“Wow, Morgan. You are really something else.” Gus slapped the steering wheel for emphasis, accidentally honking the horn. “You really had to send that email today? Same day she’s burying her kid?”

“I’m her kid too,” said Morgan. “And I’m still here.”

“Yeah, but you couldn’t wait a day? Or until next week or something?”

“Gus, things could be, you know, over by next week.” She rubbed her belly, gave the baby a poke. It kicked her back. This was their own secret language.

“It’s a little bit selfish,” said Gus. “That’s all I’m saying.”

Morgan hated being called selfish. It was the most upsetting thing that anyone could say about her and Gus knew this but said it anyway.

“You think I want to have this conversation?” she said. “Having this conversation is going to be a nightmare. It literally makes me shudder to think about.”

“Why are you doing it then?”

“For the baby,” she said, poking her belly again. “So I don’t pass on the Mother Wound.”

“The what?”

“I sent you the article. You didn’t read it?”

“I read that article on hypnobirth you sent me. Is it a hypnobirth thing?”

Morgan scoffed and looked away.

She’d found the Mother Wound article on a popular influencer’s account that she followed. Immediately, she recognized herself and her mother and her grandmother. Even before she was done reading the article she was certain that she had a Mother Wound. In fact, it was possible she didn’t finish the article at all. But she had Googled a test right away and scored fourteen out of fifteen, which was a Critical Wound Level. High, yes, but at least now she had a diagnosis.

Morgan rolled down the window, but it was muggy and polluted outside. They were near the airport and she felt like she was breathing in all the stagnant air that had been sitting there during summer, the traffic too slow to stir it up.

Morgan looked at the time on the dash.

“We’re going to be late to the funeral,” she said. An image of her dead brother flashed into her mind—imagined because she hadn’t seen his body yet—and she pushed the image right back out again. She was very good at suppressing thoughts and emotions. She did it quite consciously, like throwing someone out the window. Sometimes the feeling came back around, knocked on the door again. Sometimes it stayed dead on the sidewalk.

Her belly tensed and she massaged it with one hand, digging her palm in as deep as she could.

“What’s the matter?” said Gus.

“Nothing, just a cramp.”

“What kind of a cramp?”

“Just because you read that book doesn’t mean you know everything about childbirth. It’s my body. I’ll be the first to know if I’m in labour.”

“Does it feel like you have to go to the bathroom? I read that it can sometimes feel like you have to go to the bathroom.”

“I do have to go to the bathroom,” said Morgan. She tried to shift the baby off her bladder.

“What kind? Sitting down? Labour feels like the sitting down kind.”

“I always sit down when I go to the bathroom, no matter what kind.”

“I know but—”

“Can we not talk about it? I’m trying not to think about it. What am I supposed to do, pee on the side of the highway? Every time we’re trying to drive out of the downtown we have to contend with this traffic. I feel trapped. Can you put your window down? Can we stop for a coffee?”

“I thought you were off coffee.”

“I want to use the bathroom.”

“You can’t wait until we get to the funeral?”

“So we get there late and the first thing I do is rush to the bathroom? At my own brother’s funeral?”

“We should have been there early anyway. We’re immediate family.”

“We talked about this, Gus. I’m nine and a half months pregnant. They’re lucky I’m even going.”

“Who’s they?”

“Him. He’s lucky.”

“Morgan, who’s he?”

“Can you just pull off here?”

“This is the airport.”

“We’re still at the airport?”

“Traffic will pick up after this exit. It always does.”

Morgan undid her seatbelt and tried to hold the baby off her bladder with both hands. The car moved along, stopping and starting for the last five hundred metres until the airport exit. It was a depressing stretch of highway on the outskirts of the city, dirty and grey at the best of times.

Just like Gus predicted, as soon as they were past the exit, the traffic picked up and they were zipping along. The next exit had a sign for a donut shop and Gus pulled off.

“Can you get me a coffee?” he asked as Morgan slammed the car door and rushed to the entrance.

There was a bit of a lineup, but Morgan bypassed it and asked the boy at the counter for the bathroom key.

“It’s just for customers,” he said.

“Are you kidding me?” Morgan stepped back from the counter and displayed her belly. “Look how pregnant I am.”

For a moment, the boy seemed to reconsider. He was only fifteen or so, unaccustomed to dealing with pregnant women.

