Ghost Oceans Elizabeth Lee (bio) I stand on a cliff in northern New Mexico, seeing my insides in the rocks. Fascia, red muscle, marbled fat, teeth perched on eroding banks of red and gray earth, dark, ancient blood soaked deep in the sandstone and hard volcanic ash. There's something I know I have to find here if only I could remember what it was. I slide my hands over my tender stomach and the question rises again. Why did the baby die? The white orb of the sun swallows into itself all color and sound and feeling, and my body goes limp. It's my fault. When I first came to New Mexico, I saw all kinds of interesting shapes in the red and purple rocks: Roast beef, ice cream, a camel's back. I felt desperate for a new life. I'd lived for too long in the same 73 degree weather, looking up at a perpetually cloudless sky; I had worked for years in television, anticipating what might look real and feel real, when everything about work and life felt hopelessly fake. I needed a portal to the divine like I needed my childhood wonder again; most importantly, I needed to know there were things in the world that would outlast my body and its memories. After we found out we were pregnant, my husband and I stared at the black computer screen in the doctor's office, studying the ghost lines that curved across each other like tiny white fossils, and waited for a heartbeat. The doctor finally pointed to a white blur. "There it is, and there's the chord." He took a deep breath. "But it's gone into the fallopian tube. I'm sorry, if we leave it there, your tube will rupture. You'll bleed to death." Two days later, he cut out the fallopian tube and the embryo still inside. The blood started immediately, turning my blue-tiled bathroom into a warm vault, thick with the scent of iron and sea salt. I hunched over my abdomen and frowned at all the translucent wires coming out of it. How could I be entirely sure that they hadn't switched out my body parts while I was unconscious and made me part alien? I wiped and saw clumps of dark jelly on the toilet paper. Are you my baby? I asked. Are you? Of course, it was madness, talking to my own blood like that. The baby was gone. My left fallopian tube was gone. But I had lost my mind that day, and it was all I could do not to throw myself out the window when I saw the red home inside my womb had started breaking apart. ________ The wind whips around me. It's like that in New Mexico, coming and going in sudden fits as if to remind the world to stay alert. The sun has made its descent down the sky and the horizon looks like it's on fire, the scorched land more like Mars than Earth. It seems the perfect metaphor for life as my parents talked about it, always describing it as hard and cruel. Survival was the only real true thing, so we'd better prepare. My mother was a quiet and somber woman, letting me twist her coarse hair and drape my leg over her waist while she slept as if she didn't exist at all. I reached for her body at all hours of the day to make [End Page 63] sure she hadn't left me behind. I wasn't sure why, but I always had the sense that she wanted to leave her life, and it frightened me. When her eyes turned to black glass, I knew she had gone deep inside but that she'd be back. I knew great things lived inside that very place because she'd eventually paint beautiful visions on stretched-out silk in her workroom: a woman's face, her collarbone, an ocean wave breaking on sand. She'd eventually hang them up against the tired white walls of our hallways. I don't remember much from that time, but I...
Read full abstract