The Woman in Red--Part V

I waited on the shore with the others, as Dan had instructed. Thankfully there was no one I knew. No one with a pointing finger to shout, “Unclean! Unclean!”

            When the boat appeared on the horizon, a shout arose from the crowd.    

            "Rabbi!"            

            We pressed forward, a solid mass. A single, throbbing creature. For a moment, I considered flight. In the other direction, toward hill country and home. After a life of loneliness, the assault on my senses—shouts and creature calls, manure and perspiration, jabbing shoulders and elbows—overwhelmed me. Plundered the very air from my nose and mouth. In a panic I searched the faces of those nearby. Could they hear the pounding of my heart? Should I flee before my condition was revealed? I shook my head, almost violently. No, I hissed under my breath. Be strong and courageous. This is the day, possibly the only opportunity I will ever have, to accomplish the one thing that might bring me joy. I reclaimed my breath and set my face like flint. Forced my shoulders back and made my way toward the water’s edge.

            As the boat drew near, some entered the lake, no doubt desiring to plead their case first. The noise level increased and nearly deafened me, more cries of distress than anything. Blind were led. Lame limped or were bolstered or carried. A filthy boy, his eyes wide and roaming, his mouth ringed with spittle, twisted and writhed within the circle of his family.            
            Finally the boat came to rest on land with a gritty sigh. The horde of humanity converged on the vessel at all its points.
            "Master! Teacher!" the people cried.
            "Over here, Sir," a woman's voice said. "Please. If you but—"
             "Step away," one of the men inside the boat said. "Back off so we can disembark. Make a way for Jesus."
           I focused my gaze on the greatest healer the world had ever known, or so Dan's  note had said. He looked like any man. Could he possibly be different? Special? I considered the throng, pawing and pushing to get close to him. How might I, a woman alone, create an opportunity to speak with him, to tell him my plight? I bit at my lower lip. There were so many ailments represented here. Everyone of us needed him. Every one. Why would he listen to me?
             Suddenly the group parted. A man in pristine robes stepped through.

            “It’s Jairus, from the synagogue,” someone noted.

            Up ahead I watched the man collapse at the rabbi's feet. The hands he raised to the teacher were both elegant and trembling. Tears rinsed his contorted face.

            “Please, my Lord,” he said, his voice coarse with grief. “My little daughter is dying. I beg you. Please come lay your hands on her so she will be healed and live.”

            I whimpered. His little girl? Is dying? Oh, Lord! Go with him. Save her. I will . . . I do not . . .

            I watched Jesus do as I said. He moved away from me to follow the man called Jairus. In that moment, I felt hollow.

            Soon after, I was swept along as the crowd surged in pursuit of the Master. As it carried me with it, a thought occurred to me. It is not necessary for him to see me or know who I am. If I but touch the hem of his tunic I will be healed.  I stretched out my arm toward his cloak but fell short. A moan escaped me. Again the crowd heaved so that I was pitched up and forward. Suddenly one of the tassels affixed to the edge of his prayer shawl brushed my fingertips. Immediately it stopped—the fountain of blood from within me. I’m healed. Everything inside me knew it, felt it, declared it.

            I held the fingers that touched his garment to my lips, then my chest. I am free. I dropped to the dust. Hid my face in my hands. Wept and worshipped. It is finished. I reached upward. Attempted to hold heaven.

            All around me people pushed and shoved, crushed against, and grabbed at me.

            “Move it, woman. Get up!”

             “Who touched me?”

            Through the din I recognized his voice. Deep. Commanding. My breath caught. I cowered. Watched his disciples survey the area. I straightened. Hurried to the Master. Groveled at his feet. I clutched the edge of his garment. Laid my cheek against it.

            “My Lord, forgive me,” I said. “It was I. Sir, for twelve years I have bled without ceasing. I spent all I had on many physicians and yet my condition grew worse, not better. Then I heard . . .”

            When I dared lift my gaze to his, I gasped. At the depth of love and familiarity in his eyes.

            I gestured weakly toward Jairus. “I saw that you were going to help his . . . And surely her need is . . .”
          I covered my mouth, to stop the words, but the rabbi nodded for me to continue. 
          “Sir, I have not touched anyone in . . . And no man would ever . . . I thought, if I could only . . .”

            My words dried up even as my eyes and nose ran hot. Sobs convulsed my frame.

            The Lord rested one hand on my shoulder. Stilled my shaking. He cupped my face with his other. Warmed me through.