“It’s against the rules,” he said. “I might get in trouble.”

“Connor,” she said, looking at his nametag. “I’m ten days overdue.”

“Ma’am, they made me sign a contract so it’s, like, illegal for me to give you the key.”

Morgan rolled her eyes at being called ma’am and went to the back of the line.

There were six people in front of her. She fiddled with her phone to keep her mind off her bladder. Her nine-thirty reminder popped up: Emotional Check-In. She had gotten the idea from a mental health account she followed. It said that if you had difficulty processing emotions, you should set up a time to talk them out. Every single day! Even if it was just five minutes. Usually, nine-thirty was perfect because she was just getting settled in at her desk.

“My brother died,” Morgan muttered under her breath. “And I’m going to the funeral and that feels bad. I’m afraid that I will feel resentful because I’m supposed to be enjoying the rest of my pregnancy but I’m at a funeral instead. I’m afraid I will blame my brother and that will feel bad. I’m afraid that I will feel sad and cry uncontrollably.”

She hadn’t cried since getting pregnant. This was the opposite of what most women experienced. Instead of getting teary and vulnerable, Morgan had doubled down. In the back of her mind was the awareness that the tears were in there somewhere and they had to come out eventually. She’d already warned Gus about the baby blues.

“It’s normal to feel sad when your brother dies,” she whispered. “It’s normal to feel resentful.”

By the time she made it to the front of the line, Connor was off refilling sugar packets or stir sticks and had been replaced with a girl named Kaylee. Morgan ordered a coffee with two cream and two sugar, then asked to for it to be left on the counter while she used the bathroom.

“It’s out of service,” said Kaylee.

“It’s what?”

“Broken. Toilet flooded.”

“He never told me that,” said Morgan, jabbing her finger in Connor’s direction.

Connor glanced over his shoulder. “I forgot,” he said, avoiding her eyes.

“I have an emergency. See how pregnant I am? And I’m going to a funeral.”

“Shit,” said the girl.

“Is there a staff bathroom?”

“No. But I guess you could use the men’s?”

“Sure, that’s fine.”

“Really? It’s kind of gross.”

“I have no choice here.”

Kaylee gave Morgan the key and pointed her in the right direction. She hustled into a dimly lit hallway and tried not to touch the door knob while she jiggled the key in, just her pinky and thumb then a kick with her foot. Upon seeing the inside, she was filled with rage and then nausea and then panic. Why were men so disgusting? Why couldn’t they have a little respect? The toilet was covered in dark, exploded flecks. There was actual urine on the floor. On the floor! The smell burned her nostrils. She took a step inside and literally gagged. Even if she could manage to hold her breath long enough, she could not subject her baby to this filth. And she would have to take her pants down, too. She imagined the germs getting into her body through her butt or worse, making their way into the uterus.

She returned to the counter and threw the key down aggressively. She grabbed Gus’s coffee and flashed a look at Kaylee, who shrugged like, I warned you. It was true, thought Morgan, as she made her way back to the car, mind racing with possible options. What did she expect with the men’s room? She’d lived in this world long enough.

“What’s the matter?” asked Gus.

Morgan thrust his coffee into his hand.

“Drink it fast. I’ll pee into the empty cup.”

“But how? Where?” He looked around the car, looked into the backseat for a solution. “They didn’t have a bathroom?”

“Just drink and drive,” said Morgan.

Back on the highway, traffic was running smoothly and Morgan tried not to think about her bladder. She told herself that it was likely able to hold much more than was comfortable, like a suitcase with retractable pockets, more nooks and crannies always making themselves available as needed.

“Listen,” said Gus. “I was thinking about it; it’s possible your mom didn’t even get that email. It’s not like it goes to her phone or anything. I think she literally sits down to check her email at a desk. It probably wasn’t on her mind this morning.”

“Right.”

“Because today’s the funeral.”

“Right, okay, I get it.”

“So don’t even bring up the email. And don’t have the conversation! I bet if you don’t bring it up then she won’t bring it up.”

“Of course she’s not going to bring it up. That’s the whole problem. She never brings up anything. She just, you know, pushes it back into the…” She made a gesture with her hand. Pushing something away, behind her where she couldn’t see it.

“That’s exactly what you do,” said Gus.

