so heart-broken, Melanie. This is just the beginning of your story. So you’d better stop looking like a deer caught in headlights and sit down on this soft, feathery cushion --- your soft, feathery cushion --- and make yourself comfortable. It’s gonna be one hell of a ride, and dearie, even Nasya would sit more lady-like than you, with your long limbs now sprawled all over this divan.
Who’s Nasya? you ask.
She’s your daughter, silly. Nasya Milagros Alvarez. Named for miracles that only God himself could bequeath to us lowly mortals.
Yes, He had decided to listen to your oh so fervent prayers when you wait till your beloved is asleep and snoring and you break down, clutching your tear-stained pillow and curling up into a ball of pure misery and despair.
After what seem millions of years of endless waiting and longing, when you were finally at your wit’s end, your doctor sat down at his desk and grinned at you, energetically brandishing the results of your blood test.
“You’re now an expectant mother, Melanie.”
Your cold, tattered heart, covered in bruises and deep cuts, nearly stopped at that very moment. Years later, you would joke that you were lucky the doctor caught you before you fainted and fell to the floor.
But let’s not get ahead of us, shall we?
Those ten months certainly passed quickly for you. You watched in a daze as your womb grew bigger and heavier with child, belly awkwardly protruding from your lean torso; as your husband carefully calculated how many calories you would take in every meal, to ensure your baby had enough nutrition without putting too much a strain on your already delicate body; as your girlfriends pored and giggled over different names for your unborn child, and bought enough clothes to last a lifetime for him (or her. You were very surprised to find that it was a girl instead.).
Time passed so devilishly fast for you, for it seemed but a mere nanosecond before you screamed in agony as your baby pushed and barged her way out into this world. You were absolutely certain you would never forget the blistering pain when your womb was ripped apart, and the sheer relief and joy you felt seeing your girl ---- your miracle girl ---- bawling, swathed in a thick pink towel.
Her birth was indescribably beautiful (though very painful), and your daughter was even more so. You caressed the soft tufts of her hair, which had apparently decided to follow in her mother’s footsteps --- unruly blonde waves and ringlets.
But when you peered into her clear bright eyes that surveyed each and every single motion you made, you knew that she would protect her from anything at any cost. Those innocent eyes were a blend of her parents’ eye colours, making them even more precious and endearing to you: they were a deep teal, contrasting with her porcelain skin and pale freckles.
“Nasya,” you breathed, nuzzling your darling miracle girl. “We’ll call her Nasya.”
Your husband disagreed with you, saying Milagros was a prettier name, and fitted with his Latin American upbringing. Also, his mother had always wanted to name one of her children Milagros (unfortunately all three of her children grew up to be strong, burly men).
But you made a pact with God, with Chalchiuhtlicue in one of the secret prayer sessions you held late at sleepless nights --- you told Them that you would dedicate your baby to Them if They just gave you a chance to prove that you were a capable mother, that you would forever treat her well; that no a single hair on her pretty head would ever be harmed.
And what better way there was to honour Them by naming your daughter “a miracle of God”?
Besides, you were wary and afraid that God had something up His sleeve. The God you were so familiar with was not this lenient and benevolent, and from all the tales you’ve heard from your not-so-happy childhood, you knew there was always a piece to pay when you are given a miracle.
Better to placate Him and the Hurakan, you thought to yourself as you instinctively pressed your baby girl closer as the priest asked whether you and your daughter would submit to Christ as Lord and Saviour.
Of course you said yes; you couldn’t mess up now.
All the people gathered in the parish held their breath as the elderly priest gently poured some kind of holy water on your miracle girl’s quiet head, and soon after, declared that she was Nasya Milagros Alvarez.
Without waiting for the congregation to welcome you and Nasya, you silently slipped away from the parish, escaping your Hell through the back door.
You three had to pass the garbage room on your way out, and as if by chance, your great grizzly bear of a husband tripped on a discarded Bible and flew through the air. But what goes up, must come down; and his momentary flight came to a rude stop when he crashed headfirst into a large cardboard box.
Nasya giggled at her Dada’s antics, but her already huge grin widened even more when she caught a glimpse of the guilty cardboard box.
Strangely, children have always had a natural affinity for cardboard boxes. Your husband, on many a hot and stuffy afternoon, told you many stories about his box, Juan, that entertained you so much you swore you fell for him again and again; and though your strict Gran scolded and hit you for it, saying that it was fit for “a no-good, rotten beggar”, your own cardboard box served as a plaything and a shelter from the world until she threw it away.
The one that caught your miracle girl’s eye was one of those plain, standardised boxes that people packed their belongings into and moved house with.
It’s fitting that the box she picked would once have held expectations and wishes upon a star and dreams and promises of a better future inside it; it was to hold hers as well, but afterwards you’ve always known that wrenched cardboard box held your wishes and dreams instead.