            “Take heart, daughter,” he said. “Your faith has healed you.”

            He extended his hand to help me up, then disappeared with his disciples.

            I spun around. Attempted to locate him again, to no avail. Frustrated, desperate, I labored to keep in the front part of the group. I cringed when I felt the packing between my legs loosen and fall away. I glanced behind me, at the bodies, at the road, but I saw nothing. The evidence of my suffering had vanished—trampled by sandals and bare feet. With a sigh I moved toward the edge of the group to take a sip from my wineskin.  I stood on tiptoe and shaded my eyes to see if there was any sign of the Master in the distance. That’s when I thought I saw— Indeed it was— I bunched my tunic with one hand and waved with my other. Broke into a run.
          "Ada! Dan!" I shouted. "Wait for me!"

When Pigs Fly

It would be a good day to bury someone. Or some thing. The ground is soaked after days of drizzle. Will share its moisture if you but step on it.

            I head for the basement. To me, it smells like death but then, it often does. Could be the inch of water on the floor in husband’s workroom. Might be a juvenile rodent in some advanced state of decay, its head like a walked on brussel sprout, thanks to one of husband’s traps. Long ago I relinquished my insistence he use Havahart cages. The day he displayed an incarcerated rat (as opposed to the usual mouse) outside the kitchen window, I nearly dropped my wine glass.

            When he came back inside, I moved away from the sink so he could wash his hands. I spoke through clenched teeth.

            “Get the real traps. The killing kind.”

            I empty the dehumidifier. Fill the bunnies’ water bottle. That’s when I notice what’s wrong with this picture. I take in the cages of our guinea pigs—Trixie Juniper (sassy and sleek) and Sweetie (humble, like Wilbur in Charlotte’s Web, and tousled).

            Something seems familiar. I picture the scene in The Wizard of Oz when the witch’s feet poke out from under her house. Only here in our basement, it's Sweetie’s butt that sticks out from under her purple pigloo. I make a hummy noise. That’s when I notice the silence. Consider she is not whistling and chuttering her usual high-pitched alarm. Ever since she learned basement light equals human equals food (at least a fair amount of the time—intermittent reinforcement and all that), she has proved our most vociferous beast.

            I slump. Exhale loudly. “Did he not see her?” I ask the basement. The boy child. When he fed her. Didn’t he question the absence of squeaks?

            I move the purple dome off her waist. Do my spot on imitation of a guinea pig vocal. My Indian name, after all, is Talks with Animals. I called myself that for months after I watched Dances with Wolves. Sweetie does not reply. Doesn’t stir in her aspen bedding. I make my eyes squinty. Will her to waddle her knocked-over-bowling-pin body to the side of the cage. To where she always begs for raisins. Every morning. She doesn’t today because she isn’t today. She cannot, will not, catch her breath of life ever again.

I text husband the sad news. He replies. Says he will lay her to rest tomorrow. I nod. Permit myself a small smile. Under the chestnut tree with all our other beloved pets, no doubt.

            Moments after I return my cell to my hoodie pocket it does a jig against my belly. I take it out again. Hold it at arm's length to decipher the words.

            “Prepare her for burial please.”

            My eyes bulge. I swallow nothing. Me? But I thought that was on the boy list. Along with taking out the trash and relocating almost-big-as-your-hand spiders.

            Preparing her for burial would mean I’d have to touch her. Make contact with death. Don’t tell anyone but part of me thinks it’s contagious. Being dead. I lay a hand over my heart. Feel its increased cadence. Work my tongue in my mouth in search of moisture.

            I lower myself to the floor next to the line of animal cages. Dry my palms on my skinny jeans.

            “This is why I could never be a single mom,” I tell the pets. “’Cause I don't know how to load or unload a mousetrap. Can’t bash a rabid raccoon’s brains with a shovel if need be. Don't have the guts to scrape a roadkill off the street in front of the house.”

            One of the rabbits thumps a big back paw. “Oh, fine!" I say as I heave myself to standing. "I’ll do it!”

            I walk over to the pile of old but clean towels next to the washer. Select a small purple one. Pick at the dried white paint next to the embroidered-in-gold reindeer. It’s soft. She’ll like that. I sigh. Even though she’s dead. I return to her cage and crouch beside it. Feel the splintering start. In my nose. At the corners of my eyes.