“I know it is. I do it because of her. That’s what this whole thing is about. Are you even listening to me? I do it and my mom does it and her mom did it all the way back and back and back. I need to fix this before the baby comes so I don’t perpetuate the problem. I need to break the cycle, Gus.”

She could hear herself talking faster and faster.

“Morgan, your brother just died and it seems like you’re more upset about this whole mother’s wound thing.”

“Mother Wound, Gus. Singular.”

“Okay, okay, mother wound. But Morgan, how do you feel about your brother dying?”

Morgan didn’t know how she felt because she had pushed it out the window. It was no longer emotional check-in time. Nine-thirty had come and gone.

The baby kicked and she gasped, biting her lip.

“I think I just peed my pants,” she said.

“You did what?”

“Just a tiny little bit. Are you drinking your coffee?”

“It’s still too hot.”

“But I need the cup. Can you get drinking?”

“How are you going to pee in the cup in the car? You’ll spill it for sure.”

“I won’t. When we get to the funeral, just park far away where nobody can see. I’ll do it in the backseat.”

“Why can’t you just use the bathroom in the church?”

Morgan pictured arriving at the funeral, already on thin ice for opting out of the visitation. She pictured herself rushing past crying relatives to the bathroom before so much as a greeting. It would be frowned upon. It would be indecent.

“I’m doing it in the backseat, Gus! Whether you like it or not!”

Gus slammed on the brakes, a sudden traffic jam ahead.

Morgan groaned. “Can you not? I have to pee so bad. I’m starting to panic.”

“What am I supposed to do? It’s right there. It’s the next exit.”

“Drive on the shoulder.”

“Are you serious? What if we get a ticket?”

“Nobody’s going to hassle us. I’m pregnant.”

“It’s okay. We’re moving. We’re moving. Just hold on.”

The car started and slowed and started and slowed. Morgan peed her pants a bit more. Gus took sips of his coffee, grimacing, like he took no pleasure in it. She tried to relax when they finally pulled off the highway but it was really starting to hurt. She tried not to imagine what it would feel like to have her bladder explode. She tried to will the baby asleep so it wouldn’t move. One well-placed kick and everything would fall apart. How could she attend the funeral if she completely peed her pants? That would be worse than rushing past crying relatives to the bathroom. Her mother would never forgive her.

“It’s right there,” said Gus. “I see the church!”

“Is your coffee done?”

“I’ve barely touched it.”

“You’ll just have to dump it.”

Gus pulled into the parking lot. It was small. There were already plenty of cars and Morgan recognized her mother’s Ford Taurus. They found the spot furthest from the church but still, there wasn’t much privacy. They were in full view of the door where distant relatives were gathering.

“Okay, pour it out,” said Morgan, climbing over the backseat, one hand on her belly. The other gripped the headrest. She ducked behind the passenger seat and lowered herself into a sitting position. Wedged in, she started to pull down her nylons.

Gus opened his door a crack and poured his coffee onto the ground.

“You sure it’s going to be big enough?” he said, handing the cup over. “What if it overflows?”

“It’s not going to overflow,” said Morgan, but she had her doubts. She’d never emptied her full bladder into a medium coffee cup before and didn’t know what kind of volume to expect. From her position near the car floor she reconsidered her options. Where was the bathroom in relation to the front door of the church? Would she have to pass the coffin? And if she had to pass the coffin, could she? It seemed like the kind of thing that would stop a person in their tracks.

An image of her brother flashed into her mind again, eyes closed and mouth slack. She’d heard once that they sewed that stuff together—the eyelids and the lips. This was not a nice thought.

“Your brother just died,” she whispered. “It’s normal to have nightmares.”

“Your Auntie Jan,” said Gus.

“Huh?”

“Your Auntie Jan is headed right for us. And your mother.” He turned to look at her. “Morgan, your mother is coming.”

Morgan dropped the cup and strained upwards, struggling to free her belly and hips from the confines of the backseat. Something popped in her neck and she cried out.

“They’re really close now.”

“Get out of the car,” she shouted. “Stop them!”

Gus jumped up and fumbled with the door. After he slammed it shut behind him, the temperature seemed to go up a few degrees. It was suddenly too hot in there, too quiet.

Morgan maneuvered her body until she was on all fours. She reached back between her legs to pull her nylons to the base of her butt and then couldn’t get them up any further. After a glance at the front seat, she decided to escape out the side door instead. It took all the force she could muster to open it. Sunshine and fresh air pooled around her. She realized she’d been sweating. Her whole body was drenched. She took thick gulps, emerging on hands and knees like a nearly-drowned child.

