{"id":2805,"date":"2015-05-01T01:21:38","date_gmt":"2015-05-01T01:21:38","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/shortstories\/?p=2805"},"modified":"2015-05-01T01:21:38","modified_gmt":"2015-05-01T01:21:38","slug":"the-delivery-by-loretta-martin","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/shortstories\/the-delivery-by-loretta-martin\/","title":{"rendered":"The Delivery by Loretta Martin"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"Leaving<\/a>
Leaving by Sky Black<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

The Delivery<\/h1>\n

by Loretta Martin<\/p>\n

\u201cA boy–good job, Mom!\u201d<\/p>\n

My doctor\u2019s baritone penetrates the delivery room\u2019s soundscape: sighing vacuum pumps, a chorus of medspeak, beeping monitors, all punctuated by surgical tools slapping hard surfaces and latexed palms. Covered in a cheese-like wetness, his indignant shrieks bouncing off apple-green walls, my son finally is more than an ultrasonic heartbeat.
\n—<\/p>\n

Those memories dissolve when Kevin enters, his eyes those of someone much older than 40. He slouches as if his loose clothes weigh too much. Missing teeth detract from an uncertain smile when he says, \u201cHey, Mom. Wow. Nineteen years.\u201d<\/p>\n

His voice belongs to a longtime smoker. I don\u2019t mention my creased, yellowed wallet photos of a smiling 12-year-old boy wearing new braces.
\n—<\/p>\n

After Kevin\u2019s first drug arrest at age 16, I stopped blaming my absentmindedness for cash and small items that mysteriously disappeared from our home. He had a MENSA-grade IQ yet barely finished high school. Between sporadic low-paying labor jobs he disappeared for weeks, returning hungry, unkempt, refusing to answer questions. After his 21st birthday I threw Kevin out, changed locks, and grieved when I learned he left town.
\n—<\/p>\n

Fluorescent lighting gives the plastic table and two chairs\u2014the only furniture in the windowless room\u2014a defeated look. At first we\u2019re like adolescents on a first date until, with surprising pressure, Kevin locks a calloused hand around mine. His letter discouraged trying to fill a 19-year void, so we alternate between saying nothing and sharing random memories: the puppy he demanded then forgot to feed; stick-shift driving lessons; summer camps; calls from school to pick up a sick child. He admits faking illnesses for what he called Mom\u2019s miracle cure: TV cartoons, soup and crackers in bed. When our time\u2019s up, my arthritic hand aches. An embrace is too risky.
\n—<\/p>\n

Some institutions use one-way mirrors so the condemned can\u2019t see witnesses. Others have closed-circuit TVs in remote observation rooms. True to our briefing, a wall with a picture window divides this area into witness room and soundproof execution chamber. Kevin lies strapped to a gurney, his head turned toward me, an IV in each arm. The warden stands by him facing an out-of-view alcove where, I read, a \u201cdeath team\u201d waits.<\/p>\n

Nine of us have been escorted to a row of seats separated by an aisle. Three guards are present, talk is prohibited. The parents of Kevin\u2019s murdered girlfriend, four state officials, and two reporters sit on one side. I sit across the aisle, noticing the chipped, vomit-green wall paint. A wall clock ticks loudly in the heavy silence.
\nWhen the warden extends a microphone offering him the chance for a statement, Kevin shakes his head no, still looking toward me. Did I imagine he mouthed \u201cI\u2019m sorry, Mom. I love you\u201d?<\/p>\n

Exactly one minute later the warden nods, authorizing the first of three injections. A mega dose of Pentothal is an anesthetic. Pavulon, intended to paralyze his lungs, follows. Potassium chloride causes my son\u2019s heartbeat to wind down.<\/p>\n

###<\/p>\n

Loretta Martin lives near Chicago with her artist husband Phil. She has published lifestyle articles in print and online. This is her first published work of fiction.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\u201cA boy–good job, Mom!\u201d<\/p>\n

My doctor\u2019s baritone penetrates the delivery room\u2019s soundscape: sighing vacuum pumps, a chorus of medspeak, beeping monitors, all punctuated by<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_bbp_topic_count":0,"_bbp_reply_count":0,"_bbp_total_topic_count":0,"_bbp_total_reply_count":0,"_bbp_voice_count":0,"_bbp_anonymous_reply_count":0,"_bbp_topic_count_hidden":0,"_bbp_reply_count_hidden":0,"_bbp_forum_subforum_count":0,"om_disable_all_campaigns":false,"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_uf_show_specific_survey":0,"_uf_disable_surveys":false,"footnotes":"","_links_to":"","_links_to_target":""},"categories":[273],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-2805","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-short-short"],"aioseo_notices":[],"aioseo_head":"\n\t\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t