Hershey’s Kiss

by Ari Kuplu

The baby is the size of a Hershey’s Kiss.

The small but earth-shattering detail repeats in her mind as she boards the train and finds a seat. She leans back into the worn and dirty faux leather chairs of the Metro North, her knees curling against the row in front of her as she presses her hands flat against her abdomen.

The conductor’s voice rings through the train, muffled over the sound of shuffling steps, squelching shoes, and the intermingling smell of rain and coffee. The conversation she had with Pete two nights ago replays in her mind, tuning out the sound of whispered murmurings and the screech of the train’s steel rails against the tracks.

How irritating the dial tone was against her ear.

How he answered the phone, sounding impatient, already trying to get rid of her.

How she stared at the two pink lines lying stark against the dark laminate of her bathroom counter.

I’m pregnant.

Unable to say the words aloud, instead wishing he could read her mind.

Even as she sat with her knees tucked into herself on the train days later, she could still feel the palpable silence and how her fingers twisted, clammy, in her lap. Her slimy silent cowardice when he guessed correctly.

And for some reason, she couldn’t stop herself from saying, it’s the size of a Hershey’s Kiss.

Couldn’t stop her heart from breaking when he said, Oh god, Hope. You’re going to get rid of it, aren’t you? Don’t tell me you’re thinking of keeping it?

As if the solution was so simple that she didn’t even need to think about it. Shocked by any alternative.

She tried to block out the ache of knowing he didn’t want this Hershey’s Kiss, that he wasn’t ready to be a father. That his financial stability and new apartment were at the forefront of his mind, threatened to be ruined because of something so small. Something small enough he could crush it in his hands.

One month, they had only been seeing each other for one month. She couldn’t blame him, but it hurt. It hurt that he didn’t think about what she wanted even though she would be the one going to the doctor, her body the one poked and prodded, her life upended completely.

He could demand and walk away with no repercussions.

What stung the most was that he didn’t think about her at all in those moments, didn’t think about what she needed to hear when she told him about that Hershey’s Kiss.

He only thought about what he needed and what he didn’t want to do.

And he never said what she needed to hear most: no matter what, I’ll be there.

That he would be there to hold her hand. That it would all be okay.

She blinks at the lush greenery as the train rushes past the Connecticut countryside and bites her lip, trying to focus on the trees outside of the window. Trying to keep the warmth in her eyes from spreading further. She tucks her knees even deeper into herself, hoping to keep the budding nausea at bay.

The train rattles as it gains speed, jostling her like the rare earthquakes they would get in Chicago every once in a while. The earth would tremble beneath them, angered and irritated.

There was one when she was about eight; Faith was only nine, and John was six. Their mother urged them into the bathtub as if it were all a grand game.

Their mother could always make everything fun. Magical.

They spent the rest of the afternoon glued to the tub as mom told them stories of how she met their dad and how each of them was born. How dad was in a rock band and Faith was born when mom was nineteen. She remembered thinking mom had been so old at nineteen, such an adult to have gotten pregnant and started a family. Not realizing then how young that truly was. She was twenty-six now, and still felt like a child.

But it had worked out for her parents. They got married, had two more children.

Maybe it could work out like that for her.

The most vivid memory she had of that afternoon was when the shaking and rumbling scared John, their mother told them that those were the Earth’s birthing pangs, and an earthquake just meant something new was born into the world. Like out of fear and tremors, something beautiful could sprout.

She wondered back then, what had emerged during that earthquake when they all sat together in that bathtub. In retrospect, maybe it was those blissful memories of childhood before everything was snatched away from them.

The train stops at its first stop and as people enter, the smell of a sausage, egg, and cheese sandwich sends a wave of queasiness through her. She hasn’t been able to stomach the scent of meat for days. She had to run to the bathroom to throw up at work yesterday because of a coworker’s pulled pork lunch.

Her phone buzzes in her purse and she pulls it out to find a text from Pete, that reads:

I’m sorry for the other day. The more I think about it, the more like my dad I am and that’s exactly who I don’t want to be. I’m embarrassed by how I’ve acted towards you and I will try to be better. I owe it to you and our future together. I know actions speak louder than words so I will be better. I’m sorry.

And then another one: I know that’s a lot but I feel like I had to put it out there.

A pressure eases in her chest, but a small remnant remains.

The baby is the size of a Hershey’s Kiss.

She still doesn’t know if he wants that Hershey’s Kiss; he doesn’t tell her that if she keeps it, they can be a family.

She can picture the bliss that might wait for her if she lets this bundle of cells grow. Images come to her in flashes, as if she could picture and hold their lives in the palm of her hands.

