wildscape. literary journal

Badger
by Mandy Lange

        The road beneath my balcony is deserted, suspicious of invisible contagion, when I spot the ghost fluttering the length of the pavement. I press Joseph’s fat cheek into my collarbone and lean over the ledge to follow its wake. 
        It’s gone.
        Our formerly vibrant metropolis is a shell of buildings and sidewalks. Even the roof-dwelling crows go silent, eager to expose illegal pedestrians. 
        My toes curl, craving the assuredness of the asphalt below. 
        The buzz of Henry’s video call interrupts my search. He’s still quarantined at work. 
        “Caseload’s too high,” he grumbles. Video doesn’t dilute the dark cracks beneath his eyes. “You okay with Joe and Rene?”
        “Just save lives,” I say. 
        “Two more weeks, then my priority’s our family. You, Badger.”
        Badger is Henry’s favorite story to tell at parties– when we used to have them.
	“Deadlifting 200 pounds, way more than me. Immediate turn-on.” He’d recall the dark look in my eyes that reminded him of some video of a badger biting into a lion’s nose. The big cat thrashed but couldn’t shake the little beast. “Mara’s tenacious like that. Toughest person I know.”
	I rub a callus on my palm. Gyms have been closed for months.
        Rene smacks the door to the balcony, leaving a toddler-sized smudge on the glass. 
        “One, two, three!” Rene’s squeaky voice is muffled by the door.
        With a final glance toward the pavement, I go inside.

                                                                               #

        Shadows ripple each time I pass the glass door. 
        Rene asks for his current cartoon obsession, Lily Leopard’s Letters. I tap my old laptop, no longer used to upload my home-fitness programs. Mandatory ads flash: AI dating service, announcements about the illness that cages us. A woman appears, defined muscles flexing as she reaches into a computer-generated sky. 
        “Positive Palmist harnesses your inner strength, empowering wellness through mobile hand scans and personalized guidance.”
        This fit woman flashes a coruscating smile. Everything about her is bright. A young child leaps onto her whittled shoulders. 
        “Positive Palmist helped me understand who I am,” she says, manicured fingers raising a phone. “Let us give you a hand in reaching the bright side. Download the app today!”
        I study my own hands, which bear countless fine lines. Trunks and branches of untaken roads, regrets. Love callused by sacrifice, exhaustion. 
        Lily Leopard fills the screen. Rene shrieks. 
        “One, two, three! Special to me!”
        My throat tightens, and I’m unsure why. 

                                                                              #

        “Those hacks are killing people,” Henry scoffs when I tell him about the palmistry advertisement over the phone. “Inner strength is no substitute for an antipsychotic.”
        We trade goodnights and I retreat to the balcony. Windows across the street blink yellow and muted blue. Jagged sidewalks thread along the buildings like frayed ribbons that used to snare the wheel of my jogging stroller. I can feel the cadence of my run, breath hitching–
        A shadow flits across the gap. My stomach turns in its wake. When I squint, it vanishes. 
        That night I buy the palmistry app. 

                                                                            #

           A balanced hand indicates you are honest. Rely on truth to guide you today!

        I stay indoors all day, refusing to chase ghosts. Joseph has a virtual checkup with a colleague of Henry’s. I hold the phone camera up to Joseph’s dimpled legs and blotchy skin as the doctor fires questions. Can Joseph sit up? How long does he sleep?
        “One, two, three!” Rene screeches over my responses. “You’re special—!” 
	I squeeze Rene’s elbow and notice I’m trembling. 
        The doctor laughs. He asks me how my pelvic floor is healing, if I’ve lost the pregnancy weight. 
        “Last thing,” he says. “Gotta ask. Still in good spirits? Mentally?” 
        “Yes.”
        In the corner of the screen, my smile looks credible. 

                                                                            #

     Your prominent heart line pronounces you emotionally available to lovers. Open your
                                                    heart to someone you love!

        Joseph refuses to be put down, so I hold him as I swipe a rag across our counter. Henry opens the door, home, finally, after an entire month of work. He throws his duffel and wraps his arms around us. I clench the solution-soaked cloth, brace myself to feel whole. 
        Fresh stubble brushes against my chin when his lips find mine. The kiss should calm the simmering numbness in my veins.
        But I breathe him in–sweat and plastic–and emptiness spreads. The kiss deepens; he’s asking me to sustain him, to be his spark. Joseph sags, and I drop the rag. 
        “Badger,” Henry purrs. “You’re skinny. Working out again?”
        I open my mouth to say I need help or I’m not coping well. 
        “Just bodyweight exercises,” I lie. 
        “Bodyweight!” Rene yells, leaping onto Henry. He tickles Rene, tears in his eyes. I hand a squirming Joseph to Henry and retreat, snatching the rag. Dirty water bleeds between my fingers. 
        When Henry and the boys are asleep, I return to the balcony. I’m convinced I see someone stalking the pavement, and wonder how to join them.

                                                                             #

     Multiple life lines suggest a strength of will. Harness self-discipline to enjoy the fruits of
                                                                   perseverance!

        The monitor lights up with Joseph’s wails. Henry whips the blanket at me in the dark.
	“Can’t you go get him?” he moans. “I’ve worked nights for months!”
         The movements are hollow, but I continue feeding, kissing, cleaning. I tell myself that love can coexist with the dread in my bones, that dedication will steady me. 
         “Only another few weeks of lockdown,” he says, sprawled on the couch, phone grazing his nose. Joseph dozes on his shoulder. I fold in the sharp edges of my body to lie next to them. Rene abruptly collides with my head.
         “ONE, TWO, THREE! YOU–”
         Rage detonates. I explode off the couch and out the glass door, crushing palm lines in my fist.
 
                                                                             #

                        You connect with loved ones deeply. Tell them you care today!

        My thoughts unravel in the hours between night and morning. I grab my phone, tap the latest Palmist tip, but it’s no use. 
        I delete the app. 
        Joseph’s snoring in his crib. He smells like clouds when I kiss him.
	The balcony door glows as I walk into the windless night.
        There are shadows below the ledge. Crowds of them, ambling shoulder-to-shoulder. Unknown yet familiar. I ache to go to them. They wave, welcoming me with open palms. Two facts ring rhythmically through my pulse:
        I love my boys with every last tendril of tissue I possess.
	They would be happier with a stronger mother.
        I slide calloused hands along the railing and lift myself up easily. Badger is lighter now, not stronger. My foot hangs over the ledge. The shades below sharpen, become more real than I am to myself, my family.
        There’s a soft thump, a gentle reverberation of glass. Tiny fingernails slide through a gap in the door.
        Rene’s eyelashes droop. His belly pops out of spangled pajamas. He likely won’t recall these seconds in the morning, the terrible truth of his mother. 
        There’s a moment of hesitation, a tickle of wind on my neck. I imagine falling as the inverse of lifting heavy, muscles squeezing down instead of pushing up. When I jump, it’s without conscious thought. 
        Toes meet rug and I crumple, breathless. 
	Rene plods onto my lap. He grabs my wrist, pats a tiny finger on my palm. 
	“One, two, three,” he whispers.
         I cling to Rene as he drifts asleep. Darkness eases to gray. A bird cries from a faraway sky, and somehow, I find the strength to finish his song.

about the author // Mandy Lange