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The Babymaker

Jacob Allgeier

“I want my baby,” the woman said, shifting impatiently in the chair.

The Babymaker unzipped her duffle bag and rummaged inside. With a professional ease, she removed an assortment of infant-sized body parts like a birthing excavation: limbs, hands, feet, torsos, hair, eyes, noses, lips, and heads, all in an array of colors, sizes, and shapes. She set them in a line on the table, arranged by anatomical placement.

“Now what kind of baby are you looking for?” the Babymaker asked, clasping her hands on the desk and smiling.

“Hmm, I’m not sure.”

“Well,” the Babymaker replied as she ran her hands along her collection, “there is always the classic.” She grabbed a torso and attached pieces from each section, fitting them together like a living puzzle. Once a piece was attached, it would come to life, thrashing and kicking.

When finished, the Babymaker sat the newly assembled baby in front of the woman. It was a perfect child: flawless fair skin, shimmering blue eyes, shiny blonde locks, and a precious smile. The baby squealed in delight, squirming on the table in an irresistible charm.

“Is this your baby?” the Babymaker asked, extending an open hand in presentation.

“Hmm,” the lady bit her lip in thought. “Could you make the eyes green?”

“Why of course.” The Babymaker reached over and detached the head of the baby. With quick and meticulous movements she popped out the eyeballs with her fingertips, leaving a smiling and laughing head with two empty holes. Like putting coins in a slot, she slipped in two emerald eyes and returned the head to the body.

“Is this your baby?”

“Hmm. Make one eye blue and one brown.”

The Babymaker was confused, but obediently replaced the eyes.

“And make that leg a different color.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yes, make it brown.”

The Babymaker hesitated, but reluctantly yanked out the leg and replaced it with another, creating a two-toned child.

“Is this your baby?” The Babymaker was becoming irritated and perturbed.

“Hmm. No hands either.”

“If you want an attractive child...”

“And take out one of the eyes.”

“Ma’am, this would be...”

“The nose needs to sag more. Jagged teeth too.”

“Disgusting and...”

“And make the hair matted.”

“Stop!” Regaining her composure, the Babymaker folded her arms. “I won’t make such a thing.”

The woman leaned over the table and gritted her teeth. “I want my baby.”

Frightened, the Babymaker waded through the piles and got to work. Panting and cursing, she jammed the creation together in a violent fury, haphazardly fulfilling the woman’s twisted vision.

“Hmm. Yes. That’s better. Much, much better.”

Screaming, the Babymaker slammed the abomination on the table. It was a mess; a doll destroyed by a psychotic child; a flawed creation that no mother could ever love.

“This is your baby,” she snarled.

“Hmm.” The woman stared intently at the disfigured creature and smiled. “Yes it is!”

The new mother picked up her newborn, hugged it against her hip, and walked out of the room with a grin on her face.

The Babymaker swept the remaining pieces into her bag, took a deep breath, and sat quiet for a long time. She reached up to her eyes and popped one out. She gazed down at the eye and up at herself, rolling it through her hand, examining its artificial iris, a nauseating blue.

“This isn’t yours.”

The Babymaker began tearing at her body, ripping off her feet and legs and hands and arm, chucking them across the room, turning it into a battlefield of rejected and worthless parts. She twisted her head, ‘round and ‘round until it snapped off, fell on the floor, rolled into a dark lonely corner, and wept.