            “I hope you didn’t suffer, little friend,” I whisper. “I hope you closed your piggy eyes and . . .  And nothing. Just . . .”

            I reach in and touch her gently. Tentatively. She’s so soft. I imagine she’s warm. What if she’s . . . I poke her. She’s not. I admire the rosettes on her rump one last time before I roll her in the terry shroud.

            “You always looked like you had bed head all over your body, sweet girl.”

            I scootch over so I can get both arms inside her cage. “Remember how I wanted to change your name to Pigsley after we rescued you, but I couldn’t? Because you're so sweet, no name but Sweetie would do.”

            I wrap and tuck the cloth around her. Remove her much heavier in death than life body from the white wire house.

            I snuggle her into an American Eagle shoe box. “Get it, Sweetie?” I say. “I picked this one ‘cause it reminded me of that old hymn—I’ll Fly Away.”

            A sob breaks out of me like a cough. Right after I put the lid on.

            “Why does this never get easier?” I ask the question of Trixie and the bunnies.   The rabbits are side by side, watching me. Trixie sprints up her ramp. Cocks her head. I hold Sweetie’s coffin inches from Trixie’s nose.

            “She’s in here. You never liked her though. Always gave her a hard time. Now she’s gone. Who you gonna talk to now?”
            Trixie whistles. Puts her front paws up on the bars.

            I bite my lip. Whimper. “I’m sorry, Trix. That was mean.”

            I place the burial box on the floor where she and the bunnies can see it.

            “Here you go. I’ll leave her down here a little while. So you all can pay your final respects.”

            I climb the stairs to the kitchen. Take a seat at the table. Sip the last bit of my morning coffee. It’s cold. I spit it back in the cup. Get my phone out of my hoodie pocket and slide it open. Hold it at arm's length and type.

            “Piggy prepared for take off.” Send.

           

           

. . . Give and Take . . .

"What do you mean you don't know where the kids are?"

            Mom didn't look up from her crossword puzzle when I came in from lunch.

            "They said something about whiffleball," she said.  "Then a little later, they mentioned a white rabbit."

            I stood on the deck and squinted out at the spring drizzle.  I cupped my hands around my mouth. 

            "Kids!"

            "Over here!"  Their voices came from the woods.  I followed the sound of whoops and hollers. 

            "Come here, baby!"

            "Missed it.  Missed it by a mile!"

            "Don't be afraid.  We're real nice." 

            Thing one, two, and three darted here and there, trying to get close to the pale, zigzagging puffball.

            "Mom! It's headed your way!  Get it!"

            Espresso, white wine, and mineral water sloshed in my belly as I joined the chase.  Over logs, under cars, and into burrows the white rabbit went.  More than once I nearly fell as my feet slid on my fancy sandals and wet leaves.  Finally, I held an empty trash can on its side, and the kids chased the bunny into it. 

            "Are you okay, Mommy?" my son said.

            I sat in the wet grass, wheezing and cradling my abdomen.  "Yeah.  Why?"

            "Your face is a weird color."

            My stomach seemed to debate whether or not to give up my thirty dollar French lunch.  Oldest Child approached, the trembling rabbit clutched to her chest. 
            "Can we keep it?"

            "Ask Daddy."

A week later Middle Child came tearing up to the third floor. "Mom!  Honey’s a girl!"

            I looked over at the clock--6:30 a.m..  

            I squinted up at her. "Honey’s a girl?"

            "Honey Bunny's a mom!  She had seven babies and they're gross! All pink and wiggly, like worms."

           A few minutes later I knelt on the cool, concrete floor in the basement.  I peered into the crate.       Middle Child leaned against my back. 
          "I bet a rat snuck into the basement and mated her."
           I chuckled and tapped my son on the shoulder.  "Go get me a tablespoon." 
            He returned quickly.  I shivered when he put the spoon on my thigh.  I warmed it with my breath.  I opened the cage and carefully scooped up one lone baby bunny and deposited it on top of its siblings.  They were all snuggled in a heap, on a nest of silky soft, white fur.

            I turned to Oldest Child.  "Go upstairs and Google 'raising baby rabbits,'" I said.  "See if it's okay to touch 'em."

            Honey Bunny hunkered in the back of the crate.  I frowned.

            "She's not keeping them warm.  Not nursing 'em or anything.  She isn't very good at this mommy thing."

            "Maybe it's her first time," Middle Child said.

            My oldest daughter came back.  "A couple of websites say it's okay to touch them if the mother's tame."

