{"id":146,"date":"2026-04-07T22:58:11","date_gmt":"2026-04-07T22:58:11","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-2\/?page_id=146"},"modified":"2026-05-01T19:15:05","modified_gmt":"2026-05-01T19:15:05","slug":"the-only-one","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-2\/fiction\/the-only-one\/","title":{"rendered":"The Only One"},"content":{"rendered":"

Racheal Fest<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIf you\u2019re an only child, your parents didn\u2019t like having kids,\u201d Felicity says. <\/span>In her too-short bellbottoms, she is tall and serious, but only for a moment, suspended\u00a0 <\/span>there on the curb. The school bus is pulling away behind her, its windows full of round faces, <\/span>some somber as death, others comically, stupidly alive, laughing outsize, mouths agape. The <\/span>jangle and purr of hijinks, of menace, is just audible on the other side of the glass. Now, Felicity\u2019s <\/span>posture breaks, her spine goes long and loose, and her face cracks, the scant teeth staggered like a <\/span>pumpkin\u2019s.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cOh really?\u201d I take her hand. Bright leaves stir over the sidewalk.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s what Tana said.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

We\u2019re just walking down the block, very normal, but Felicity is moving like something on strings, a puppet, an angel.<\/span><\/p>\n

Tana has three brothers.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cBaby, no,\u201d I tell her. But maybe, yes?<\/span><\/p>\n

I always wanted kids. Two. The correct number.<\/span><\/p>\n

You have the first one for you<\/em>, Betsy told me the day after I gave birth to Felicity. My <\/span>sister-in-law had called to ask when I planned to have the next one. <\/span>You have the second for the first.<\/em> Dutiful, selfless, Betsy had formed inside herself and pushed out into the world two babies in as many years.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cCan I have a little sister?\u201d Felicity asks.<\/span><\/p>\n

My heart folds in on itself like paper.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat would you name her?\u201d To pose this question to an adult would be cruel, but Felicity traverses imagined futures as easily as she does rooms inside a house.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cCarabiner!\u201d She doesn\u2019t hesitate.<\/span><\/p>\n

It\u2019s not that I didn\u2019t want another one. I did. Still do, although, at forty-six, I consider the question settled. No, it\u2019s only that I never again felt ready to have another baby, not after Felicity. Felicity, this precocious, caring, elegant child, who now plays cello and reads books aloud to me at night and asks me how my day was, entered this world ready to rule it. Her demands were simple, if unceasing. You would hold her. You would walk her about. You would nurse her, cuddle her, bounce her. And above all, you would not rest. Never would you rest.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cCarabiner,\u201d I repeat. \u201cOriginal.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Back then, I kept telling myself I would do it. I was going to do it soon. I didn\u2019t mind being pregnant. I didn\u2019t hate it. And Brian was willing, expectant even.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWe can call her Bean.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

My heart, my heart, paper in a fist.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cCarabiner? Did Daddy put you up to this?\u201d Daddy\u2014Brian\u2014is a rock climber, a chiropractor, a saint.<\/span><\/p>\n

No, this is my fault.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cDaddy?\u201d Felicity seemed really to consider the possibility. \u201cOh, no. Not Daddy.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

It isn\u2019t that I have a career, not really. My job, like everyone else\u2019s, is email. I read them. I write them. I circle back to them and write some more. Every other night and on Sundays before 10 AM, sure, I go out to the ceramics shed and throw some tall forms on the wheel.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cMama?\u201d Felicity says. She can never just ask a question outright.<\/span><\/p>\n

I look down into Felicity\u2019s face. Her hair is cream, flax. It curls about her cheeks, which are ripe and rosy. Big eyes ashine. The nostrils are delicate, mobile. To look upon her for even an instant is to die the death of the deepest, purest pleasure. She is astonishing, perfect. It\u2019s incomprehensible that she is mine. And yet, to love her fully is to live, too, in dread, to carry in my breast through the quotidian ecstasies of our days together the terror of sudden loss, possible, impossible, unsurvivable. Felicity can never die. Nothing bad will ever happen to her. She will live on, complete and serene, until the heat death of the universe.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYes, baby.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Felicity runs up the steps. There should be four legs running, six, ten, an army of them, a pack, all variations on the same exquisite face, arms entwined, voices blending, each helping the next, urging each other up and on and away and into a future they own, they are.<\/span><\/p>\n

But it\u2019s only Felicity, all alone at the door. She stops outside and rings the doorbell, like she always does.<\/span><\/p>\n

