Push

At first, don't tell a soul, keep it secret. Go somewhere and tell yourself, if you must tell anyone at all. Whisper it into your mirror. Scream it into your pillow. Just make sure that your sister isn't peeling potatoes in the kitchen, or that her husband isn't downstairs in the basement, playing cards with Mindaugas the plummer.

When you take a bath, think of that poster of Ophelia you saw in your ESL class. Pretend there are leaves floating around you, let your hair skim the water's surface. Listen to the rhythm of the droplets from the spigot. Take one finger and run it along your body from top to bottom: skin, nails, teeth, hair. You feel it in your breasts the most. They are tingling and hot and heavy in the water. The rest of you feels unchanged, and yet, it is inside of you, the life. Sing lullabies in your native tongue, hope that no one hears.

When you turn out the light at night think about how it feels in the dark. Surround yourself with pillows: the fluffy ones that you brought from home that have lots of give. Curl up under the blankets into a ball, knees to chest, and listen to the rumble of the buses on the avenue. Count the seconds. Count the months, forward and backward. Turn from one side to the other. Whatever you do, don't lie on your stomach, and don't lie on your back.

In the morning, you will call your mother in Kaunas. It will be noon on her end and she will answer the phone with a huff, breathless from washing the floor on her hands and knees. She will be listening to the Pope's weekly radio address and thinking of you. Don't be afraid of her anger, it won't last, for you will be giving her an American grandchild. She will tell you, in an authoritative voice, to avoid loud music and nylon hose. And to stop eating fish. And to stop riding in your boyfriend's jeep. And to never, never hold your hands above your head or pick up a cat. Wait to cut your hair. On stormy days, you will need to pin a set of keys at your waist, and if you ever crave something, you shouldn't touch your face before you get what you crave. Every morning don't forget to drink a teaspoon of vinegar and honey. And don't get too angry, or too sad. She will tell you all of this in English, and you will respond taip, taip like you always do.

When you hang up the phone with her you will bend down to put on your sneakers and you will feel a surge of heat within you. You are queasy with knowledge and life.

Before work, you walk to Walgreen's and buy a pair of rubber gloves and a mask. You plan to wear them that day, except when Patti, the woman you work for, walks through the room. Then you will quickly turn away and throw the gloves and mask into the soap-water in the bucket next to you.

You always clean the house top to bottom, starting with the upstairs bathroom first. Today, when you carry your supplies up the stairs you go slowly, because when you move too fast the muscles inside your abdomen curl up and cramp. The floorboards in this house creak when you walk down the hall. Wood expands in the humidity, you know this from your father, who had been a builder before independence and before rheumatism turned his hands into useless claws. You think of him now as you walk along these noisy floors, carrying your vacuum, your pail and sponges in one hand and your mop in the other. You remember him how he was when you were a child, when he used to come home from work and kiss your mother the way lovers did in the movies. You and your sister would stand in the doorframe and pretend like you had hand-held movie cameras...