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<\/h1>\n<\/h1>\nby\u00a0Bernadine Lortis<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cHere, give her to me. I\u2019ll take her.\u201d<\/p>\n
A nurse snatches my baby at the threshold as though I\u2019m a delivering a bundle of laundry. Her statement, brusque, devoid of emotion, and her manner, business-like. This woman is obviously in charge.<\/p>\n
\u201cHer name?\u201d She quizzes but doesn\u2019t look up. \u201cHer name, Mrs. Bloom?\u201d she barks.<\/p>\n
\u201cE-liz-a-beth.\u201d My voice has a hard time finding a range. Each quiet syllable hits a different tinny note.<\/p>\n
I watch competent fingers turn back the hood of her pink quilted snowsuit. It covers dark mahogany curls that cling to her scalp in wet ringlets like swirls on designer hand-dipped chocolate, unique to her. \u201cShe\u2019s beautiful!\u201d the nurse voices surprise. \u201cYou call her_____?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat?\u201d I\u2019m baffled. \u201cWhat do you mean?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSome have, well,\u201d she hesitates, \u201csomething, some sound or other that they might respond to.\u201d<\/p>\n
Elizabeth does have nicknames, terms of endearment\u2014\u201cLittle Bit\u2019, we call her sometimes, for Lizabeth, but I can\u2019t tell this person. It is a private thing; we have so little that is just our own. I can\u2019t share everything today.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
The year is 1968. I have just struggled across the parking lot into this ranch-style, long, red-brick building I\u2019d visited only once before. Acrid, burning leaves singed my nostrils while overhead flocks of geese honked, soaring south in formation, confident of their way. The sun was shining, a sharp betrayal of what was happening, but it threw my shadow across the asphalt blacktop and gave me something to follow to get to the porch steps. Arms weighted down, I knew could not free a hand to ring the bell but suddenly as I approached, the door swung open and there stood this woman, waiting to relieve me of my most cherished possession.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Now Elizabeth starts to whimper. I rescue her from the starched, white uniform and\u00a0\u00a0 immediately the crying stops as she settles into the curve between my neck and shoulder where she has nestled every day for the past four years\u2014many days, most days, the entire twenty-four hours. The nurse stands by, an indulgent smile on her face, her body firmly planted, blocking my way to the lobby. Does she must expect me to just hand Elizabeth over and leave?<\/p>\n
Beyond her\u2014slender Danish modern furniture upholstered in a plastic-coated fabric\u00a0 of large orange and gold poppies that overlap haphazardly and two narrow lamp shades stretching yard-stick tall from bleached end tables. At the windows, floor-to-ceiling draperies drawn back into pleated Ionic columns, the color of sand. Everything seems out of proportion, a bland elongated Modigliani scene that tips sideways.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019ll take off her snowsuit,\u201d I say. \u201cCan\u2019t you show me her room?\u201d<\/p>\n
Reluctantly she picks up my dropped suitcase. We move down a short, dim-lit hallway, passing doorways through which sunlight leaks. Everything is antiseptic-clean, smelling overwhelmingly like chlorine of an indoor swimming pool. I hear murmurings, whimperings, soft, muffled bawling like sounds of newborn calves. The nurse stops at the last room, stands aside the door and waits for me to pass. She points to an empty bed, the last in a row of three identical small hospital cribs. The children are down for naps, she tells me. Naps? Naps, and it is only nine in the morning? What time must they wake all these children to be fed and bathed and ready for naps this early?<\/p>\n
I carry Elizabeth past the occupied cribs without so much as a glance. I can\u2019t make myself face these members of her new family. My God, I think, she doesn\u2019t belong here. Here, where she\u2019ll first be a number, get a label, enter an \u2018other\u2019 population, lose her identity. What in the world am I doing?<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Last fall, on a fundraising committee for parents of newly diagnosed children with cerebral palsy, I designed a card, a black and white etching of a little girl in a wheelchair parked under the protective canopy of willow tree branches. Wind played with strands of her hair, whispering words I lifted from Desiderata. \u2018You are a child of the Universe\u2019<\/em>, I quoted, \u2018no less than the stars and the trees. You have a right to be here.