I open the door for her, and we go inside the house.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat are you making for dinner?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I suppose Tana is right, in a way. It\u2019s not that your parents didn\u2019t like having you, personally, you poor, lonely only child. No. They love you, doubtless, bigger than the moon.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWell, to tell you the truth, I\u2019m not sure. We\u2019ve got Carl\u2019s birthday party tonight.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

But having kids<\/em>? Like, as an experience? No, maybe your parents didn\u2019t like that.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cOh yes!\u201d Felicity squeals. \u201cCarl!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Felicity loves a party. Me? Give me some cold, wet clay to warm between my palms. I\u2019m awful. But no. Brian\u2019s at the office late, trying to resolve every last musculoskeletal crisis in Oneonta before the weekend.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cCarl\u2014\u201d She\u2019s kind of singing now. \u201cCarl, Carl, Carl.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cSo this Carl guy,\u201d I say. \u201cWhat\u2019s his deal? What does he like?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Carl is in Felicity\u2019s class at Greater Plains Elementary. We don\u2019t know him, or why he shares a name with grandpas, or why his birthday celebration has been scheduled for Friday evening at 5:30 PM. Saturday, Sunday, those are the conventional days to rejoice, at least among the second-grade set.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cUmmm\u2026.\u201d Felicity\u2019s forehead contorts. Her every machination, every rumination, makes its way to the surface of her face. When do children lose this corporeal transparency? \u201cHe likes bats? And crows. He really likes crows.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cActual bats,\u201d I say. \u201cActual crows.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYeah. Or fake ones, I think. Maybe, like, a picture of a crow.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cOkay,\u201d I say. \u201cWe\u2019ll stop at the bookstore downtown on the way.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I\u2019m feeling hopeful. Luckily for Carl, it is October.<\/span><\/p>\n

*<\/span><\/p>\n

Carl is holding his party at Noah\u2019s World, a makeshift play place somebody\u2019s grandma put together in a carpeted section of a warehouse. There is a ball-pit in an inflatable pool. There are monkey bars. Old arcade games. A very large dollhouse. A makeshift kitchenette. Several slides, some tubular, some open. Once, the swing in back fell down and hurt a girl on her birthday. And yet, we forgave. We had to. We know how lucky we are to have this space, cobbled together from the best this town in the middle of nowhere has to offer. Soon, the cold will set in, and we will have to keep our children, each one of them bursting with the energy of a million suns, inside our houses all day long.<\/span><\/p>\n

In the foyer, Felicity throws off her boots. She spots Tana, her best friend, and they run to each other, hug violently, wrench apart, each one dancing manically, crazy, until they join hands like prizefighters and disappear into a green plastic tube.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cPut your shoes in a cubby!\u201d I call after them, pointlessly. This is why nobody likes parents.<\/span><\/p>\n

I look around for the snacks. At a good party, you\u2019re going to get carrot sticks, broccoli, ranch dip, maybe even hummus, some mottled cheese cubes. Worst case scenario? Individually wrapped packets only kids like: Fruit-By-The-Foot (I refuse to measure fruit using this metric), Scooby-Doo-shaped honey grahams (bland), nacho-flavored Doritos (come on, at least throw in a couple bags of Cool Ranch?).<\/span><\/p>\n

This party has none of the above. It\u2019s dinnertime, and yet, there is no food on the long table in the dining area. I\u2019m\u2026chastened? Horrified? Intrigued?<\/span><\/p>\n

Who is Carl? And where are his guardians? I look around in a bid to determine who\u2019s in charge here. Not that I\u2019m going to give anyone a stern talking-to. I just want to judge quietly.<\/span><\/p>\n

The parents are standing around on the outskirts, some chatting, others peering desperately into their phones. No place is worse for talking, even to your parent-friends, than a kid\u2019s birthday party. Against the standard backdrop of shrieks and mandatory amusement, you just can\u2019t get into the weeds with any of the interesting stuff\u2014small-town politics (too involved), divorce (inappropriate), movies (no one has ever seen any of the same ones). Someone might overhear you, or you\u2019ll get interrupted exactly at the good bit, or you\u2019ll learn your acquaintance stands on the wrong side of the proposed state services facility the city wants to build downtown.<\/span><\/p>\n

Nobody looks more responsible for what\u2019s happening here than does anybody else, and honestly, I\u2019m too hungry to face any of them. This is my own fault. I should have eaten something before we left the house. We\u2019ve all been here before, at a meal-time party without enough food for the adults. This is our lot. I know better. And yet, this is the first party I\u2019ve been to without any food at all, for anyone. It\u2019s a mystery. There aren\u2019t any decorations, either. I\u2019m starting to wonder if Carl and his family are here at all.<\/span><\/p>\n

I duck into the dark little room behind the air hockey table and fish around in my purse for a granola bar. I\u2019ve got some Altoids, a cough drop, a packet of tissues. I open the tin of mints and scrape a couple out.<\/span><\/p>\n

