Who Made It Tick by Erika Walsh

Matti looks at me, her brush almost dripping onto the carpet, one white teardrop shaking at the edge of its bristles. If you don’t mind, she says, tell me again how it happened? I don’t think I have the science right.

I think of answering her question. I don’t think of her moving the paintbrush over my breasts, here where she can see them. I think of the canvas between us. I think of John humming over the oven, seasoning something warm, his wedding band set on the counter so that it does not fall into the sink.

I look at her. I say what happened was, I became myself outside of the womb. There was no placenta, no cord to cut. I only needed a place to grow inside, a capsule of skin, bone shelter. I came out feet first, unbending my knees, rolling my ankles in circles. I cried. My face was red and ugly, wrinkled. It’s not that I was smarter than the other babies.

No, she says. It wasn’t that. She is smiling, kind. She brushes a lock of orange hair over her shoulder, the whole of her yellow and warm in the sun. I love the wall of glass behind her. What a good idea to have a sunroom, a room of windows. The light filters through her freckles, seems to live inside, to add to her.

It was only that I had everything I needed from the start, inside. And so there is no belly button, there.

There, she says, almost a whisper.

She moves her chair forward, extends a hand towards my stomach, nails like little gold triangles. I hold her fingers in my hand, press them against the skin where my belly button should be. There.

Her forehead is just a few inches from my breasts, but she does not raise her eyes, seems frozen in that place. I think I might paint her instead, if she stays this still.

And, she says, why don’t you have any, you know —

I don’t have mammary glands, I say, or nipples. She blushes when I say nipples. It happens whenever I explain it to someone. Maybe we were meant to blush over them, that part of the body. Or someone wanted us to blush, to hide, so they made the word strange on our tongues.

The doctors don’t know much about that, I continue, itching the side of my neck, letting my fingers linger over my collarbone, my wrist hovering close to the slope of my breast. I like to have her look at me, like that she has a reason to look, and so we can ignore anything else that might happen, pretend that there is only the artist and the art. It makes me feel powerful, in a quiet way. I can say what I want without having to admit what it means. I look at her and purse my lips, smile to see her blush deepen.

They can only theorize, I say. They think maybe it’s because I’m not meant to nourish, to feed. Of course, I’m not fertile either.

And he doesn’t care, your husband? He doesn’t want any children?

He says he doesn’t care. I shrug, roll my shoulders back, glance down at my breasts, the strands of loose hair falling over them. He says he wants what I want.

I notice the splits at the ends of her orange hair. I think, that’s beautiful. That must be a sunburst. I arch my back a bit, move one hand forward, the spaces between my fingers little V’s against the hardwood floor, light moving between them. Is this okay, I ask, should I switch positions.

She stares somewhere over my shoulder, seems almost in a trance. It’s like, she says, it’s like you never learned how to nurture, you never experienced it, and so you can’t provide.

That is one possibility.

She smiles, says, does it ever get lonely.

I want to say, what. I want to open my eyes wide. I want to be caught off guard. I think, that is how a person reacts. I should feel uncomfortable. I should think how rude of her. But I’m glad she asks. It doesn’t startle anything in me.

I’m sorry, she says, and she’s laughing, a little nervous. It’s just, I don’t know, you don’t have to answer, if it’s too much.

No, I say. I like your questions.

She looks at me. The trance is gone, or it has expanded. Or we are both inside it. Or it is only a canopy. The answer floats around the room. Dust particles chase each other in the light. The cracked wings of a dead moth limp against the windowsill. The brush in her hand, dripping, wet drops on her bare thigh.

Oh, she says, please put your arms around your knees.

I am wearing a white skirt, and white underwear, and my knees will cover my torso if I raise them. I would have hesitated, would have thought, isn’t the whole point to paint the nippleless breasts, the buttonless belly, the unnatural, the new body? But the pose feels right, like it’s the only place we can go from here. A sort of answer, or the next question. I oblige, and my skirt falls back over my hips. She is faced mostly with my legs, my feet, a bit of thigh, thong. She does not blush, seemed terribly focused.

Now, she says, rest the side of your cheek against your knee, just crook your head a bit, there.

Fetal position, I say, and laugh.

She smiles, looks closely at the tops of my knees, the way they curve, does not see the white scars that cover them. I do. The light gets inside and makes them look almost pretty. She dips her brush in green paint, presses it into the canvas, little lines.