\u2019<\/em>\u00a0 Here in this world, my world, I meant, not here. What are we doing here?<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cShe\u2019ll have the best spot, dear\u201d the nurse says, \u201calways nice and sunny by the window.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBut is it warm here? Will she stay warm?\u201d It feels drafty though the temperature outside is unseasonably mild for November. \u201cPlease, she must stay warm. Promise me\u2026.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cShe\u2019ll be fine, just fine.\u201d She pats my arm. Her touch is like wind-chill, magnifying the cold drilling through me. I could crush every bone in her polished hand.<\/p>\n I hold Elizabeth tighter, her thin body squirming close inside my coat collar. I want to run, escape with my child to a place where just the two of us can live out our lives. However long that will be, it doesn\u2019t matter. Nothing matters except that we stay together. That\u2019s all I have ever asked\u2014in the beginning in my prayers, now in silent rages and threats and bribes and demands against Whoever or Whatever. I should crash through these windows, leave shattered glass and ripped clothing, hunks of skin and dripping blood in my wake, at the very least. Tangible evidence that puts physical shape to my protest, something to prove this surrender comes not simply by signing some form.<\/p>\n But I remain. My shoes are glued to the floor, unable, unwilling, to fly. I understand; I do. This is a show of resolution not treason. These sturdy oxfords have kept me grounded these three long years while I\u2019ve fought this decision, hauling me from one end of the state to another, they trekked to small private group homes and huge state institutions while I pretended to look for the best home in which to place Elizabeth, all the while having no intention of ever doing what I\u2019m about to do. I was aghast at the very thought! What kind of species could forsake their offspring I asked myself as I traveled to see places explicitly built for this abandonment. Now these tough, well-worn soles hold me steadfast, acknowledging that today, finally, I must succumb.\u00a0 But they will continue to stand by me, to keep me upright, restraining yet offering support to the very end.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Elizabeth had arrived over two months earlier than my obstetrician expected. I was celebrating the Fourth of July at my in-law\u2019s lake cabin, a hundred miles from home, and when she followed<\/p>\n her stillborn identical twin into the delivery room of a strange hospital, no one was prepared for yet a second baby. There was no oxygen ready, no special lights, no equipment. The world did not applaud her debut.<\/p>\n When they brought her to me, swaddled tightly in a blue-striped, flannel wrapper, I nearly tossed her in the air. Light as eiderdown, this fragile, bird-like creature, her head smaller than the smallest orange, I looked at her and whispered\u2014as this nurse has just observed\u2014she\u2019s beautiful<\/em>. But I wasn\u2019t surprised; I was in awe. Overcome with the fierce, almost savage, rush that came bursting through my chest, I had read about Nature establishing bonds, yet this frightened me on a level so profound, so overpowering, I lost my breath. Tiny fingers clenched my heart, gripping like tendrils of an ever-blooming vine, and I was captured.<\/p>\n She could not suck, so I used an eye dropper to give her liquids. She couldn\u2019t chew, so I chewed her food and fed her from my mouth like mama birds do for their babies. She couldn\u2019t sleep, so I walked and rocked her. She cried and cried. But when, at our monthly appointments, I asked her pediatrician what could be wrong, he assured me, \u201cShe was early and she was a twin; you have to let her catch up.\u201d\u00a0 So we bided our time. But when she was nearly nine months and still couldn\u2019t bear weight, couldn\u2019t hold onto objects, showed no interest in toys, we started a round of second opinions.<\/p>\n \u201cFind a place for her, she won\u2019t know the difference,\u201d they\u2014the specialists\u2014said on her first birthday, \u201cbesides, we estimate her life span to be only five years.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThen why would we place her,\u201d I asked them. \u201cSurely we can care for her that long.\u201d<\/p>\n So what did her father, my husband, do? He left. Permanently. \u00a0His world view held a far different meaning of love than the one we would live in. We couldn\u2019t fit into his life and he wouldn\u2019t fit into ours.