I\u2019m leaning back against the wall, letting the sharp, chalky discs dissolve on my tongue, when I hear it.<\/span><\/p>\n

Someone in here is breathing. Sniffling.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHello?\u201d I call.<\/span><\/p>\n

The room is moody, atmospheric, lit with string lights, a towering lava lamp, a projector casting weird shapes in the corner. Bean bags scatter the floor. Glowsticks hang from the ceiling like stalactites.<\/span><\/p>\n

Sniffle. Huff. Sniffle. And then, a miniature hiccup, so sad, so innocent.<\/span><\/p>\n

I follow the sound to an egg-shaped chair.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHello?\u201d This time, I whisper it.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHi,\u201d says the tiniest voice I\u2019ve ever heard.<\/span><\/p>\n

I bend down and peer into the egg. A boy is curled inside, his socks pulled halfway off his long feet. He\u2019s wearing a sparkly t-shirt with a dinosaur on it. His eyes are puffed and dark, like he\u2019s been crying for hours. When I look at him too intently, he covers his head with his hands.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHey, buddy,\u201d I say softly.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHi,\u201d he says again.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou okay?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cTobbyenbess told me I have to stay here.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cTobby?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cTobby and Bess!\u201d He\u2019s frustrated, trying to communicate with someone so stupid. \u201cTobby and Bess told me I have to stay here or else it won\u2019t happen.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat won\u2019t happen, bud?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

The boy\u2019s eyes are wide now, frightened. He turns his mouth into the cushion.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cMmm rthhhh,\u201d he says, voice dropping an octave.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cMy birth,\u201d he shouts. His mouth is still in the pillow, but the words are clear.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou mean your birthday? Honey, is this your party?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNo,\u201d he says. \u201cI mean, yes. It\u2019s my party. But Tobby and Bess says I have to stay here. If I don\u2019t, I could mess everything up. And then I won\u2019t be born.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

The hiccups come back, stronger this time.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cCarl,\u201d I try out his name.<\/span><\/p>\n

The boy is crying again.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cCarl\u2014\u201d I try to stay patient, soothing. \u201cHoney, you\u2019ve already been born! How else would you be here now, celebrating your birthday?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Being born is one of life\u2019s most definitive events. It is not ambiguous. I gave birth to Felicity. I should know. The membranes tear open. You become bigger than you ever thought you could. You get very close to death. And then, there are two. You and baby.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou don\u2019t understand,\u201d Carl says. \u201cI have to wait here. For Tobby\u2014\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAnd Bess,\u201d I say. \u201cYes, I understand.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

These have to be Carl\u2019s siblings, his older brother and sister, maybe, who enjoy terrorizing him because he is young.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cCarl, what do you think about me helping you with Tobby and Bess. I can try and find them for you. We can get this sorted out. Are they here?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhere?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHere,\u201d I say again. Now I\u2019m confused. \u201cAt Noah\u2019s World.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know.\u201d Carl wipes the snot from his nose with his bare wrist.<\/span><\/p>\n

If Tobby and Bess are not siblings, who are they? Phantoms? Mice?<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat about your mommy? Is she here? Or your daddy?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cMama? Oh, no. Tobby and Bess says I can\u2019t tell Mama a thing about this.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cOkay,\u201d I say. I\u2019m a little worried now. \u201cOkay. Carl, we\u2019ve got to get this sorted out. You\u2019ve got to get born today, you know that. You stay here, buddy. I\u2019ll be right back.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I\u2019m not sure what I intend to do. Maybe Felicity can help. Only children are rumored to be spoiled, self-centered, but Felicity is a generous friend and an eager helpmate. Perhaps she will know more about Carl, about his potentially toxic dynamic with his big brother and big sister, or with his own personal ghosts. She\u2019s never mentioned a troubled friend, though.<\/span><\/p>\n

Flustered, concerned, I rush back out into the main play area.<\/span><\/p>\n

I don\u2019t get very far.<\/span><\/p>\n

The folding table along the wall, I notice at once, has been converted into a long and elaborate grazing table, crowded with sliced cheeses, smoked meats gathered into the shapes of flowers, cubed fruits, veggies speared and stacked, artisan spreads. A lithe, gorgeous woman in knee-high boots and a leather mini skirt is pouring sparkling apple cider into plastic champagne flutes and garnishing them with orange wheels. She looks exactly like Carl.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cExcuse me,\u201d I say, approaching. She\u2019s so beautiful, I\u2019m almost nervous. I should have at least worn baggy jeans and a nice leather sneaker. I didn\u2019t even bother to put on my good leggings for this. \u201cAre you Carl\u2019s mother?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Of course she is.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHello, yes!\u201d she exclaims, and holds out a hand. \u201cI\u2019m Loretta.\u201d I accept her fingers with the wrong part of my palm and shake a little. \u201cThe birthday boy\u2019s got to be around here someplace.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cActually, that\u2019s the problem,\u201d I say.<\/span><\/p>\n

