The Paris Review - Fall 2016

I sat across from the pundit. There was a fire between us, and he directed
me to cut a ball of dough with a string and feed various stones by touching
them with drops of milk. I was wearing a suit and it was uncomfortable there
on the floor. My parents sat behind me watching.
“What is the baby’s name?” the pundit asked.
I didn’t know how to answer and I was silent, then my mother spoke.
“We hadn’t given it a name.”
I started crying at how selfish I had been. I had been cruel and indifferent
and had learned nothing from my own life. I put my hands over my face.
“It’s all right,” the pundit said. “We will call it Baby.”
Later, in the car, I drove and my father sat in the front passenger seat and
my mother sat behind me. We were on Route 27 when my mother reached
over my shoulder and slapped me, hard. Her hand hit my face and ear. Her
breath was loud. She reached over and hit me again. I thought, Good, I
should be hit.
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