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n On her second birthday, experts wondered if I had found a home for her.<\/p>\n \u201cShe has a home,\u201d I screamed at them\u2026and quickly changed doctors.<\/p>\n She spent her third birthday in the hospital, hooked up to a tangle of tubes, needles and monitors. Forbidden to lift her, I could only touch. But I could croon to her, smooth her covers, rub her skin, and I wouldn\u2019t leave her bedside. More evaluations followed: Projected mentality<\/em>: <\/em>six months; life expectancy<\/em>:<\/em> increased from five years to twelve; recommendation<\/em>: <\/em>immediate placement.<\/em> For whom, the hospital staff had asked among themselves and to my sister\u2014the child, or this wild woman we can\u2019t get rid of, who can\u2019t sleep and won\u2019t eat, who hasn\u2019t shampooed or changed clothes for days?<\/p>\n Strange, I could accept their diagnosis, even their prognosis, without argument. Only their conclusion\u2014that I would not be able to care for her, that one person could not continue providing round-the-clock care, that it was becoming increasingly apparent that I was unable to care for myself\u2014this, I could not reconcile.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cMrs. Bloom, Mrs. Bloom.\u201d The stern nurse is repeating my name. \u201cLet me help. She must be getting heavy for you.\u201d<\/p>\n Though Elizabeth weighs only twenty-two pounds, I have too little strength to hold her if I stand too long, but I refuse assistance and lay her on the blanketed mattress of her future bed. Zipper teeth, crisscrossing from left collarbone to right toe, slowly give way as snowsuit flaps open like pale pink petals, releasing her fragrance. By now her whole body is sweating and drops of moisture, like sprinkled dewdrops, gather on her forehead. I want to kiss her, all over her perfect little body, as I had on the day she was born. I feel dizzy and lurch forward, grabbing onto cold steel bedrails, the thin jail bars that will confine her.<\/p>\n For the moment, Elizabeth lays content in the sunlight, listening carefully as she always does. Her hearing is acute causing her muscles to jump when someone flicks a light switch. The slightest noise awakens her. Her pediatrician had first diagnosed it as startle reflex, saying it \u00a0should disappear at about six months.<\/p>\n \u201cHer clothing?\u201d I ask, \u201cWhere does it go? I\u2019ll put it away.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThere\u2019s no need for you to do that. That\u2019s what the aides get paid for.\u201d<\/p>\n But I want to do it, it is important that I do it, I must. Stubbornly, my eyes search for a chest, a closet, some place for storage. Where? My face questions her.<\/p>\n \u201cThe bottom one should be empty.\u201d She motions with impatient hands to the doorway where three built-in drawers climb steadily up from the floor behind the door.<\/p>\n I make sure the clasps on the suitcase make no sound when they snap back as I begin unpacking her one-piece coveralls. Pastel aqua, yellow, white, and pink\u2014these are velvety, stretch terry suits and plush knits usually reserved for newborn layettes or sleepers. By four years, most children would have graduated to sturdy overalls and play clothing. This passing thought shames me completely. Of course, most four year olds would have turned over by now, too, would be sitting up, would have progressed from crawling to standing to walking to running to climbing, would be talking, feeding themselves and….<\/p>\n Yes, yes, I know all that\u2014and I don\u2019t care. I don\u2019t care what others can do. I only care that these things will keep me from caring for her. It seems so unfair, that I haven\u2019t been able to strike this most fundamental bargain. Not a healthy child, one others call \u2018normal\u2019; no, I would have no other, but that extra bit of time, just a little, only enough to care for this beloved child. Time, that\u2019s all I asked for, all I wanted.<\/p>\n Somehow I can\u2019t get the right leverage\u2026either the bottom drawer is stuck or I am too weak to pull it open. \u201cWell, honestly! Try the middle one then,\u201d says the nurse. Inside are other tiny tops and bottoms\u2014undershirts with tie-cord sashes, plastic panties, an eyelet sunbonnet. I push them aside and stack Elizabeth\u2019s suits into neat piles, color by color, as if displayed on a store shelf. It seems a monumental job.<\/p>\n I bring the other articles\u2014merely a handful, but peculiarly heavy to me\u2014across the room and present them to the nurse. \u201cOh, I\u2019m sorry,\u201d she says, stammering, for an instant losing her professional composure. \u201cI-am-so-<\/em>sorry. They belonged to Annie. That drawer should have been cleared out when she ….