Loretta\u2019s cheeks go white, as if I\u2019ve struck her.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNo, no! I mean, no. Sorry. Carl\u2019s all right. He\u2019s just, well, he\u2019s hiding in the other room.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Loretta\u2019s features soften. \u201cOh my goodness. Yes. My shy boy. I knew this was going to be tough for him. But he wanted to do it. Mama<\/em>, he said to me, children are supposed to have birthday parties.<\/em> Isn\u2019t that the sweetest thing you\u2019ve ever heard?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIs it his first time celebrating his birthday?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m afraid so. His one and only party! I mean, it\u2019s his first time celebrating outside of the house. I think I might have been even more nervous than he was. He\u2019s just, well, Carl can be a bit dramatic, let\u2019s put it that way. And then, of course, the catering was late.\u201d Loretta glances with a mix of resentment and relief at the table. Never before have I seen anything remotely approaching catering at Noah\u2019s World. The two concepts are incongruous, opposed.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cTobias! Bethany!\u201d Loretta calls out. \u201cCome and find your brother for me!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cTobby and Bess,\u201d I say to myself.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s that?\u201d Loretta looks concerned.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNothing. Nothing,\u201d I say.<\/span><\/p>\n

Two tiny children climb out of the ball-pit in the corner and come running toward us. They look confoundingly alike. It\u2019s hard to tell which is the boy and which is the girl. Not that it matters. I\u2019m just curious about who answers to Tobby and who to Bess. In any case, they can\u2019t be older than four.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhere\u2019s Carl?\u201d Loretta asks them.<\/span><\/p>\n

Tobby looks at Bess; Bess, at Tobby. Doubtless, these two are twins. They\u2019re both clad in white knit with green trim, as if they\u2019ve just stepped off the tennis court, or out of a catalogue for a private boarding preschool in the Berkshires. I feel a dark thrill. They don\u2019t know it, but I\u2019m privy to their illicit power already, these diminutive, androgenous nymphs, who, if Carl is to be believed, wield over a fully formed human being the power of birth and unbirth, emergence and miscarriage.<\/span><\/p>\n

Tobby and Bess shrug. They are untroubled, their eyes empty, their skin smoother than milk. Neither one of them says a word.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWell?\u201d Loretta prompts. I can hear running below the word an undertow of annoyance so deep, it\u2019s been carving its path inside her for years.<\/span><\/p>\n

Without warning, Tobby and Bess flee. They hold hands. I watch them run to the little room over to the side, where I know Carl is huddling deep inside his egg-shaped chair, waiting to be born. They know it, too.<\/span><\/p>\n

I guess every one of us is alone, ultimately. Or at least, Carl isn\u2019t any less alone than Felicity is? Tobby is, probably\u2014less alone. And so is Bess? The two of them, you can tell, will always have each other.<\/span><\/p>\n

Felicity runs over to the grazing table and grabs a whole plum, which she manages to fit almost entirely inside her mouth. Tana, who follows close behind her, just stands there, looking and looking.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWow,\u201d she whispers, her voice sweet with longing.<\/span><\/p>\n

Everyone is the only one,<\/em> I say to myself. No one is the same as anyone else.<\/em> This platitude\u2014from commercials, from greeting cards, from the Constitution of these United States\u2014hits me for the first time like a truth.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHave some crackers, girls,\u201d Loretta is saying. She loads a handful of buttery disks onto a plate shaped like a trio of bats. \u201cAnd do me a favor. Bring these in for Carl. I think he might be lonely.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

In some ways, though, we are, aren\u2019t we? All the same.<\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Racheal Fest \u201cIf you\u2019re an only child, your parents didn\u2019t like having kids,\u201d Felicity says. In her too-short bellbottoms, she is tall and serious, but only for a moment, suspended\u00a0 there on the curb. The school bus is pulling away behind her, its windows full of round faces, some somber as death, others comically, stupidly… <\/p>\n

Read more The Only One<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":89,"featured_media":0,"parent":17,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-146","page","type-page","status-publish","entry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-2\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/146","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-2\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-2\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-2\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/89"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-2\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=146"}],"version-history":[{"count":4,"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-2\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/146\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":397,"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-2\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/146\/revisions\/397"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-2\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/17"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-2\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=146"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}