Bean Sidhe

Sweat beaded on Luna’s brow, her hair clinging in matted clumps. The Lamaze classes had been useless. There was no father to feed her ice chips or brush her hair back and tell her how beautiful she was despite the unbearable pain she was in.

The doctor smiled at her and snapped his antibiotic-sanitary latex glove at the wrist as he strapped them on for another routine delivery. “How are we doin’ in here?” he asked, not Luna, but the nurse attending to her.

“Six centimeters. She’s doing well. Aren’t you, doll?” the woman’s voice replied as she rose from behind the curtain the robe had made over Luna’s knees.

Oh yeah, doin’ real fine up here, Luna wanted to say. Just having a baby! Instead she exhaled “Good.”

“Good,” the doctor echoed.

The two medical professionals ducked under the makeshift curtain and Luna relaxed against the hospital bed, stroking her hair away from her eyes. Without the interruptions of either pain or people her thoughts began to drift over the plan.

She had gotten pregnant, that was obvious enough judging by the bulge before her. He was a one night stand, not important to her, except the fact that he had sperm. She had scouted out the club, dressed in her trendy Goth clothes, looking for the most happily depressed man. Sliding up to him and swaying seductively against his groin had been all she’d had to do to secure his genetic code.

Luna had been attractive ever since she could remember. It had brought too much attention for a while. Her teen years were somewhat gawky, and the attention had dissipated, but during college her beauty had bounced right back into place.

Instead of pink ribbons and strawberry-blonde curls, her college look had been sleek and scholarly. Her hair had grown darker and often a soft bun accented her grey A-line skirt and white blouse. Her wire-rimmed glasses completed the look and Luna liked to think they insinuated her deeper intellect. The style had hid her depression well, but often Luna would worry it was too severe and stereotypical.

“The naughty librarian,” her roommate had called her.

“I’m just going to class. I’m not trying to look like anything,” Luna insisted.

“Well, you still look sexy.”

None of her friends understood why she never kept a boyfriend, but Luna knew. Friends could join you at a restaurant for lunch, or to go clubbing. They were with you when you were happy. Her girl pals had no idea that her arms were covered in shallow scars.

But a boyfriend tended to be with you longer, in the night and in the silence. It was hard to keep someone like that from knowing your dirty little secrets.

“All right,” the doctor said, standing up. Looking at Luna he said, slightly louder and slower, like he was talking to a child, “You’re doing fine. I’ll be back in a little bit to deliver that baby, okay?”

Luna wanted to be sarcastic and rude, but she was so close to the end of it all that she just nodded at him and glared at the back of his smug, little white coat as he left.

Doctors were not her favorite people. She’d been going to psychologists since her parents divorced when she was six. They worried she would feel ‘like it was all her fault.’ Luna had been passed from one shrink to another like some small, Prozac-addicted crackwhore. She hadn’t been back since the university quack had told her she was just “suffering a case of the blues.”

No matter what medication she took she was always still sad. Some of the better meds had thrown her a little loopy. She had only made it through her senior year of high school because she was extraordinarily gifted. She’d turned down every AP class they had offered and missed enough school that the principal had threatened to not let her graduate, despite passing grades.

College had been no better, but Luna learned how to avoid class and still appear studious. Her final semester she only went to class fourteen times, but every professor thought she was taking twice as many classes and even admired her for being as attentive as she was.

For a while, Luna thought her depression came from her mother’s attitude and mindset. Maybe depression was inherited like her red hair. But combing through her family history had proven that her mother was just the tip of the iceberg. Alcoholism, child abuse and suicide peppered the family tree. Every branch had their story, but not one was happy. The women were all marked for their crying spells or ‘sickly’ nature.

Luna had done her research. She had started with birth and death records and accounts of her family in local papers which had led her to the genealogical records of larger cities and, making her way across the country, Luna had found they had emigrated during the potato famine. As she searched, Luna had decided that the best plan of action to get to the root of her depression was to find the roots of the family.

The trip to Ireland had cost her just about every penny she had earned while going to school. Her mother said the trip was Luna’s ‘graduation gift to herself.’ Luna had kept her mouth shut, knowing her mother hadn’t given her a gift at all, in addition not helping with tuition.

“Ow!” Luna sat up in shock.

“Don’t worry, Hun,” the nurse reassured her without looking away from the monitor. “The contractions are gonna get harder in this last part. You sure you don’t want any drugs? We could get an anesthesiologist in here real quick.”

“It’ll be fine,” Luna said, leaning back again. She’d figured the pain was part of the process, a necessary evil to freeing herself.

Ireland had taught her a great deal about herself and her family. They had been from all over the nation. She’d gone through the records as best she could, but it was harder to trace the female’s side of the tree than the male’s. Luna figured the depression came with the double X chromosome. All the males in the family were content with themselves.

