”Nearing full dilation; delivery starting. Nurse,” the doctor said with urgency.
”I really think you should take the epidural.”
”I'm fine!” Barked the tigress on the gurney, “Don't worry about it!”
”Sir, it's too late,” one of the other nurses said. “Please stand back, or you may leave the room.”
”Like hell I'm leaving.”
”Huuuugh! Ooooooagh!”
”Cervix is fully dilated; Micah, I need you to keep breathing, get ready to push.”
The rearing mother let out an exasperated set of gasps and huffs.
”That's it, Micah, deep breaths, and push; push-push-push, hard as you can. Baby's moving.”
”Aghaghagh! Aaaaghgh!”
”That's it, help the baby along,” the doctor encouraged. “You're doing great, keep pushing.”
The nurses around her helped encourage and instruct. The covering sheet that kept the tigress moderately decent shook and rippled from her efforts, the stirrups tinkling and creaking as they held her legs in position.
The beeping of her heart had long since hastened, counting faster than the small blinking dot on the digital clock up in the corner of the room.
”Get ready; baby's crowning!”
The new mother held onto the arm-rests of the gurney, took in a deep breath, and let out a harsh scream unlike any she had before in her life.
”Honey, it's okay, you're doing—”
”Shut the fuck up!” She yelled at the father. “This is all your f-f-agggghcking fault! Come any closgggggher and I'll rip your balls aaaaaghff—give you a tgggggh—” Her threats ended in another blood-curdling yell.
”Sir, I think it's best if you leave,” the nurse that had spoken to him earlier said.
”I'm not leaving,” he growled.
”You're causing her distress, plea—”
”I said I'm not leaving!”
”Get the hell out of hereeeeeegh!”
* * *
The hospital room was dim, curtains closed to block out the light. The Pulse-Ox monitor beeped regularly, an even, calming cadence. But, the new mother had come to find the beeping incessant, having dealt with it for over twenty-four hours.
There was a knock at the door.
”Come in,” she said.
”Baby girl!”
The woman chuckled. “Dad, stop it,” she grumbled, as the older tigress came in to hug her. “Now that I've had a baby—”
”You'll always be my baby-girl,” he interrupted. “But, you stop calling me dad; now that you've had a baby, I'm grandpa!”
”You're still just old man to me,” said the father, closing the door.
”Can I see him?” The new grandfather asked with glee, peering at the swaddled blanket against the mother's bosom. “Hellooo, hellooo,” he said, prying the opening apart and peeking in. “Oh my, he's got a big nose, doesn't he?” The tiger said with a goofy giggle. “Guess you take after your dad.”
”I'll warn him about having to smell your farts.”
”Oh my gosh, babe, shut up,” the mother told her husband. “Can you get me a soda?”
”You're only supposed to have water,” he reminded her.
”I. Need. A. Soda. Get me a Sprite, I'm fine with a Sprite, there's no caffeine. I just need the bubbly.”
”Fine, I'll be right back.” He grumbled, leaving the room.
”There,” the tigress said to her father with a wink, “now you get a few moments of alone-time.” She gently adjusted the baby in her arms, sitting him more upright. “Oh, Ket. Wake up little Kit-Ket,” she cooed, reaching out to open the blinds a little to brighten the room. “Grandpa came to see you.”
The swaddled baby tiger gurgled, and his left eye cracked open. His yellow iris caught a stream of sunlight, making it twinkle.
”See? He has your eyes,” the mother said.
”Like drops of gold,” the old tiger smiled. “Oh-oh-oh, that reminds me,” he said, standing upright and heading to his small backpack he had dropped off near the door. He retrieved it, and sat back down next to his daughter. “I brought a gift for him.”
”Dad, c'mon,” the tigress said. “He's barely over a day, and you wanna spoil him?”
”Hon, that's my job as grandpa,” the old tiger said with a toothy grin, reaching into the bag. “I'm gonna spoil that kid rotten,” he half-threatened, pulling out a small item from the backpack.