\u201d<\/p>\n Elizabeth begins to fuss. Our four hands reach toward her.<\/p>\n \u201cMrs. Bloom,\u201d she says, positioning her body between mine and the crib, \u201cyou\u2019re just going to have to get used to, I mean, she\u2019s just going to have to get used….\u201d<\/p>\n I dart around her and dare her to stop me as I pick up Elizabeth. We leave her there in the sunlight, holding onto the dead little girl\u2019s clothing. We walk the halls together, my precious daughter and I. If I can just keep moving, I think, if I can just keep on moving, I\u2019ll buy a few moments, I won\u2019t have to leave her, this nightmare won\u2019t really come true.<\/p>\n All my tears, all the tears in the world, have already been shed. Over the past few years, whenever they have been replenished, sometimes by nothing more than a sympathetic word, a compassionate nod, I use them up immediately\u2014days and nights of sobbing\u2014until I\u2019m once again bereft. I had no sense of frugality where tears are concerned. But there is no reason for more; they do no good. I\u2019m dry and crumbling as the leaves piling up on pathways outside. Rain, like tears, cannot revive at this season\u2019s stage.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n There was a day not long ago when, once again, I used up my quota. We were visiting Elizabeth\u2019s grandmother and aunts. I had just returned from the bathroom and overheard them as I approached the kitchen where the four had gathered. They were discussing the \u2018Why\u2019 of Elizabeth and children like her who do not develop \u2018normally\u2019.<\/p>\n \u201cThey\u2019re put here for a reason,\u201d a sensible aunt was speaking, \u201cthat\u2019s for sure.\u201d<\/p>\n Another one cuddled Elizabeth in rounded arms, swaying to and fro. \u201cThey\u2019re special, gifts from God, these darlings,\u201d she said, \u201cbut reasons? We will never know.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI think they are put here to teach us a lesson,\u201d a third said, \u201cwhat\u2019s really important. I think it\u2019s to show us what real love is.\u201d They all seemed to agree with one another: \u201cGod\u2019s little angels.\u201d<\/p>\n I could listen no longer. Completely disregarding how supportive they had been, how unconditionally they had accepted us, how beholden I was to them for all they had done, I stormed into the room and attacked like a cornered animal, eyes blazing, face contorted.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat kind of God could do this to my child?\u201d I shrieked. \u201cIf there is a God at work here, He already took one baby. Shouldn\u2019t one be enough? Tell me, what kind of God would do this\u2014just so you could learn a lesson? You can keep Him.\u201d I seized my baby from those kind, warm arms and fled, wailing, both my baby and I wailing, retreating from the hurt in their eyes. We nearly fell down the steps in my haste to get away and from the immediate humiliation that overcame me.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Now, as then, Elizabeth senses distress and won\u2019t be comforted. I hush her with soft lullabies until she is quieted, until our heart beats synchronize. A lone rocker sits at the end of the<\/p>\n hallway, a blue shawl protecting its arm. We make it there, collapsing into the seat, and fade into the soothing motion, back and forth, back and forth, in a rhythm familiar to us as our breathing.<\/p>\n And I go back to another time in my rocking, about two years earlier. Toward evening on a hot,<\/p>\n humid spring day, because the tail of a tornado had been observed on an adjacent lake, we were under a severe tornado warning. \u201cTake shelter,\u201d the radio announcer advised, \u201cgo to the basement, secure yourself in a central hallway or under a heavy object\u2014this is urgent; we are in eminent danger.\u201d<\/p>\n Slowly, slowly, I rocked Elizabeth and waited. Looking out the window at the greenish, blackening sky that descended over the landscape like a huge plastic lawn bag, trapping air in its eerie stillness, remnants of molding leaves stuck in its crevices. Waited calmly for what I believed might be our rightful end. I had long ago given up on a merciful God, a God of love and compassion, but this could be our answer, this Goddess of destruction, Kali, could be our last resort. Carried away, embracing in the whirling devastation, we would become a part of the larger universe, become again an integral part of nature. Perfect timing.