Her womb growing large and taut, and under her hands, she can feel the rhythmic and steady thumping of a baby’s heartbeat, the short burst of a baby’s kick.

She can see the blooming pregnancy, her waddle around the office, ignoring what everyone whispers about how much of a mess she is because she’s too young, unmarried, and this was all just too unplanned. She wouldn’t care about the bitch at work or her narcissistic boss’ rampages. The stress fades because she has a new priority. Because she’s too elated and too full of life that she will soon bring to the world. Her own earthquake, her own birthing pangs.

Maybe she and Pete would get married in a few years and she can envision a child, with chubby legs, still learning to walk, walking toward her two proud parents. Baby hands and uncoordinated fingers throw crumpled flower petals on the ground with childlike enthusiasm as everyone around her coos and laughs with joy.

And her heart yearns for it, aches for it. Something she’s wanted for as long as she can remember, playing with dolls and imagining when she would be able to have a child of her own.

Her palms still lay flat against her stomach, and she swears she feels the faint thumping of a heartbeat. If it was a girl, she would be growing the eggs of her own grandchildren. So connected, all of us women. Grandmothers, mothers, daughters, and granddaughters. An ever-connected web of eggs and lives and heartbeats and pulses.

The train stops again, and a woman enters. In one hand, she’s holding a briefcase and a wet umbrella that shakes water droplets in its wake with each step. In the other hand, she holds a coffee cup while her shoulder precariously balances a cell phone as she talks angrily. How she can’t come back from work early, how she’s paying an arm and a leg for daycare, how she’ll be by to pick up her children at the usual time. With a few more steps and water dribbles, the woman is out of earshot.

But it’s with those words that an undercurrent of fear breaks through those bright, exciting hopes. A fear that grips her with each moment that those mitotic divisions continue.

If she keeps it, she would only have seven or eight months to get everything together. To switch her antipsychotics, to save enough money to buy a crib, to figure out what she and Pete were even doing.

Endless sleepless nights float on the periphery of her vision. Raw nipples and a screaming infant while she struggles alone, with no support system to lean on. And would it be fair to bring this baby into a world where she has no support? Would it be fair to bring this Hershey’s Kiss into the world if both parents aren’t sure?

She can see the years of financial struggle, her precipitous mental health. A decimated career as she tries to navigate the struggles of single motherhood.

And then she thinks of her own mother.

She thinks about how it’s been two years since she hugged her, two years since her mother took her last breath.

Two years since she thought she’d never stop crying, when the world showed her people expected you to suck it up and grieve in silence. When she knew no one would understand that she had a roof over her head but she didn’t have a home anymore.

On the first anniversary of her mother’s death, her best friend came over with a candle with Hebrew writing on it that she got from the grocery store. Leo called it a yahrzeit candle and said it’s used to memorialize the dead in Judaism.

She liked the thought of her mother being a flame. Burning bright, watching over her, a beacon of warmth as she sat staring at a rainy summer afternoon through the foggy train windows.

Her mother’s yahrzeit candle was still burning on the second anniversary of her death when she saw those two pink lines lying stark against her bathroom counter on a hot August afternoon.

And it was a bright hope, this Hershey’s Kiss, because maybe she didn’t need to be so untethered in this world.

She tries to remember what her life was like before everything went to shit, before the wheelchair and the MS took over their lives. Before her dad started drinking and her brother went to rehab.

When her mom would tell them stories in the bathtub, make home videos, throw birthday parties, and make their life feel like what she always thought magic would be. When her memories felt like blissful sunshine and glitter and the house smelled like cupcakes and rainbows.

Not the doctors appointments or hospice, but the magic that was Gloria Denise.

That’s the mother she chooses to remember.

That’s the mother that she wants to be.

The baby is the size of a Hershey’s Kiss, and it might melt in her hands in the summer heat.

The train stops and she gets up, grabbing her purse to walk onto the rainy platform.

Leo promised to meet her at the train station today, to take her to the abortion clinic. She didn’t want to keep the appointment, but she did because she’s only known for 48 hours and she should keep her options open. Leo tells her that how she feels about it all will change day by day, hour by hour.

She tells her no matter what happens, it’ll be okay.

It’s all going to be okay.

But she’s already been throwing up. The bonds of motherhood already taking root in her.

Already making jokes about how this tiny Hershey’s Kiss is destructive, just like her mother.

Already imagining how she’ll share the glitter and rainbows and magic her mother gave her.

Her baby is the size of a Hershey’s Kiss. She walks to the opposite platform, her head bowed against the rain, to catch the train that heads back home.