Lungs Full of Noise

Beanstalk

5 2 Beanstalk Lucy’s baby is born green, face splotched with yellow like variegated leaves, hair wispy white, corncob silk. All across his body, tiny buds are sleeping. On his arms, a dusting of moss. Veins spider from his chin to his temples and ears. Only his feet are the color of flesh, but not in that pink baby-soft way, more sallow like roots. A philodendron baby. A baby verdant and lush with chlorophyll stirring inside his skin. After hours of labor, Lucy sees him only a moment while a nurse suctions his mouth and nose. She reaches out and touches his cheek, cool and glossy, the texture of wax. Philip stands by the bed, bewildered. The word green whispers its way around the room. Eyebrows rise and fall. Foreheads furrow. Then the baby is taken for tests. A nurse stays behind to tend to Lucy. She presses her stomach, kneading it back to its pre-pregnancy shape. “Is he okay?” Lucy asks. “Why did they take him away?” “They’re just running some checks,” she says. Philip hovers, a skittish squirrel, watching the nurse’s movements . Sweat lifts from his forehead like condensation and trickles down his chin. “According to Gallup’s Health and Healthcare Poll,” he says, “birth defects occur in one in thirty-three babies, around 3 percent per year.” “He’s not defective,” Lucy says. “Of course not,” the nurse answers. “He wanted to be a green baby. So that’s what he is.” “What does that mean?” Philip asks. The nurse touches Lucy’s knee. “Sit tight,” she says. “The doctor will be in to confer.” Then she disappears into the hall. “I didn’t mean he was defective,” Philip says. “I meant defects are rare. I meant he’s probably fine.” Lucy doesn’t answer. She turns on her side and strokes her swollen stomach. Philip paces, his loafers stretched so wide the stitching has popped along the sides. His monogrammed shirt has come untucked. His glasses are askew on his nose. He keeps his eyes on the floor until he sees the doctor’s shoes. Doctor Peters comes in with a clipboard. “What do you know?” he says. “A green baby. That’s a first. We get blue babies all the time. Dime a dozen, those. Of course, they clear up once they get some air. But your guy is sticking with this green business. Stubborn . Must get that from his pops.” He gives Philip a robust slap on the shoulder. Philip jumps. “He doesn’t need oxygen, then,” Lucy says. “Nah, his breathing’s fine. Vitals stable. Nothing serious.” “Except he’s green,” Philip reminds him. “Oh, yes,” the doctor says. “He certainly is that. Best we can tell it’s some kind of algae. Probably from your water pipes. You drink water?” Lucy nods. “Well, there you go. Keep tap water away from the baby. No B e a n s t a l k 53 breast-feeding. You’ve probably got algae still in your system. Get bottled water. Feed the baby formula. We’ll give you some sample packs.” “It’s okay that he’s green?” Philip asks. “We can’t say it’s okay,” the doctor says. “We really don’t know. The green should go away on its own, but we can’t be sure. Either way, tomorrow you can take him home.” “That’s it?” Lucy says. “I’ll send in a nurse for a crash course in newborn care. The staff will help through the night. Doctor Briggs will check the baby tomorrow. If he’s good, you can go.” He gives Philip a vigorous handshake, winks at Lucy, and disappears into the hall. Then the nurse is back with the baby. She places him on the bare skin of Lucy’s chest. “It helps with the bonding,” she says. “Babies like to feel skin.” The baby wraps his fingers around Lucy’s silvery hair. He yawns, and his tongue, small and green like a lizard’s, darts out of his mouth. He smells wild and sweet like rain-soaked soil. His silky white hair coils into delicate springs. On his forehead, a bud has started to swell. He smiles at his mother. He is beautiful, she thinks, like no one has ever thought to be beautiful before. And even if it means he’s defective, Lucy is glad he’s green. The nurse sweeps a tendril away from the baby’s face...