I move my tongue in circles against the roof of my mouth and it tickles, feels like someone else is touching me. I think, most people feel safe, holding themselves like this. It’s a memory, an uncanny one, the first one. I try closing my eyes (she stops moving her brush, says, Open). I try letting my muscles loosen, try imagining. I cannot go back to any place.

***

My husband has this dream. I know because it wakes me. I will be sleeping, my back to him, perhaps a hand reaching over, fingers skimming the arch of his brow. Then I’ll be awake, and turn, watch his body sit up, mouth open, head shaking, no. I will say, what is it? He will only gape, sometimes close his mouth and open it like a fish.

I will kiss his cheeks until he is still, until he is John again and his face does not move, tilt his head back onto a pillow, listen for the whistle of his breathing.

In the morning I’ll ask, what was that about?

What?

Last night. You were acting strange. Was it a dream again.

What? Oh, yes, a dream. Terrible, terrible.

What happened?

He won’t remember. Every morning after the dream he makes ham for breakfast, piles and piles of pink ham browning at the edges, stacks on blue plates. It’s a strange breakfast, I’ll tell him, and he’ll stab the meat with his fork, say, it will make us ready for the day. We’ll be full for hours. I will say that makes perfect sense. I will say, do you ever remember your dreams.

He will blink, chew his meat, say, Wendy, why would I remember something that hurts.

***

Matti comes again, says paint me this time. I tell her it will be abstract, half-formed. I would like to experiment. She says oh boy. She says I am classically trained.

I want to say, Matti, do you ever imagine that I am your wife. I want to say I’ll wear an apron for you, read from boring books so you can watch the way my lips move.

I think of John, what I do for him. We hold hands under blankets, kiss each other’s stomachs. He tells me we’ll be friends until we die, or separate. I say even if we were divorced I would still want to be your friend. He says that’s true, I would tell everyone look, that’s my ex wife Wendy. She’s so cool. I tell her everything.

I say, okay, so lay down on this tarp. She does. I want to lie next to her, want her to roll and press the weight of her body into me. But I don’t. I don’t really know what to do next. I’ve only ever painted as a child: bunnies, cats, other animals with long ears, pink noses, fur like spikes.

Start with the charcoal, she says. It’s beginner’s charcoal. I hold the pointed edge of it in my hand, black soot fading at the center of my palm. Can you raise your arms, I say, and open your legs. She moves the way I ask her to, until her body is a five-pointed star. I squat, hunch over my knees, begin to trace her. I have to get close to the skin, I say. Tell me if it tickles.

It doesn’t, she says, but she’s laughing, her face pink. I trace the inside of her armpit, the side of her hip. Her eyes close, lips slightly open, a small O at the center of her mouth. My knuckles brush the inside of her thigh, warm under denim shorts. I have to remember this is art class. This is learning. I tell her, okay. You can stand. She sits up slowly, looks around as if waking from a dream.

Can you come on the floor, too? she asks. We can sit together.

Yes, and I kneel in front of her. We keep looking at each other. She whispers, where is your husband. In the backyard, I say. Stomping grapes.

She laughs. Grapes? He’s just stomping them, barefoot?

I don’t like that she laughs, begin to feel protective. I want to tell her this is serious business. Want to tell her we should try not to hurt him.

I say yes. He’s making wine. It’s one of his hobbies.

Can he hear us? she asks. I begin to say, well. I can’t see him from here. He stays out for hours. He always knocks.

She doesn’t wait for my answer, her fingers already under the hem of her shirt, lifting the fabric over her head. She reaches for a space near my collarbone, her arm brushing against the front of my breasts, fingers fluttering against me, little wings. Something shifts inside my chest; a prickling sensation, or a faucet dripping. I feel my blood moving.

I want you to see me like this, she says, unclipping the back of her bra to shrug out of it. Charcoal lines her arms and she moves towards me, her skin warm.

***

We move in circles like flies over the grapes, spirals moving out of our mouths, tongues pressing into each other, unflattening. I wrap my arms around his back, bite an earlobe, kiss his chin, nibble at the stubble that grows there. I say this wine, can I taste it, when will it be done?

It needs time to settle, he says. It needs days and days.

I tell him, you must have so much patience. Not like me. He says yes, patience. That is my cardinal virtue.

I want everything to happen right away, I say. I hate wasting time.

He says numbers must be important to you.

What?

If you think that much about time. You must always be counting.

No, I say. That’s not how I measure it.