            I counted days on my fingers.  "We've had her eight days and she's never bit anyone.  That means she's tame, right?"

            I reached in and stroked the baby on top of the pile.  I cooed.  It was soft and warm, like the back of a child's neck.

            The kids huddled around me. 

            "That one's gonna have black spots," Middle Child said.  "And I bet that one'll be all white."

            "Let's name 'em," my son said.  "The biggest one should be Goliath."

            "And we'll call that tiny guy, Gideon," I said.

            "The one that keeps leaving the pack," Oldest Child said, "He's an adventurer.  Let's call him Indiana Jones.  Indy for short."

            "We should call the one with black spots Domino," Middle Child said.

            It took us longer to name the others.  One became Pogo a few weeks later when it leapt into the air, over and over. 

            "Name something that's all white," I said.

            "Alaska," Oldest Child said as her eyes followed my gaze.  "And Juno's the capital of Alaska.  Let's call her Juno."

            "But what about the smallest white one?"  Middle Child said.  "How do you say white in French, Mommy?"

            "Je ne sais pas," I said.  "Bianca maybe?  Or is it Alba?"

            "Bianca Alba," Middle Child said.  "She's my favorite.  She's little like me."

I went to the Exotic Jungle on account of Bianca Alba.

            "Failure to thrive?" I said to the pre-vet salesgirl.  "Does that mean she'll die?"

            "Not necessarily," she said.  "Follow me."

            She stopped in front of a display.  "I've raised tons of baby rabbits by hand," she said.  "You need kitten milk.  And one of these eye droppers.  And some of this stuff." 

            She handed me a package of three small metal tubes.  "In the wild, they'd eat their mom's scat to get the healthy organisms for their gut, but since she's not bonded with them, give them each a little squirt of this once a week."

            We headed up to the cash register.  "She's not taking to them 'cause you held them.  You shouldn't touch them while they're pink.  Gotta wait until they get their peach fuzz."

            I whimpered.  "Aw, man!  The web--"

            She reached across the counter and patted my shoulder.  "Don't worry," she said.  "They'll be okay. I do this all the time."

One night I woke with the answer.  To why Bianca Alba wasn’t thriving.  I snuck down to the basement and peeked into the crate.  No nursing. 

            I pointed and hissed at Honey in the dark.  "Bad mommy!"

            "The website says they usually only nurse between the hours of midnight and five a.m.," I told my husband the next morning.  "Sometimes only once in a 24 hour period.  Man!  Rabbits must have super mama milk.  Still, I haven't seen 'em--" 

            My husband's eyes narrowed.

            I tilted my head.  "What?"

            "What are you up to?" he said.

            I shrugged.  "Nothing."  That you need to know about. 

After school I called for the kids.  They followed me to the basement.

            I pointed at them one by one.  "You, get a clean bath towel.  You, get Honey.  You, hold this strawberry basket while I get them and their fluff nest inside."

            "What are we doing, Mom?" Oldest Child said as we headed back upstairs.

            "We're gonna give Honey lactation training."

            I sat with my back against the dining room wall, the towel draped over my lap.

            "Hand me Honey."

            I stroked her and whispered into her long, warm ears.  "It'll feel like a Shop Vac on your nipples at first, but don't worry.  You'll get used to it."

            I flopped her on her back.  Nodded at my son. 

            "Hand me two babies."

            Each of the bunnies quickly located a teat.  They squirmed as they nursed, their back sides scooching left and right, like windshield wipers.  After ten minutes, the wriggling bodies relaxed.

            "Switch!"

            "They remind me of piranhas," my son said.  "Like the ones on the Discovery Channel.  Are they hurting her?"

            "Naw!" I said.  "She's fine.  Nudge Bianca.  She's asleep on the breast.  She needs it most of all."

            And that's how it went.  Twice a day, for weeks.  We bribed Honey with apples, carrots, and plantain leaves from the yard.  She gobbled our offerings non-stop while the babies nursed.  She was after all, eating for eight.

One day I squatted in front of the bunny crate.  Per usual, Bianca Alba was not with the others. 

            I used a broom handle to scoot her to them. "You have to stay with your brothers and sisters," I said.  “They'll keep you warm."

            I gave her extra nursings.  Encouragement too.  "Thrive, Baby Bianca.  Thrive."