She looked up, shielding her eyes against the sun, barely able to make out the silhouettes. There was her husband, her Auntie Jan. Her mother looked like an angel, with her angular features softened by the light, the way Morgan imagined someone might appear in heaven. She could hear them talking but their voices were muted, the words difficult to make out.

“Mama?” she said. It was the first time she could remember saying that word. Her mother had been Mom for so long. But Morgan felt like a child now. Or she felt like she was high. Or like she was dying.

“Morgan,” her mother said firmly, and everything snapped back into place; the harshness of sound; her mother’s sharp hips under an expensive but shapeless black dress. It was amazing how, even at her age, she managed to control her weight.

The baby kicked Morgan right in the bladder and she screamed and clutched her belly.

“Her water broke,” said her mother. “You have to take her to the hospital.”

“Her water what?” said Gus.

Morgan looked at the puddle between her knees and for a moment, worried she’d peed right there in the parking lot. But her bladder was still full. She could feel the now unbelievable pressure.

“It’s okay,” she said, trying to reassure her husband. “I still have to go to the bathroom.”

“It feels the same,” said her mother. She lowered her voice and hunched over so that she was only speaking to Morgan. “It feels the same as having to go to the bathroom.”

“No,” said Morgan. “It’s not the sitting down kind.”

Auntie Jan took a step backwards because it was not her way to involve herself in intimate conversations. Gus gave a little jump, got into the car and started it. He rolled the window down.

“Let’s motor,” he said.

Morgan’s mother took a hold of her arm and heaved upwards, but her frame was tiny and weak and not much help. Morgan had to do all the work. She noticed that her mother was holding a funeral program. On the front was a picture of her brother, smiling and very much alive.

“Are you having a contraction?” her mother asked, because Morgan had stopped quite suddenly, tensing up a little.

“No,” she said, although she wasn’t sure. She’d read all the baby books but really, what did she know about having a contraction? All she knew was that something was stirring, way back where she couldn’t see. The tears had been sitting there for nine months, reproducing, amassing an army. Now they shook themselves awake, got into a sloppy formation. They were all so stupid, thought Morgan. They didn’t have a clue about anything. Go ahead and come out. Would it be so bad? Her bladder was about to explode. She was in labour. She was so tired.

The tears began to march along, so slow and ineffectual. Morgan’s body swayed with the hup, two, three, four. Her mother said to Gus, “Just a second. She’s having a contraction.”

The tears marched right up to the precipice and then stopped, foolishly bumping into one another. The leader held up his fist like Morgan had seen a lieutenant do in a movie about the Vietnam War, the signal for stop and listen and be still. But these tear-soldiers were older than the Vietnam War. They wore silly hats from the eighteenth century. Retreat, said the leader, and they all turned around, bumping into each other again, confused, recalibrating. They went back into that dark place.

Morgan’s mother guided her to the passenger side. She was still holding Morgan’s arm, tight enough to leave a mark.

“But I still have to go to the bathroom,” said Morgan. “And it’s not the sitting down kind.”

“Go as soon as you get to the hospital,” said her mother. “I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

Morgan nodded, accepting this tenderness.

Her mother put her into the car like a careful deposit, then closed the door. It reminded Morgan of folding a shirt and placing it into an organized drawer. Afterwards, the house is clean.

Gus peeled out of the parking lot, back onto the main street and then the on-ramp to the highway. They were going back the way they came and Morgan still had to pee. It was like the funeral scene hadn’t even happened.

“It’s normal to move backwards in time,” she said.

“Huh?” said Gus. He was leaning forward, gripping the wheel and only half-listening. “You didn’t bring up that email, Morgan, did you?”

“It’s normal for your bladder to burst,” she said, holding the baby with both hands. “It’s normal to be strong.”

“Morgan? The email?”

It was normal to be her mother. It was normal to put things away. It was normal to be an army of tears, marching from darkness to light and back into the darkness again.

Emily Thomas Mani's novella, The Church of Wrestling, is available from Split/Lip Press. Her stories have appeared in long con magazine, SmokeLong Quarterly, The Forge Literary Magazine, and elsewhere. She lives in Toronto with her family.

Image by Omer Rana @omerrana