<\/p>\n On a nearby table, a heavy stem of glass grapes swayed atop a copper compote, glistening purplish-red and flawless in the lamplight. When the lights went out and the terrible sound of a locomotive whooshed through, a feeling of peace and serenity enveloped me. I tucked Elizabeth into the crook of my arm and sat on the edge of our seat ready for lift-off. The house shook, windows rattled for an instant, the grapes exploded around my feet, nicking my ankles and legs\u2014and that was that. It had left us behind.<\/p>\n Holding Elizabeth to my breast, I walked to the kitchen for a broom, swept up the small broken globules and decided I would have to put my faith in something far less dramatic. Real grapes that bled juice and didn\u2019t drop until harvest when we could magically dance again,<\/p>\n mashing them in splendid stupor at festivals with witch doctors in attendance, consultations with healing shamans. Oh, think of the options we had back then.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Faraway, I hear unfamiliar voices. I must be dreaming but, if so, I want a different dream\u2014one filled with music and fresh daisies and kittens tumbling through the grass, with Elizabeth scrambling after them, squealing with laughter. But now someone is tugging at my coat, shaking my shoulder.<\/p>\n Where am I? Where is Elizabeth? Who are these people?<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cThe little girl, she\u2019s in her bed,\u201d say two sturdy-looking women, smiling broadly. They are dressed alike, in harsh tan: a gray-haired one with a tightly curled permanent and the other, taller, sporting a pony tail. \u201cShe\u2019s still asleep. We picked her up from the floor.\u201d<\/p>\n I look in their eyes. Can I trust them? Are they real?<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cShe must have slipped off your lap, Mrs. Bloom. She was sleeping at your feet. Come now, my dear,\u201d one says, \u201cyou had better go on home.\u201d<\/p>\n Their slippery tan nylon uniforms reek of perspiration but the expressions behind their monotone voices are kind. They bring me upright, one under each arm, and drag me\u2014limp as a wilted leaf\u2014steering me toward the door, humming something. I watch our parade from afar, paralyzed. The three of us, actors in a slow-motion movie, every action prolonged, every expression exaggerated and deliberate.<\/p>\n From down the hallway, I hear Elizabeth crying. I know she is calling for me. I need to remind them what happens when she gets upset, that she gets into patterns that are hard to refocus. There are so many things I must tell them, but no words break through. My tongue, a thick, immobile gag, is frozen in place.<\/p>\n \u201cDon\u2019t worry,\u201d voices echo and bounce from a distance, \u201cdon\u2019t worry, don\u2019t wor-ry,<\/p>\n d-o-n\u2019t w-o-r-r-y.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s a natural reaction,\u201d the older woman says. \u201cThey all go through this, this period of adjustment. It usually doesn\u2019t last long.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s best if you don\u2019t come back for a while though,\u201d she adds, as the younger one swings her pony tail in agreement. \u201cBest to stay away\u2014four weeks at least, as a rule.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cA month?\u201d I ask, incredulously, \u201ca whole month?\u201d\u00a0 I am beaten down, groveling, a slave. \u201cThen, can I take her out overnight?\u201d I plead for my child, \u201cA home visit, for Christmas?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWe wouldn\u2019t advise it,\u201d they answer in unison.<\/p>\n \u201cDon\u2019t make it so hard on the both of you,\u201d the gray-haired woman says, more gently, rubbing the back of my coat, \u201cshe\u2019s in good hands.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Back in the lobby, my suitcase rests on a table. Lamps are lit although no one is sitting there. Streaks of bleached light stream up walls, more ghastly than cornered shadows. Everything is stretched taut. I can\u2019t bear it. This movie is over! The film strip snaps from its reel and uncoils, flashing through my brain in a fiery lasso. Panic sets in. I must break free.<\/p>\n I jerk from their clutches, howling like the deranged woman I am. Underneath, I may not have resigned myself to this at all. I do not know; I am certain of nothing. All morning I have been deceiving, both them and myself. I am a two-headed monster, I can\u2019t be trusted where Elizabeth is at stake. One moment, I give up; the next, I sabotage, lurking through corridors in calculated ambush. They may as well know who they are dealing with. They must be on the<\/p>\n lookout when I am around, ever vigilant. I may play this role forever, haunting this building, scheming kidnap.