Anyway, it was only a bit bent in places, so when Nasya, sitting in her little plastic stroller, kept pointing at it with her chubby little fingers and her red mouth was about to slide into a pout, you immediately told your husband to bring it home with you, ignoring the pointed glares he gave and the occasional wince.
You know what, Melanie? Nothing you’ve ever experienced in your life --- not even your first kiss, not even the realisation that you were finally pregnant --- could ever make you feel as fulfilled and elated and contented (and nerve-racking) as motherhood.
True to your word, you made sure that each and every thing Nasya would be in contact with was harmless (all the clerks in the department store stared at you when you passionately demanded from them “a damn toy with none of that toxic paint nonsense”). You even bought a thick carpet made from the softest eiderdown to break your little daughter’s falls when she was about to totter her first steps forward; though the price tag even made your generous husband rise his eyebrows.
How you cried when Nasya, clasped to your aching chest, was cruelly stabbed with a needle to inject vaccines into her small and weak immune system. She was too young, you thought while dabbing your sore and red eyes, to endure such pain and misfortune.
Soon, your miracle (and birthday) girl, with her bouncy and wild golden curls, was allowed to go outside into the yard to play in her new and disinfected cardboard box amongst the blazing leaves of October.
To her, the cardboard box was castle and spaceship and house and shop all in one, and it was definitely better than all those expensive Sesame Street toys your husband bought for her on his trips to New York. (Though she always was fond of Big Bird, and never slept without her regrettably not life-sized Big Bird doll.)
“Cardbabos.” That’s what Nasya said to you in her high chair suddenly once day when you were baking cookies for Santa Claus, who, to her, was actually a human-bear in your household.
“Sorry?” you said, swimming in her deep teal seas and bright beams of sunshine.
A bit annoyed, she straightened up and repeated slowly, “Cardbabos.” Tightening a small fist, she thumped the high chair, almost begging. “Cardbabos.”
Cardbabos? you thought, crinkling your eyebrows together and frowning at the snowman cookie that came out a bit deformed.
And then it hit you, that thing that your miracle girl was pleading for. It was her cardboard box that she was talking about.
“No, Nasya,” you said patiently, “It’s too cold to play outside with your cardboard box today. You don’t want a cold, so inside you’ll stay.”
She thought for a moment. “I want cold an’ cardbabos.”
Your husband coughed and coughed, trying to stifle his snickers, but as always he couldn’t. In the end, all three of you were giggling and grinning as you all bundled up and headed for Mr. Cardbabos, as he was to be known from then on.
Mr. Cardbabos was always there for Naysa, come rain or shine. It was her official hideout away from prying, curious eyes on her first days at school; and later on, when it became apparent that she was much, much brighter than most children of her age, it was her only sanctuary on this Earth where her classmates shunned and ostracised her for being different.
What broke your heart was that your strong, brave miracle girl never told you anything remotely related to her bad treatment at school --- you never knew school was such a Hell for her until you found out the hard way.
Remember your own times at Bradbury Elementary and Secondary? You were It too, the one who was always made fun of Its clothes and Its manner of speaking and the way It carried Itself around. How could you have possibly guessed that your very own daughter would be treated the way too?
God, you were so proud of her when you saw so many of her classmates and so-called friends come to her birthday carnival; proud that she wouldn’t have to suffer, that she was well-liked by all.
You should have known something was terribly wrong when your miracle girl grew quieter and quieter during all of your carefully thought out party games, and you should have noticed when Nasya didn’t even bother to ride her customary pony.
“Happy 5th Birthday, Nasya!” you all chorused and cheered on when she blew out the candles, their lights defiantly wavering and flickering in her eyes of the seas. Without a second thought or a second for a well-deserved wish, she blew out the candles and said nothing when her share of the cake was cut out, silently gulping down her favourite sticky chocolate cake.
“Why don’t you invite your friends to see Mr. Cardbabos?” you prompted her, thinking that the very mention of her dearest friend could cheer her up. But all you got in return was a slight frown and a little sigh.
Nasya dug her hands deep into the pockets of her frock, and went out without another word, her “friends” following behind her. Your dull mind then realised that something was not quite right, so this time you snuck up to the crowd of happy children, eavesdropping on what they had to say.
“What is this?” a small girl asked in a high, fluty voice. “Don’t tell me it’s one of your stupid games again!”
“He’s my friend,” your daughter resignedly replied in a quiet voice, “And his name is Mr. Cardbabos.”
In that moment, all that could be heard was the ringing sound of children’s laughter; usually, it was a gay and cherry noise that could lift your spirits high above the sky, but it only sickened you as you saw your miracle girl drowning in the sea of never ending teasing laughter.
