Our Baby is Born the Day the World Ends by Sarena Kuhn

First, we video call my parents, show them our new girl: her tiny pinkies, her alien face. Mother is delighted. Father asks if we’ll make it to a bunker in time. I show them my baby’s feet. Ten toes like little peas. Both of them cry. I thank them for being so good to me. I tell them, I’ll see you later, though I don’t know where or when.

The nurses close up shop. They have business to finish, families to return to and hold, last meals to eat. They blow us kisses as we leave — there is no precious time left for us to linger in the maternity ward. Ours will be the last baby born in this hospital.

I lean on your left arm as we hobble out into the sun. I gave birth just a few hours ago — ripped myself open and cut the cord that spilled out of me — but I’ve decided to rest tomorrow, when all of us are dead.

Look, Baby! Look at the trees in the parking lot. This is asphalt, this is an SUV. This is the big blue sky. I’m so glad it’s a sunny day. We call her Baby because she’s our baby, and there’s no point in thinking about what might look good on a Driver’s License now.

We drive to your parents’ place, and I’m jealous they live so close. Your mother serves me my favorite carrot cake and your father holds Baby like she’s a diamond, introduces her to every room in the house. The cake tastes better than a Michelin-star dinner, and I cry.

“It’s not fair,” your mother says, “You don’t have enough time with her.”

“No amount of time would ever be enough,” you say.

I wait in the other room with Baby and deliver her first meal, let you say goodbye to them on your own. I don’t say anything about your red eyes when it’s time for us to leave. I thank them for being good to me. They see us off from the front porch.

Afterwards, we meet some friends in the park. I walk in the grass barefoot, let my ankles get painted with mud. Nina brought me champagne, and Malcolm brought his guitar. This is music, Baby. Clap your hands. They coo and tell us Baby is the cutest they’ve ever seen, but they don’t fool me. She’s beautiful to us, but otherworldly. She looks like the sweetest purple thumb. We picnic until the sky becomes a color I’ve never seen before.

We abandon our parked car and walk all the way home, showing Baby every crevice of the neighborhood. This is a cul-de-sac. This is a Little Free Library. Baby cries, and I try to tell her she’s wasting her final hours, being upset. I make funny faces at her, trying to chase down her wonder, her delight. You say it’s good she’s getting a full range of human experience.

By the time we’re home, there are few minutes to spare. Welcome, Baby. This is a shoe rack. This was supposed to be your room.

I draw the curtains closed, make what’s left of the outside world seem far away and quiet. Baby is asleep. We place her in our queen bed and get comfortable beside her. You laugh and ask me if I’ll insist on wearing socks in bed, even at the end of the world.

Baby’s eyes open one last time. I look at her perfect cheeks. I look at your tired, happy face. I couldn’t imagine a better day to know you.

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SARENA KUHN — Sarena is a writer and civil engineer living in San Francisco. Her fiction has been published in Breakwater Review, Berkeley Fiction Review, Talk Vomit, and Short Édition. She blogs at loml.substack.com.

Art by AMANDA BERGLOFF — Amanda is a mixed media artist whose cover and interior art has been published in the Jules Verne Society’s Extraordinary Visions, Tiny Spoon Literary Magazine, Utopia Science Fiction, Mud Season Review, The Sprawl Magazine, 200 CCs, Orion’s Belt, Crimson Dreams, and other publications.