<\/p>\n Before they realize what is happening, I flee down the hall to Elizabeth\u2019s room, Elizabeth\u2019s voice. Her cries vibrate on my eardrums; the pain, excruciating. A huge fist rams down my throat blocking all breath. Everything closes in\u2014walls narrow and squeeze together, ceiling tiles cave in, the floor floats upward\u2014my old shoes can\u2019t judge where to place my feet. I lose my balance as the aides overpower me.<\/p>\n \u201cNo,\u201d I argue, feebly, \u201cnot yet. No, I can\u2019t. Wait. Please, she needs me. Oh no, please.\u201d Incoherent sounds stream from my mouth as my babbling continues. \u00a0They slide me back down the hall. My attempt is futile. They are so strong.<\/p>\n One lifts the suitcase and each grab a coat sleeve so I can\u2019t break away. As the older woman opens the door, the other steps outside sideways, hauling me along, shoving my suitcase forward with the side of her foot. They let go of my coat at the same time and rush inside. I fall back against the door. Behind me, a latch clicks. I am sure there is a key turning, somewhere a bolt sliding through a chamber with a final thud. My life is trapped inside.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I stumble from the wide concrete steps. In my arms, the empty suitcase, clutched to my chest like a pitiful anchor. The sun, so bright, my eyes can see nothing. Black spots spread like bat\u2019s wings, dragging me down, down. My torso spirals through a deserted shaft, barreling into an alien, barren landscape. The journey before me, foreign as a moon-walk, but I have no fear, no concern. I have no feeling. There is nothing to care about, to care for. The future is as meaningless, as pointless as the past. I plunge blindly, without dread, without hope, without purpose. Nothing matters.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Above Creative Nonfiction piece previously published in July, 2016, by Stirring: A Literary Collection by sundresspress.com<\/em><\/p>\n An avid reader, gardener, and dabbler in water color, Bernadine has written secretly and sporadically for years. Her degrees in Art and Education were occupationally driven. She lives and writes in St. Paul, MN with her husband of 45 years where she finds inspiration all around her. Creative Nonfiction and Poetry have been published this year, 2016, in Stirring: A Literary Collection, Mused-Bella Online, Silver Birch Press, Mothers Always Write and The Afterlife of Discarded Objects and soon in Miller\u2019s Pond.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" \u201cHere, give her to me. I\u2019ll take her.\u201d<\/p>\n A nurse snatches my baby at the threshold as though I\u2019m a delivering a bundle of laundry. Her statement, brusque, devoid of emotion, and her manner, business-like. This woman is obviously in charge.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":3092,"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,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"_uf_show_specific_survey":0,"_uf_disable_surveys":false,"footnotes":"","_links_to":"","_links_to_target":""},"categories":[273],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-3091","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-short-short"],"aioseo_notices":[],"amp_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/shortstories\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3091","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/shortstories\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/shortstories\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/shortstories\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/shortstories\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=3091"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/shortstories\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3091\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":3093,"href":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/shortstories\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3091\/revisions\/3093"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/shortstories\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/3092"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/shortstories\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=3091"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/shortstories\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=3091"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/shortstories\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=3091"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}