What’s it like then? I want to tell him: it’s like stabbing yourself again and again with a shard of glass. It’s like you’re repeating the same word in every language you could think of. It’s like you keep running into yourself.

I say I just want every minute to mean something. I want to feel myself making the memory.

He says I should take your picture. Our feet are unmoving in the bucket of crushed grapes, soles probably stained purple. He wraps his arms around me, stands so close to kiss me, slips his hands into the back pockets of my jeans.

Why can’t you? I ask. He says, I’m a little afraid. I don’t think I would get it right. It won’t look like you. Or it will look too much like you, and then one day you’ll leave, and it will hurt to look at.

I’m here now, I say. I feel frantic, say the words too quickly, move my hands to the sides of his cheeks, kiss him with closed lips. There. You don’t need to remember. Just be right here with me.

He says, we keep forgetting to stomp. I say of course. I hold his hands in mine and stomp, one foot at a time, left and then right.

***

We walk with our elbows intertwined, two gentlemen, after you, no, after you. I lend her my floppy white hat to shield her eyes from the sun. They are green eyes, sensitive. She says oh, I would have gone blind. You’re my hero.

Her freckles seem to widen across her skin, out here on the sidewalk. I imagine they are little portals, or each one is a spot left behind, an indication of hurt, or pleasure. I think the shapes in our skin must mark us somehow, show us what has happened, what will be. I remember the palm reader, how she ran one long finger down my lifeline, said look how it breaks at the end.

Matti tells me about her mother, how she got sick and kept getting sick, how her father wanted Matti’s face to look less like hers, look, do you have to remind me every second? She tells me about the love she has had, men and women, and what about you, is this the first time?

No, there were others, before John. There was a woman in London named Blue. We lived inside a clock tower, a noisy little room, slept with our hands over each other’s ears. The room was cheap. No one wanted it because of the ticking, the chimes.

She says oh, that sounds so intimate, and I’m sorry I asked. I am almost jealous. She says when I was in middle school I used to fantasize about earthquakes, or some natural disaster. I wanted to get stuck somewhere uncomfortable, even scary. I always thought, maybe this one girl in my class, Lila, would find me, snuggle up close to me. I could stroke her hair, tell her it will be okay. It’s funny to think of that now.

I say, I don’t know if I can relate. I don’t know if I’ve ever wanted to be stuck.

She says, it’s just, I don’t know, when you think something bad is going to happen, I guess you kind of have to love the people around you. I nod, drum my fingers against her lower back.

She asks, so John, do you love him, her voice cracking. I tell her yes. I am being truthful. She is quiet, not looking at me.

I love him, I say. I know she wants me to say he is not good to me. She wants me to say there’s a reason, he deserves it. I say, I didn’t love you to hurt him.

She turns into my chest, looks up to kiss me, says, I think you should tell him about me, about us. I say sure. I say in time. She runs her fingers through my hair, says, I need him to know.

***

I used to ride horses, he says, before I met you. I could feel the drum of their hooves in my chest, my back, even my thighs, while I was riding. It was like being at a concert, do you know the feeling, the bass beating into your chest.

I say that’s beautiful. I say you must have perfect posture. Look at your spine. It’s not even curved. He says thank you. He says you’re making me blush. I ask, did you love the horses? Did you own them? We’re sitting in a pile of blankets on the living room floor. We have just moved in together, are still getting to know each other.

He says I did love them. They weren’t mine. I’d visit this farm and they’d let me ride them. Bell was my favorite. Her neigh sounded like a yawn.

A yawn?

Yes.

I can’t imagine that. Can you make the sound for me?

He says, no. He says I would like to. But I am not a horse.

I ask, can we go riding together? He says yes. He says I think you will do well. You have confidence.

That helps?

It makes them feel secure. It makes them trust you.

He cups the back of my neck in his hand, kisses my cheek. He says maybe we will ride horses one day. Maybe we’ll live on a farm and start a garden, discover some vegetable hybrid, or a fruit-vegetable hybrid, a blueberry carrot, something that looks disgusting and tastes like a sweet. I say maybe. I say no, of course.

***

Blue holds my hand in hers, says will you be staying in London for a while? I say no, I only came for one thing. And have you done it? she asks. I say I am getting there. She stops asking.

I’ve been sketching the gears in the clock, I say. I like the way they move.

What do you like about them?

They keep doing the same thing, moving the same way. But it feels so dynamic.

Dynamic?