“Whatever, Nasty Nasa,” the girl snickered, and kicked poor Mr. Cardbabos in places people would have dreamed of hurting. Other children, seeing how much fun the cruel girl was having, ignored the first tear that slipped out of her watery seas and joined in abusing the cowering cardboard box.
Without delaying any longer, you hauled Mr. Cardbabos out of the fight and scolded all the sullen children, and sent them all back home while quiet little Nasya, still dripping teal tears, nursing and comforted her broken friend. You swore to God, to the watching gods and goddesses high above that your miracle girl would never, ever shed another tear again, for as long as you lived.
Needless to say, you withdrew Nasya from her school the next day, slamming a letter of protest and indignation at your baby girl’s treatment by her own classmates on the surprised principal’s desk. From then on, you were in charge of her education, and you made sure that Nasya had the best education that she could have ever gotten from you, her loving mother.
If only you could see yourself, Melanie. How awfully happy and tearful you are just hearing the sound of your baby-to-be’s name! If only you knew what was finally in store for you and your so-called miracle girl, but we’re getting to it now. Pay attention, ‘cause this is the last bit of your story, the last straw thrown onto your pile of waiting debts.
It was a raining December day, those typical sprinkle-y and dusty rainy days of a changing season where all you wanted to do was perhaps lying in bed and hugging a certain enormous warm and fuzzy teddy bear.
Nasya, as always, wasn’t content with staying inside the house; especially not when Mr. Cardbabos was still out there in the garage, shivering from the biting cold. “Can I please go out, Mum?” she pleaded you, practically wringing her hands in despair.
Of course you said no. How on Earth could she go out in the midst of the pouring rain and play, for God’s sake?
She tried all her tricks --- the pouts, the teal eyes brimming with tears, the heart-rending sounds of her pleas --- but this time, you didn’t budge. Not this time.
“Fine!” she snapped, stomping across the living room and out into the hallway, pulling on her blue and forlorn wellingtons. “If you won’t let me, then I’ll go myself!”
You finally blew it, and a resounding slap echoed through the hallway. You were shocked at the red mark blossoming on her porcelain cheeks, but it was too late to salvage the situation.
”Oh my God… Nasya, I’m so ---“ you began, but all you ever received as a reply was the door slamming in your well-deserved face.
Heart ridden with guilty and pain, you peered out of the window, watching as your daughter stormed against the storm towards her Mr. Cardbabos, her blond curls wild in the wind, the rain mixing with her teal tears as she hugged him to her chest.
A flash of lightning and thunder rang, temporarily blinding your eyes, and then your baby girl, your precious little daughter, your miracle, fell to the ground with a thump, clutching her cardboard box with her.
You ignored the howling of the wicked wind and you were oblivious to the rain drenching and soaking your clothes --- all your heart and soul were intent on croaking your miracle girl’s name, over and over till you reached her side.
“Nasya!” Not even the most pitiful cry could rouse your miracle girl from her deep, God-given slumber, where in Mictecacihuatl’s greedy cradle she now rested; her eyes of the seas not quite closed and a trickle of her blood running down her porcelain face you’ve always likened to a Victorian doll, now broken.
You can shake her, plead her to come back to you, hold her to your aching chest just like all those times faraway from now, but you knew that miracles never happen twice.
All you could do was to gently close her wide, glassy unblinking teal orbs, and kneel beside her, keeping vigil for your miracle girl no more and her only darling friend; not acknowledging the sirens of the ambulances streaking past you and your beautiful Nasya, nor did you budge from your awkward position when the well-meaning officers slip a sheet over her slowly cooling, mortal body and took her away from you.
For then you knew that Naysa Milagros Alvarez never belonged to you. She was born from your womb, but it was God himself, kind Chalchiuhtlicue who gave her into your care. She was never yours to keep, and you were just a baby-sitter who was just right for the child God or Chalchiuhtlicue had conceived first.
Nasya was never your miracle, was she? And now she returns to her place right beside her true father and mother. Quite fitting, don’t you think, Melanie?
Yes, the gods might have let you keep her safe from the world much longer, but then you should never make promises you can’t keep. Miracles, if they exist, are meant to be exchanged with some sort of treaty or agreement or pact, and you didn’t keep your promise, so why should They keep theirs?
You begged Them for a child to love and nurture, and They did; but you, once sworn to the immortals living above you that you would never let anything happen to her, forced her away from you with your well-meant slap, but even that slap violated your agreement --- you were the one who first caused her physical pain.
Your miracle girl was never yours, and you don’t deserve her for what you did --- or, I should say, for the things you are going to do.
So let your hopes and wishes and longings fade away as you start to feel drowsy and sleepy from those amnesia pills I slipped into your water when you first invited me to step inside your threshold; let our immortal magic shatter your dream of your perfect family; let Nasya be only a figment of your misty dreams that haunt you at night.
You now no longer believe in miracles, but that’s the way you and I both want it to be.
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