The small satchel appeared to be made of silk, catching the sunlight and shadows in its sheen. The tiger fiddled with the string that was sewn within the rim, allowing it to be drawn shut. When it was fully slack, he wiggled the item from within.
The gold within the grooves shimmered in the light, very akin to the baby tiger's own eyes. Set within the dark-colored block of wood, it shined vibrantly, almost ethereally.
”Oh... Dad...” The new mother said with adoration.
”I told you, it's grandpa, now,” he said with a chuckle, setting the block of wood on his palm, the silk bag underneath. “Snagged it just before I left. Haggled it down to half what he was trying to say it was worth, pretending like the gold leaf set in there was worth more than a tomb.”
”It's perfect, for him,” she said with a soft smile. “But, you didn't have to go through that trouble. It's bad enough you had to come home in the middle of your expedition.”
”Pah,” he waved his hand, putting the artifact back into the pouch. “I can play around in that glorified sandbox any ol' day.” He rested the bag upon the blanket, over the baby's knees. “I'd rather play in a sandbox with this little guy. Pretty sure Osiris wouldn't weigh me down for that.”
* * *
”C'mon, Ket,” said his mother, encouragingly, bouncing him up and down.
He gurgled and grumbled.
”C'mon... You're hungry, I know,” she insisted. “Food's right here, whenever you want it.”
”It's been three days...” The father said, pacing. “C'mon, kiddo, hurry up and figure yourself out.”
”Hush,” the mother said, in defense of her child. “How can you say that to him?” She scoffed.
”Look, I... Haven't... Had... A good night's sleep since you went into labor. And this room,” he said, gesturing about the hospital suite, “is really really expensive.”
”He needs to latch on before they'll discharge us,” she reminded him. “You wanna go home and then he starves cuz he can't feed?”
”Pretty soon, we won't be able to afford a home to go home to,” he retorted. “We can shop around all we want, but if we stay any longer we'll be lucky if we can keep the apartment.”
”Dad's got a house,” she said, bouncing the baby again. “C'mon, don't get fussy at me. You need to eat.”
”I'm not living in your dad's house,” the father said with certainty.
”That's not what I said. Listen to what I say, before you go off and get all buh-buh-buh,” she admonished, mocking him.
The baby started to cry.
”Look, now you upset him.”
”Me?” The dad huffed.
”He can hear the tone of your voice,” she explained. “He wants things to be calm and quiet, and you're like a boulder falling into a lake.” She petted the baby's head, shushing him. “So like I said, dad has a house—and it's not his house. It's a house he found. He even talked them down to a good price, and he can help us pay for it.”
”Great, so, now I don't even get to have a say in my own house,” the father remarked, throwing his hands up.
”All the houses you want are too expensive,” she pointed out. “This is a nice house. Good neighborhood. It's near a library, a nice park, and it's still in the school district you wanted.”
”I haven't even seen it yet. Once I get a look, then maybe we'll talk. 'Till then, your dad can stay out of our business.”
”Where are you going?” The tigress asked, craning her head to look back as her husband headed to the door.
”I need food, and this hospital's food is shit. I'll be back in a bit.” Just as he opened the door, he heard his wife gasp. He turned back. “What?”
”Honey, get the nurse,” she told him.
”What's wrong?” The father asked with concern, stepping back to the mother.
She looked up at him, smiling, as the soft sounds of the baby's suckling at her bosom began filling the silence between beeps.
“He finally latched!”
* * *
Boop. Boop. Boop. Boop.
”Produce, you have a call on line three; produce, line three. Dairy, you have a call on line seven; dairy, line seven.”
”Your total comes to thirty-seven, oh-six. Out of forty?”
”Yes ma'am,” the man said to the lady tigress checking out his groceries.
”Two ninety-four is your change,” she said, as the drawer opened, and she began pulling the money out.
”Well you came up with that faster than the computer,” he remarked.