            I fed her kitten milk in between feedings, putting the tiny dropper into her mouth and squeezing the rubber part.  I sighed as most of it ran down her chin and chest.

            "Let's stay up with her tonight, Mommy," Middle Child said one afternoon.  "To keep her warm.  And to feed her."

            I nodded.  And to pray for her.  I had this bad feeling.

            Middle Child lay on the love seat under her purple, fuzzy blanket.  I sprawled on the sofa with a zebra-striped throw.  We took turns feeding Bianca and holding her on our chests.

            "I'm giving you another name," I told Bianca at midnight.  "You're going to be Bianca Alba Lazarus 'cause Jesus is going to bring you back from the death cave."

            I wiped my eyes and sniffed.  'Cause I think that's where you're headed.

            She was so wee.  She'd fit in a quarter cup measure.  Her fur wasn't sleek like the others.'  It was streaked with milk and sickliness.

            "Another name," I whispered to her at three in the morning as she lay like a comma between my breasts.  "You need another name.  Bianca Alba Lazarus Miracle.  That's your new name.  Please live, tiny angel bunny.  Please?"

            And then my prayer became my grief, and my grief woke Middle Child.

            She sat up suddenly, her eyes huge.  "Is she--?  Did she--?  Why are you--?" 

            Middle Child's breath sounded wheezy.  She held the sides of her face.

            "Oh, no!  But I prayed!  Why didn't God--"     

            I stroked Bianca with my pinky.  "See how peaceful she looks?" I said.  "She's all better.  Not here.  But better."

            I slept until daybreak with Bianca on my chest and Middle Child between my legs.  She'd cried herself to sleep there.

            I got up from the couch and covered her.  I took Bianca into the basement and wrapped her in some Honey Bunny fluff and a scrap of fuchsia silk.  She looked like a Valentine, for a dead person.  I tucked her into a jelly jar and screwed the lid on. 

            "Rest in peace, my peewee darling." 

            I set the container on the washer and fished in the laundry pile for one of my husband's t-shirts.  I covered my face with it, blew my nose, and sobbed.

            After lunch we all wrote goodbye love notes to Bianca and slid them in the jar. 

            That evening, my husband and son laid Bianca Alba Lazarus Miracle to rest beneath the chestnut tree, beside the creek, with all our other beloved pets.

            "What did you say when you buried her?" I asked my husband when he came home.

            He wrapped me in his arms and spoke into my hair. 

            "I said, 'The Lord gave us eight bunnies, and the Lord took one away.  Blessed be the name of the Lord."

            I nodded and spoke with a stuffed up nose.  "That's good.  That's real good."

Give and Take

Sometimes God gives you something you didn't even know you needed.  That's the way it was with Honey and--


"What do you mean you don't know where the kids are?"

Mom didn't look up from her crossword puzzle when I came in from having lunch with a friend.

"They said something about whiffleball," she said.  "Then a little while later, something about a white rabbit."

I stood on the deck and looked out at the spring drizzle.  I cupped my hands around my mouth.  "Kids!"

"Over here!"  Their voices came from the woods.  I followed the sound of whoops and hollers. 

"Come here, baby!"

"Missed it.  Missed it by a mile!"

"Don't be afraid.  We're nice." 

Thing one, two, and three darted here and there, trying to get close to the pale, zigzagging puffball.

"Mom! It's headed your way!  Get it!"

Coffee, white wine, and mineral water sloshed in my belly as I joined the chase.  Over logs, under cars, and into burrows the white rabbit went.  More than once I nearly fell as my feet slid around on my flipflops.  Finally, I held Mom's empty aqua trash can on its side, and the kids chased the rabbit into it. 

"Are you okay, Mom?" my son said.

I sat in the wet grass, wheezing and cradling my abdomen.  "Yeah.  Why?"

"Your face is a weird color."

It felt like my stomach was debating whether or not to give up my $30 French lunch.

"Can we keep it?" Oldest Child said.

"Ask Daddy."


"Mom!"

Middle Child came tearing up to the third floor. "A rat broke into the basement and mated Honey!"

I looked at the clock--6:30 a.m..

I squinted up at her. "Honey's a girl?"

"Honey's a mom!"

I rubbed my eyes and sat up. "Honey's a mom?"

"And they're gross. All pink and wiggly, like worms. Seven of 'em!"


I knelt on the cool, concrete floor. 

"Get me a tablespoon," I told my son.