Like maybe if you watch long enough something will change.

Blue stops, turns to face me, presses her palms into mine, until she’s holding my arms over my head, kissing my neck. I say, we’re in the middle of the street. She says no, we are off to the side. The sun is almost down, I guess she’s right, we’re shadows pressed against an alley wall.

She says I think of getting married, sometimes. I think it would make me move slowly.

I say why is that? I say do you think we move fast?

She says I can’t tell if we’re fast or not moving at all. She holds my wrists together and starts opening buttons with her teeth, kissing my breasts through my blouse. She says let me fuck you, moves her fingers between my thighs. I say of course. I say are we moving now?

***

I put the painting up by the bedroom mirror, next to where we look at ourselves. John says oh, she really did a good job. He leans over the dresser to look, says I love how the green by your nose makes your eyes pop. Who would have thought to put it there? I say she has a very creative mind. He says it’s so pretty. I say prettier than me? He laughs, says look, it is you.

He kisses my forehead, runs a hand through my hair. We’re both wearing our checkered pajamas. We hold hands, lie down on the bed. I rub the inside of his thigh through his pants, look up at him, blink. He says Wendy, I’m so tired. I say me too, close my eyes, turn away from his body. Electricity moves inside of my stomach. I am not so tired.

Wendy, he says, I feel like the painting is watching us.

I get out of bed, put it away in a drawer.

Is that better?

Yes.

Did it scare you?

No.

We are quiet for a moment. It made me think of my grandma’s house, he says. I would sleep over there in the guest room sometimes when I was young, eight or nine. There were crosses all over the walls, wooden, carved. They were beautiful. I hated looking at them. They changed the mood of the whole room.

Because they were religious?

I don’t think it was that, he says.

He says, they were trying to make something big into something small. They were trying to boil it down, contain it.

Did it work?

I think they turned it into something else, he says, but it’s like I was the only one who noticed.

I say, that must have been hard. He kisses my nose, says, it’s kind of like our wedding bands.

They’re so small.

We’re much bigger than that, he says.

He closes his eyes, turns his back to me, says if I have that dream again, the one I can’t remember, will you just pray for me.

Pray for you?

He says I have to believe it will work. I have to see your hands folded together like that.

I say okay. I think of Matti’s hands on my skin, think of whispering what he does not know when his breathing slows and he is asleep. I wonder if that will alter the course of his dreaming.

He says I lied to you. There is one dream I remember.

You had scales, he says, like a mermaid, but they covered your whole body, even your face. Your eyes were green. There were no pupils inside of them. You were hunched over a little plate of fish eyes, kept stabbing them with wooden chopsticks, swallowing them whole. I tried to tell you stop, tried to run, but it was one of those dreams where I couldn’t talk, couldn’t move. Everything was frozen. You kept saying I’m full, John. I’m so full.

That’s scary, I say. I sound like a monster.

That’s why I didn’t want to tell you.

It’s sort of funny though, I say. If it happens again you should call my name. Try to realize you’re dreaming. Get unstuck from the dream, unbend your knees, roll your ankles. Say Wendy, I love how you look. I love that you’re trying something new. Maybe I won’t be so scary.

It’s one version of you, he mumbles, and his eyes are closing. I rub his back with an open palm.

I close my eyes and there is a frame behind them, my face inside. It must be the painting. I’m worried I won’t fall asleep fast enough and I’ll feel the dream press into me, feel that strange fuzzy place come to life, the place between sleep and awake. I try to focus on John, my hand on his back.

The face inside the painting morphs until it is not mine, until the lips are red and open, hair curled up at the ends. It’s Blue’s face. She says look, this is how you fucked everything up. Why couldn’t you stay? You never gave me a good reason. I’ll keep hearing that ticking in my head, I’ll keep seeing those gears, your drawings. Every time I make a woman come, every time I kiss someone who is not you, but who could have been, all I’ll be able to think about is time. Her legs will dangle like clock hands over my shoulders. I hate you for this.

My body is still, unmoving on the bed. I want to say, it’s not like I left because I didn’t love you. I want to say look, I didn’t ask you to think of me. I’m not the one who invented time, who put the gears inside the clock. I’m not the one who made it tick.

Erika lives in Ithaca, NY where she studies creative writing and women’s and gender studies at Ithaca College. She works as a poetry editor for Stillwater Magazine, her school’s on-campus literary and art publication. Her work has been featured in Juked and Glass Mountain.