”I've had a lot of practice,” the tigress said, pulling out the coins. “Here you are; need help out at all?”
”Oh no, I'm good,” he waved his hand.
”Have a great day!” She said, reaching for the lane-breaker and setting it along the inner edge of the conveyor-belt. She pushed it, sliding it up, and it clacked against the others in the line, pushing them toward the end where customers could reach them more easily. “Hi, find everything you need?” She asked to the next customer in line.
The other lady tigress, a bit on the heavy side, pushed her cart up. “Yes, I did,” she replied.
”Ooooh, Happy Mother's Day,” the tigress scanning the items said, noticing the baby-basket on the cart. “How old?”
”Three weeks,” the mother replied.
”First one?” The checker asked.
”Mm-hmm. Making a run,” she remarked, looking at the conveyor-belt full of formula, diapers, baby-wipes, a rattle, and a pacifier, amongst her other groceries.
”Oh, don't I know it,” the checker said with a chuckle. “Been there; done that. Many a time.”
”And you're working today?” The new mother asked.
”My son is eleven,” the tigress replied, waving her hand before grabbing the next item to scan. “It's the weekend; he's sleeping in. I'll have him do some chores and stuff.”
”Make him earn his momma,” the customer said with a smile.
”Absolutely,” the checker replied, finishing up with the order, the teenage bagger quietly doing his part and trying desperately to keep out of the conversation, as most of them were wont to do. “Okay, your total is one-oh-five, ninety-three.”
”Gosh, that formula,” the mother muttered, flipping out her card and swiping.
”I know.”
”But, it is what it is,” she added, going through the motions of paying on the terminal. “I guess my milk's just not good enough for His Little Prince-Butt,” she teased, poking her baby on the nose.
The baby snorted and squirmed.
The two mother's shared a laugh as the receipt printed.
”There you are, have a Happy Mother's Day.”
”You, too.” The plump tigress bid, “could you help me out, please?” She asked to the teenager, who awkwardly nodded and took the cart as the woman took her baby's carriage off of it.
The checker looked out to the lane, and saw no one coming. She turned off the light, just as an old polar bear turned into her lane.
”Oh, I'm so sorry,” the polar bear said, making to back out.
”Oh, I didn't see you,” the tigress said, motioning for the woman to come down the lane. “I'm still signed in; I can check you out,”
The old woman reached for some of the candy bars on the impulse-buy, emptying out her cart. “I'm so sorry, I just have a few things,” she said.
”It's no problem at all,” said the checker, swiping the items by.
”How are you doing this morning?” The old woman asked.
”I'm doing well, how about yourself?”
”Oh, I'm fine,” she replied, as the checker scanned her boxes of tea. “I'm sorry it's so gloomy out today.”
”I like gloomy just as much as sunny,” the tigress replied. “Twelve forty-seven will be your total, today.”
”I'm sorry, but would you mind if I wrote a check?”
”Not at all,” the tigress replied, bagging up the old woman's groceries. “Today is—”
”Mother's Day,” the woman said. “I have it down, just needed the total. Here you are,” she said, tearing the check out of the book.
The tigress typed in the amount, and fed the check into the reader. It sputtered and chirped as it reeled the check in, angrily reading it before spitting it back out at the top, stuttering.
”Okay, well you have yourself a great day.” The tigress said.
”I will, and you too—oh, I'm so sorry,” she said, as she took the bag. She reached in, and fished out a Kit-Kat bar, the item that she had gotten from the impulse-buy. “This is for you, dear.” She said, reaching to set it down on the chercker's till-counter. “To share with him,” she added, setting her bag into her basket. “Happy Mother's Day.”
* * *
Something didn't quite sit well when she saw the windows open when she passed the house to park the car. As she walked the short distance back from the parking lane, she caught a whiff in the air.
Right away she started to run.
She fiddled with the key for a few seconds before realizing the door was already unlocked, and tore it open. A puff of wispy, black smoke belched from the kitchen.