Finally, exhausted from looking through emigration papers in a small, dank, dark library in ‘Poh-dunk-ville,’ she wandered into a hole-in-the-wall pub. Luna was extremely tired, and hadn’t spoken to many people during her trip, so she wasn’t much surprised when she started pouring her heart out to the bartender over her pint of Guinness.

“So that’s how I’ve ‘come to be in this local tavern,’” Luna ended with her finger in the air, a giggle supplanted by a hiccup.

“Sounds like your family might be from around here,” one of the locals piped up in his thick Irish accent.

He was an older man with white hair and a scrubby white beard. His wool scarf was askew and Luna was sure this was not his first stout. Still, he seemed harmless.

“I bloody hope so,” Luna said, proud of her use of local dialect. “I’ve been to too many of these little towns and just want to know one small answer.”

“You ever hear the tale of the banshee?” the local said, sloshing his beer at her.

“Tell me anyway,” she said, pointing hers at him.

He took a long gulp of the stout, set it down and began his tale.

“Well in tradition, mind you, women have always sang at funerals, going back thousands of years, before Ireland was Protestant or Catholic or having anything to do with England.

“But Legend has it that, for the five great Gaelic families,”

He stuck out his thumb and began counting them on his stubby fingers.

“The O'Gradys, the O'Neills, the O'Briens, the O'Connors, and the Kavanaghs, the lament was sang by a fae – that’s a fairy – a fae woman.

“She would appear at the time of the death claiming to be family. Being of great hospitality, the family would take her in.

“It’s said this fae was wracked and plagued by sorrow, a’ cryin’ all the time and such. But she appeared to be a beauty, albeit her eyes were always red and puffed.

“At the gravesite, the long lost cousin would begin to sing. Her song would start out beautiful, like an angel were singing, then it would take a darker tone – people would begin to stare – finally it would end in a shrill scream, the likes of which no one on earth has heard in this day and age.

“She appeared the beauty until her song were ended, then the people would see it for what it really were – a hag.”

The man grabbed his glass and banged on the bar hard.

“Another round for me an’ me friend here, Shamus!” he roared, clasping a hand around Luna’s shoulder.

Handing them the Guinness, the bartender looked at her. “Colin’s not causing you any trouble now is ‘e?” Shamus grinned at her.

She shook her head, uncomfortable with the sudden flood hospitality. Her hair earned her credit from the locals, but her accent betrayed her nationality. Mostly they had been courteous, but their attitude had never been so accommodating.

Not the next day, or the next did Luna give any thought to the legend. But as Luna stood in the airport waiting for her flight home, a bookstore caught her eye. The latest bestsellers and current magazines boasted on the front shelves.

Her flight was delayed, and Luna ventured through the store for some time. In the far corner, tucked behind the keychain display, there was a table displaying local fairytales. On one of these children’s books was a picture of a dark-haired woman clothed in a tattered dress, her mouth forming a wail. The cover read, Banshees, Brownies and Other Beasties.

Luna added it to her hand basket.

“Just in case,” she said, winking at the girl behind the counter and smiling to herself at her newly acquired Irish nature.

Trapped on the plane, Luna rummaged through her notes. Women from each of the great Gaelic families were in her ancestors’ line. The children’s book listed the five great families, but under a different heading. Under banshees Luna read:

Banshees are fairy women who scream when people die. It is said that on a cold winter night if you hear a banshee scream, someone in your family will die. No one knows where banshees live. No one knows how to stop them from screaming. But when one does, it is sure to be heard by the family it haunts.

“Dammit,” Luna whispered to herself. “Why did I have to be drunk when he told me about them? I could have asked how to break the curse.”

Luna’s seatmate grunted in his sleep and rolled to face the window he had shut. She rolled her eyes and read her book in silence for the duration of the flight.

“Luna! Honey,” her mother greeted her at the terminal with open arms. She held up her left hand, the new ring sparkling in the florescent light. “Guess who’s getting married.”

“For the forth time?” Luna asked.

“Well this time will be different,” her mother prattled as Luna gathered her three suitcases, without help, from baggage claim. “My happiness should be your happiness you know.”

The phone calls in the middle of the night were not Luna’s idea of happiness. Her mother constantly had a new idea for ‘the blessed event.’

“We could release white doves from the back of his pickup as we leave the church,” her mother’s voice tinned over the phone.

Luna grunted a response and her mother babbled from the nightstand where Luna laid the receiver. The voice continued in an excited tone while Luna, half-dozing, tried to focus. The clock blinked a harsh digital light against her eyes. Putting on her glasses, Luna groaned.

“Did you know it’s 3AM?” she asked, grabbing the phone and wishing it was her mother’s throat.

“Of course, Honey. This is when I get off work. Remember?”

Luna covered her eyes and placed the phone back on the table. The calls kept her from sleeping, but they gave her time to think. An occasional “Yes” or “That sounds nice” kept her mother merrily chatting away while Luna thought about the family tree.

After long thought, it occurred to her that the women only seemed to be depressed as long as they were the last girl in the line. Her mother had seemed a happy woman her whole life. It was only when Luna started college that her mother talked about how miserable she was before Luna had been born.