A  minute later I felt the spoon's chill on my thigh.  I warmed it with my breath.  I opened the dog crate door and carefully scooped up the one lone pink ranger and relocated it on top of its siblings.  They were all snuggled in a pile, on a nest of silky soft, white bunny fur.

I turned to Oldest Child.  "Go upstairs and google 'raising baby rabbits,'" I said.  "See if it's okay to touch 'em."

Honey Bunny hunkered in the back of the crate.  I frowned.

"She's not keeping them warm.  Not nursing 'em or anything.  She isn't very good at this mommy thing."

"Maybe it's her first time," Middle Child said.

Oldest Child returned.  "A couple of websites say it's okay to touch them if the mother's tame."

I counted days on my fingers.  "We've had her eight days and she's never bit anyone.  That means she's tame, right?"

I reached in and stroked the baby I'd put on top of the pile.  I cooed.  It was  soft and warm, like the back of a child's neck.

The kids huddled around me. 

"That one's gonna have black spots," Middle Child said.  "And I bet that one's gonna be all white."

"Let's name 'em," my son said.  "The biggest one should be Goliath."

"And we'll call that tiny little guy, Gideon," I said.

"The one that keeps leaving the pack," Oldest Child said, "He's an adventurer.  Let's call him Indiana Jones.  Indy for short."

"We should call the one with black spots, Domino," Middle Child said.

It took us awhile to name the others.  One became Pogo a few weeks later when it learned how to leap into the air, way before the rest. 

"Name something that's all white," I said.

"Alaska," Oldest Child said.  "And Juno's the capital of Alaska.  Let's call that one Juno."

"But what about the smallest white one?"  Middle Child said.  "How do you say white in French, Mommy?"

"Je ne sais pas," I said.  "Bianca maybe?  Or is it Alba?"

"Bianca Alba," Middle Child said.  "She's my favorite.  She's little like me."


I went to the Exotic Jungle on account of Bianca Alba.

"Failure to thrive?" I said to the pre-vet salesgirl.  "Does that mean she's going to die?"

"Not necessarily," she said.  "Follow me."

She stopped in front of a display.  "I've raised tons of baby rabbits by hand," she said.  "You need kitten milk.  And one of these tiny bottles.  And some of this stuff." 

She handed me a package of three small metal tubes.  "In the wild, they'd eat their mom's scat to get the healthy organisms for their gut, but since she's not bonded with them, give 'em each a little squirt of this once a week."

We headed up to the cash register.  "She's not taking to them 'cause you touched them.  You shouldn't touch them while they're pink.  Gotta wait until they get their peach fuzz."

I whimpered.  "Aw man!  The web--"

She put her hand on my shoulder.  "Don't worry," she said.  "They'll be okay. I do this all the time."


A week into the baby bunny experience, I took matters into my own mommy hands.  I'd been spying on Honey.  Not once did I see her nurse those babies.  I even set my alarm clock for the middle of the night.  I snuck down to the basement and peeked into the crate.  No nursing. 

I pointed and hissed at Honey in the dark.  "Bad mommy!"

"The website says they usually only nurse between the hours of midnight and 5 a.m.," I told my husband the next morning.  "Sometimes only once in a 24 hour period.  Man!  Rabbits must have super mama milk.  Still, I haven't seen 'em--" 

My husband's eyes narrowed.

I tilted my head.  "What?"

"What are you up to?" he said.

"Nothing," I said.  That you need to know about. 


After school I called for the kids.  They followed me to the basement.

I pointed at them one by one.  "You, get a clean bath towel.  You, get Honey.  You, hold this strawberry basket while I get them and their fluff nest inside."

"What are we doing, Mom?" Oldest Child said.

"We're giving Honey lactation training."

I sat with my back against the dining room wall, the towel draped over my lap.

"Hand me Honey."

I stroked her and whispered gentle encouragement into her long, warm ears.

"It'll feel like a Shop Vac on your nipples at first, but don't worry.  You'll get used to it."

I flopped Honey on her back.  "Hand me two babies."

Each of the babies quickly located a teat.  They squirmed as they nursed, their back sides scooching left and right.  After ten minutes, the wiggling bodies relaxed.

"Switch!"

"They look like piranhas on her," my son said.  "Like the ones on the Discovery Channel.  Are they hurting her?"

"Naw!" I said.  "She's fine.  Nudge Bianca.  She's asleep on the breast.  She needs it most of all."