Her son was standing on a chair, beneath the smoke alarm above the stove. He froze, the magazine in his hand drooping as he held it upward.
On the counter in front of him was a pan, covered with black, charred remains.
They both winced as the smoke alarm shrieked.
Holding a hand to his ear, the tiger fanned the air with the magazine, and after a moment the detector quieted down.
”H—Hi mom,” the tiger said, continuing to fan the spot by the detector, which blinked red every few seconds—as it normally did, but now it was like it was sniffing the air, waiting for an excuse to shriek again. “Stove's... Stove's off,” he mentioned, looking at it to make doubly sure.
She took in a deep sigh, and then coughed as the wisps of charred smoke caught and tickled within her nose. “I'll b—be right b—back,” she said, amidst her coughs.
She went to her room, tossing her purse and keys, and shucking off the vest of her uniform. She took the table-fan she had been using in her room, and walked back to the kitchen.
Her son scurried off the chair and moved it as soon as he saw his mother coming. The fan was set on the counter, not with an outright slam but far from gently, and she plugged it in. It clicked as she turned it to point up, and started to softly whir when she punched the button.
”I was... Trying to make pancakes...” He said, when his mother looked at the remains of what he tried to do. “For when you got home,” he added.
She retrieved the pan, but otherwise didn't move.
”Uhm... Happy M—” He covered his ears when the smoke detector screeched again.
She set the pan down on the counter, and casually walked to where she kept the step-stool. Amidst the cawing of the smoke detector, the squeak of the step-stool could be heard, along with its scrape along the tile as she set it into place.
A moment later, the shrieking cry was replaced with a soft, muffled tinnitus.
She stepped down, closed the step-stool, and put it away. She washed her hands, and dried them. She opened the blinds at the window behind the sink, letting a bit more sunlight through.
Finally, she walked back to the table, pulled out a chair, and slumped into it, leaning halfway on the table with her arm. She looked to her son.
He stood, rigidly. He hadn't moved, so that he didn't complicate the already-complicated situation.
She smiled at him. “Get two bowls, please,” she said, tapping the table with her finger.
For a second, he blinked as he processed the request. Then, he dashed to the cupboard, the pads of his bare feet swishing along the tile. He squatted down, plucked two bowls, and then more gingerly carried them back to his mother.
Almost as soon as he set them on the table, she separated them, using the action to sit up and more proper. “Pick out some cereal,” she told him.
Once again he shuffled along the tile to another cupboard. He pulled out the large box of Rice Crispies that was one of the usual he had in stock. It was also the one that was the most full, so they wouldn't have to mix more than one together, like he sometimes did when he got low.
Arriving at the bowls, he popped the flap free and started pouring the cereal into the bowls, a light tinkling trickling through the air as the rice-puffs hit the curve of the bowls.
Without a need for further instruction, he dashed off to put the box away, and into the fridge for the milk. It sloshed as he took his first few steps, but calmed once he decided to walk, since it was still three-quarters full.
The cap slipped off with a light pop, and he poured the milk into his mother's bowl first. The crispies began snapping, crackling, and popping; a sound only akin to when he used hydrogen peroxide in his ears when they felt yucky.
He put the milk away, swinging by the silverware-drawer on his way back to snag a couple of spoons. He proffered one to his mother, and she took it with a quiet thanks.
He took his seat, and used the back of his spoon to tamp down the crispies, to make sure they all got soft and dunked in the milk. Then, he let the spoon balance on the surface of the crispies, before pushing it down to let it sink in.
In a bit of quiet, they started eating their cereal. The only sounds the gentle stirring of milk, ringing of spoon tapping against bowl, and the rustle of his fur as he wiped dribbles of milk from his muzzle.
His mother smiled as she paused to stir her crispies a bit. “You remember having breakfast like this?” She asked.
He nodded, still chewing a bite.