“Of course when I married your father I was already pregnant with you,” the voice on the line was saying.

Luna picked up again. “Were you happy when you were pregnant?”

Her mother was quiet for a moment. “Sort of. You were such a horrible pregnancy. I was sick day and night. And then we couldn’t get to the hospital in time. You were nearly born in the back of a truck. . .”

Luna held the phone to her ear and smiled. Not listening anymore, she snuggled deeper under the covers. All she had to do was pass the curse on to the next in line and she’d be happy.

“All right, ten centimeters, ready to go?”

The doctor looked up at her from the robe. Her feet were white, pushing against the stirrups with her heels. The pain of labor surprised her. Luna had had an easy pregnancy.

Her mother had been disappointed when Luna told her she was pregnant.

“What will all my friends think? How are you going to fit into your maid of honor dress? How could you do this?” Her mother stood on the platform in her wedding dress, flicking away the seamstress at her heels.

“Yes, Mom I did it to ruin your wedding.” Luna sighed.

“Do you even know how difficult a pregnancy is? You don’t even have a boyfriend. Who’s going to take you to the hospital?”

Her mother’s stories had gotten worse, recounting the pain and agony she had been through bearing Luna.

“It’s going to hurt and it’s going to take forever. Just make sure you get to the hospital early. Your father couldn’t even do that for me. Of course, you won’t have to worry about that will you?”

After a while Luna wondered if her mother wanted her to think the baby might claw its way out into the world.

Perhaps it was Luna’s undying joy that she was finally going to be free of her depression that kept the pregnancy easy, but as she drove herself to the hospital the pain had started.

The contractions had been like a fist tightening around her uterus at first. They were unpleasant, like harsh cramps, but as time wore on they got worse.

As the haughty, little obstetrician leaned over her exposed nether regions, Luna held back a scream. It hurt. It hurt a lot. And the pain was building.

Soon it would all be over though. Her daughter would be the depressed one, and she’d try to make it easy for her. Goths liked being depressed; hopefully the baby would take after her father. Luna would be a good mother, attentive and caring. She’d spoil the little girl if she could. She’d be so grateful.

The pain bit into her and Luna whimpered, and then moaned.

“All right, push now,” the young doctor said.

Luna heard him, but the pain was awful. Her knees buckled and her bottom sagged.

Push he says, she thought to herself. I’d like to see that washed out little college brat do this. Probably never had a minute of pain in his whole life!

Luna cried out in pain.

“Push, Luna,” the nurse said, taking the younger woman’s hand. “You have to push to bring your baby into the world.”

Luna grabbed the woman’s hand and pushed hard. The pain ripped through her hips, but it was a good pain, as if she could feel all her emotional pain was passing through her at the same instant. Luna heaved a sigh of relief as the baby cried out.

The nurse beamed down at her. “You did good, Honey, you did good.” The woman patted her hand.

The baby squealed as the nurses and doctor’s aides cleaned it off and sucked gunk out if its nose. The doctor, looking a tad less conceited, Luna thought, handed her a bundle in a little blue blanket.

A blue blanket? Luna thought, still dazed. Blue?

“Congratulations Ms., it’s a beautiful baby boy.”

“A boy?” Luna asked.

“Yes, 6 lbs. 4oz.”

Luna’s face was hot and the air was thick. She couldn’t seem to breathe. “Are you sure?” she wheezed.

“Are you okay, Dear?” the nurse asked.

The doctor checked her vitals; all seemed fine.

“A boy?” Luna pulled the blanket back, revealing a tiny, wrinkled face with blue eyes staring up at her.

“Yes, he’s a boy. Didn’t you know?” the nurse looked concerned.

Every part of Luna seemed to be on fire. Her rage was so deep. She looked at the baby. It wasn’t his fault; she tried to tell herself as she took him from the nurse. She had been overconfident it would be a girl. It had to be.

Thinking back to her ultrasounds Luna remembered the nurse asking her.

“Do you want to know what sex it is?”

“Oh no,” she had replied. “I already know.”

“I already know,” Luna repeated with a weak voice, holding the baby.

She began to hum a soft song, intending to let the baby know she loved him anyway. Her anger still pulsed through her. The air around them seemed charged with ethereal electricity. An uneasy calm filled the room, and the doctor and nurse exchanged glances.

In Ireland, at the very same pub Luna had visited not a year before, Colin O’Brien, a gentleman of older years, clasped his arm. The pain was sharp and breathing was painful. He felt like a vice gripped his chest and wouldn’t let go.

Luna’s lullaby grew deeper, lower and darker. Slowly the song built, the melody becoming lost in Luna’s fury, she screamed her rage to the world. The doctor and the nurse fled, ears covered and fear plastered over their sweet southern faces. The newborn screamed too, his tiny face mottling red and purple as his mother’s song rang out. Long and loud, Luna screamed, a slow mournful cry, until at last, clutching the baby, she collapsed into sobs.