And that's how it went.  Twice a day, for weeks.  We bribed Honey with apples and carrots, and plantain leaves from the yard.  She ate non-stop while they nursed.  I reckon it was 'cause she was eating for eight.


The babies grew quickly.  In the beginning, my husband could hold all seven of them in his hands.  Not a week later.  At first, we couldn't see their poo at all.  Then it looked like a period at the end of a sentence.  Then it was as big as bee bees. 

When they were first born, their pink cotton swab ears seemed pinned to their heads.  Then later the ears got fuzzy and began to stand up.  Their fur was mostly white, like Honey's, but eventually, black and brown skin spots became black and brown fur. 

I loved to lay on the dining room floor when they were out.  They'd crawl all over me.  I called it Bunny Therapy.  I'd close my eyes and smile.    I never knew I wanted or needed bunnies, but thanks. 


Bianca Alba was still a concern.

"You have to stay with your brothers and sisters," I told her, as I held her an inch from my nose.  "They'll keep you warm."

I gave her extra nursings.  "Thrive, Baby Bianca.  Thrive."

I fed her kitten milk a couple times each day, putting the tiny dropper into her mouth and squeezing the rubber part.  I sighed as most of it ran down her chin and chest.

"Let's stay up with her tonight, Mommy," Middle Child said one afternoon. 

"To keep her warm and to feed her."

I nodded.  And to pray for her.  I had this bad feeling.

Middle Child lay on the love seat under her purple fuzzy blanket.  I sprawled on the sofa under a zebra-striped throw.  We took turns feeding Bianca and holding her on our chests.

"I'm giving you another name," I told Bianca at midnight.  "You're going to be Bianca Alba Lazarus 'cause Jesus is going to bring you back from death's door."

I wiped my eyes and sniffed.  'Cause I think that's where you're headed.

She was so wee.  She'd fit in a quarter cup measure.  Her fur wasn't sleek like the others'.  It was usually streaked with milk and sickliness.

"Another name, " I whispered to her at three in the morning as she lay like a comma between my breasts.  "You need another name.  Bianca Alba Lazarus Miracle.  That's your new name.  Please live, tiny angel bunny.  Please?"

And then my prayer became my grief, and my grief woke Middle Child.

She sat up suddenly, her eyes huge.  "Is she--?  Did she--?  Why are you--?" 

Middle Child's breath sounded wheezy.  She held the sides of her face.

"Oh no!  But I prayed!  Why didn't God--"

I stroked Bianca with my pinky.  "See how peaceful she looks?" I said.  "She's all better.  Not here.  But better."

I slept until daybreak with Bianca on my chest and Middle Child between my legs.  She'd cried herself to sleep there.

I got up from the couch and covered her.  I took Bianca into the basement and wrapped her in some Honey Bunny fluff and a scrap of fuschia silk.  She looked like a Valentine, for a dead person.  I tucked her into a jelly jar and screwed the lid on. 

"Rest in peace, my pee wee darling." 

I set the jelly jar on the washer and fished in the laundry pile for one of my husband's t-shirts.  I covered my face with it, blew my nose, and sobbed.


Later that day, we all wrote goodbye love notes to Bianca and slid them in the jar. 

That evening, my husband and son buried Bianca Alba Lazarus Miracle beneath the chestnut tree at the warehouse, with all our other beloved pets.

"What did you say when you buried her?" I asked my husband when he came home.

He put his arms around me and spoke into my hair. 

"I said, 'The Lord gave us eight bunnies, and the Lord took away one.  Blessed be the name of the Lord."

I nodded and spoke with a stuffed up nose.  "That's good.  That's real good."

I DIDN'T KNOW ..........

I didn't know:

-I wanted/liked/loved kids 'til I had 'em.
-I wanted/liked rabbits 'til we rescued one and she had 7.
-I didn't really like working (a "real job") 'til I decided to be
the one that saw my baby(ies)' first steps.
-being a Christ follower would be fun, cool, exciting 'til
I said, "Pick me please" and He said, "I already did like,
a lonnnnngggg time ago."
-I loved to play softball 'til I had to play so my husband's
co-ed team wouldn't have to forfeit a game.
-I loved to dance 'til I discovered Zumba.
-I loved being on stage 'til I became a storyteller.
-My favorite color 'til I got "shrunk."
-Doctors couldn't fix everything 'til 10 years ago.
-Meek and humble weren't "bad words" 'til I tried 'em.

What don't you know?