Paul Rousseau
Charleston, South Carolina, United States

Elena sits perched on a gurney with claret-stained thighs. She has just miscarried in the clinic’s lavatory. She inquires of the gender of the fetus, and hands twitching and heart flapping, I blurt, unexpectedly and duplicitously (for I could not know), “Una bebita.” A little girl.

A guttural sob rolls up from her belly. “Quiero los restos de mi bebe.” I want the remains of my baby. Beads of sweat wet my brow. I inform her I need to speak with the clinic physician. “Quiero los restos de mi bebe,” she implores.

I scurry through the halls searching for the physician; I am told he is in the countryside delivering a baby. I query a nurse. She wrings her hands, indecisive. She speaks with another nurse. Finally, she advises, “Darle los restos.” Give her the remains. I am dubious of her response, however, I am in an unfamiliar land, and uncertain of legalities and customs.

“Esta segura?” Are you sure, I ask.

“Estoy segura,” I am sure, she responds.

So, I gather a dollop of fetal flesh, bundle it in gauze, slip it into a paper bag, and place it in Elena’s hands, and as she murmurs, “Maria, mi hija,” Maria, my daughter, I collapse to the floor and weep.