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Immaculate Conception

The strains of Vivaldi’s Gloria fade away, to silence. Perhaps the CD has finished, or the gallery curator tired of continuous background noise, but the gallery is now as still as night. She is the only one in the room, perhaps the entire building, and as the quiet engulfs her, she remembers the last time she had visited this exhibition. Barely six months ago, but what seemed like a lifetime had passed since then. She tries to concentrate on remembering him, to picture his face; but something is niggling at her mind, distracting her.

It succeeds in gaining her attention, and upon opening her eyes, she notices the painting of a mother with three babes in front of her. She swears that five minutes ago she was looking at a post-modernist representation of a feminist tomato sauce bottle, but then again, she cannot be sure. The more she looks at the painting, the more she feels drawn to it, like someone (or something) means for her to stop and look at it; drawn to the mother, drawn to the babes. She hears an ever-so-quiet whisper, but then silence. Frightened, she whirls around, but there is no-one there. She tells herself not to be so foolish, that she didn’t hear anything; but there it is again.

A whisper, ever-so-faint, yet with determination, and, well, urgency. “Mother,” it whispers. “Mother”. She shivers, and looks hard at the painting. Her gaze is drawn to the mother’s eyes; they seem bigger than before. She blinks, once, twice. It’s almost as if the mother is looking at her. She turns back, remembering an art college painting technique, used to make subjects’ eyes seem to follow the viewer around the room. She starts to walk away; yet she can’t. She looks back at the painting, and the mother’s eyes, and almost faints. There is a tear on the mother’s cheek.

Rubbish, she thinks. The painting is not crying. It was there beforehand and I just didn’t see it and I was only hearing things anyway. But in her heart she knows the woman is crying. “Mother,” it whispers again, and she knows, feels now, as if a ray of light had suddenly shone on her from the heavens, what the mother means. “Mother. You should be a mother.” And another tear rolls down her cheek, onto the babe she is nursing. An immense wave of guilt engulfs her as she looks at the babes. She tells herself, almost fiercely, that she is not going to have an argument about abortion with a painting. She’ll go home and have a nice cup of tea and two Valiums.

But as she does, a familiar lump rises in her throat. She sinks to her knees, although reluctantly, still transfixed by the mother’s gaze. She stares in awe as the three babes cling even tighter to their mother, cling to the safety she provides. “You should be a mother” the painting says again, and their tears mingle; mother’s and would-be-mother’s, woman’s and painting’s. Her thoughts become a mantra, I’m so sorry I’m so sorry I’m so sorry.....

For minutes, hours, until she is exhausted. And she is sorry, with all her heart, body and soul. She never meant for this to happen, for him to be killed, for her to be pregnant and then lose her job. The mother looks at her, her eyes are now compassionate, forgiving. “We know you are sorry. You have been forgiven, my child.” The babes turn and smile at her. “We will see you again,” they whisper, excitedly yet knowingly.

“Excuse me, Ma’am?” a gruff voice says behind her. She jumps. “Oh! You scared me.” He glances at her tear-stained face. “Are you all right?” She composes herself. “I’m fine thankyou. I just.... I... ” but she can’t explain it, because paintings don’t talk to people, do they. “Well, we’re about to close now, so if you’d like to finish up...” “Thankyou.” She stands up, and has one last look at the painting. It’s the same as it was in the beginning - no tears, no babes smiling. And she sighs and puts it down as one of those things that just cannot be explained. Along with her immaculate conception of triplets, one month later.

This was written about a year ago, after I had a bit of a pregnancy scare.... Not pregnant ?? Try anyway....