”We would eat our cereal together in the morning. Then, we'd walk to the park and play there. I remember,” she chuckled. “I remember you had a friend, I can't remember his name. He was a sun-bear, had a sister that was a bit older. She and her friend would boss you two around, get you to push them on the swings.
”Then, we'd go to the library, and you'd pick out a ton of books, and when we got home we read them together until dad got home for dinner.”
Suddenly, he started to cough.
She set her spoon down, reaching to touch his shoulder.
He covered his mouth, coughing into his wrist a few times, then lifted his muzzle to pat at his chest. “Wh—Whent down th' whrong tuhbe,” he mentioned, clearing his throat.
She slid the bowl away from him while he calmed down, and then lifted the spoon up with some of the crispies on it. She shook the dripping milk from it, and held it out.
He made a face.
She smirked. “C'mon, just once? I won't tell your friends.”
he wrinkled his nose, and then very quickly bit on the spoon. He growled, and it was let go.
”I saw a new mom at the store today. She was my last customer. Had a cute little boy, kinda had Emeral's eyes. She was buying lots of formula, and diapers; stuff like that.” She sighed.
”I think I remember formula,” he remarked. “I remember it tasted nasty.”
She chuckled, taking another spoonful for herself. “Well, I couldn't feed you milk, it made you sick,” she told him. “All that trouble keeping you in the hospital for extra time, then you wind up not even being able to drink it.”
”But...” He looked down at his bowl. “I drink milk just fine,” he said.
She shook her head. “I mean mom-milk, not store milk,” she told him.
He sputtered a bit when the spoon went into his mouth. “Mmh,” he said, quietly. “It made me sick?” He asked. “How come?”
She shrugged. “Some babies just... Reject it,” she said. “Ugh, it was awful, you would... Scream at me. I felt so guilty.”
”Did you feel guilty cuz you were worried I wasn't getting antibodies?” He asked.
She sat up a bit. “Oho! Where are you learning about that kinda stuff; huh, little mister?” She teased.
He leaned over his bowl, readying another spoonful. “Emmy's house has... They've got medical shows going on a lot... I just, heard it from one of those,” he told her.
She snorted. “Well, no, that's not why I felt guilty. If you really wanna know,” she set her spoon in her cereal. “It was... A bonding-thing,” she explained. “It's... Well, it's like...” She rested her arms on the table, looking up at the smoke detector. “When you're a parent, someday... You'll understand what it's like to provide for your child,” she told him.
He paused for a moment, before he lifted his bowl and started to drink the leftover milk, and bits of crispies that were left in the bath.
”You like this home, right?” She asked.
He set his bowl down, wiping his mouth clean. “Yeah... Why?”
”Well I... I just... Want to make sure you're happy,” she told him. “Do you think it's missing anything?—Besides... Besides the obvious?”
”The obvious?” He repeated.
She reached for her spoon, realizing her cereal was getting soggy.
”Um... The only thing I can think of is a microwave, but, I know those are expensive.”
”Mh!” She dropped her spoon back into the bowl, and shook her head. “No they aren't. I can get a decent one. You wanna go today, and look?”
”N—” He looked at the stove, where he'd burnt the pancake batter. “I was mostly joking,” he said. “We're not missing anything. Except...”
She looked to her son, his thoughts hanging in the air. “Except what?”
”The library's closed, but...” He scooted his bowl about as he talked. “Maybe... You wanna go to the park for a bit? And then, we could come back home.. And I could find a book to read out loud,” he offered.
She smiled. “Then, you,” she pushed her finger to his nose, which he batted away, “get to help me make dinner—no fire-hazards, this time.”
He let out an embarrassed groan.
She leaned over, kissing him on the forehead. “I'm going to put on park-clothes.” She got up, and as she passed the stairs asked: “Would you also do the dishes for me, please?” She asked.
He let out another groan.
She leaned back from around the corner. “What was that?”
He took in a deep breath. “I said, 'Happy Mother's Day!'” He replied, with an exaggerated grin.
