Rebecca

by Adam J Nicolai

  Rebecca's voice was cracking now, her throat shrieking so hard it was falling apart.

  What if Sarah forgot something? Something she needed, while she was out? She'd be trapped.

  The girl's screams dissolved into wild coughing, punctuated with snorts and wails. She fell silent for an instant, sucking in breath to renew the onslaught.

  Sarah had gone into debate rounds before without the evidence cards she needed, gotten surprised in the round, and still won. She could do this. She zipped the bag closed and started toward the bathroom to brush her teeth.

  Rebecca exploded, screaming so hard the walls rattled. Chasmal pain split Sarah's brain in half.

  Shut up! she wanted to scream back. Shut up, can't you shut up for five minutes? Five damn minutes!

  She stalked back into the living room. Rebecca had collapsed to the floor, her whole body taut with shrieking. Sarah snatched her up, stuffed her into the carrier. She didn't shut up; if anything, she screamed louder.

  "Here." Sarah pushed a pacifier - pink, spotted with hearts and flowers - into her mouth. The girl gagged, spit it out, kicked and screamed.

  There's no reasoning with her, some panicked part of her mind said. She won't shut up. She won't. She never will, she -

  But the rational part came back strong. It looked at her daughter as a problem; an argument to be refuted. You need to hold her. Shush her. The four S's, like they said at the hospital. Maybe she wants to eat. But the thought of putting her nipples anywhere near that thing again made Sarah want to vomit.

  It wasn't even 2:30 in the afternoon, and she could already feel that slide toward the hopelessness of nightfall.

  She grabbed the car seat and lurched down the apartment hall toward the front door, Rebecca screaming all the way. A man coming in through the front security door gave her a glare, as if she were somehow responsible for the noise.

  If I could shut her up, Sarah wanted to snap at him, don't you think I would?

  15

  Her beaten-up old Civic was a gift from her mother, just like the apartment; also like the apartment, it didn't have A/C. She rolled down the window and stuck her arm out, relishing the breeze.

  It was only a couple miles to Target. Minneapolis was packed with other, smaller places where she could probably get what she needed on the way, but she stubbornly drove past them. They were like bad photocopies of the places she was used to at home: the paper faded from sun exposure and the corners curling, the images dotted with old stains. She had tried one of them - a little convenience store - when she first moved, and the experience had left her feeling like she was poor.

  Besides, Target reminded her of the suburbs, of home. Shopping at the little no-name place just up the street felt like admitting she was never going back.

  The traffic lights cooperated. She only had to stop once. By the time she pulled into the parking lot, the roar of the wind through the open window had put Rebecca to sleep.

  I could just leave her while I run in. If the windows were rolled up, no one would take her. Even in Minneapolis, someone would notice a kidnapper breaking into a car to steal a baby.

  But it had to be ninety degrees outside, even worse in the car. The kid would probably suffocate, or overheat.

  Sarah imagined a news story, a trial, a year or two wasted while society churned her through the court system and ultimately decided she was just a kid who'd been careless.

  Then she'd have her life back.

  What would Mom say, if she knew I was thinking like that? What would Pastor Dennis say?

  What would Jesus do?

  She snorted. He wouldn't leave His baby to suffocate in an overheated car; then again, He wouldn't have gotten pregnant in the first place. As her mother had put it, this was her own fault for not keeping her legs closed.

  An old, reflexive anger reared up. I didn't want to sleep with Cal, she imagined telling her mother. I never did. I only wanted to get you off my back. You didn't want a lesbian daughter, and I couldn't convince you any other way. Is this better, Mom? Take your pick of daughters: dyke or whore?

  But Mom would've picked whore, of course. Wasn't that why she'd done it?

  She turned and peered into the back seat, at the baby's splotchy face and judiciously pursed lips: still judging, even while she slept.

  How painful was death by overheating? Was it like hypothermia, where you just drifted off?

  She gave a little jerk as she came to, aghast at the thoughts. That lady who drowned her kids in the bathtub - was this what it was like for her?

  "Nope," she muttered as she got out of the car. "Nope, nope, nope, nope."

  16

  She usually threw the diaper bag on the passenger seat, but it wasn't there. She checked the back seat, then the trunk. Empty.

  She had forgotten the goddamn diaper bag.

  "Fuck," she said. It just slipped out. Before this summer, she never used to swear. Tiff used to make fun of her for it. She wondered what Tiff would say if she could hear her now. They'd probably laugh about it together. "God dammit."

  Just go quick. Pull her out, run through, get back home before she wakes up.

  She plunged into the store's A/C like diving into a bucket of ice. She glanced down at Rebecca, still asleep for the moment, and for once felt like swaddling her had been a good idea. The cold would've woken her right away if she'd been exposed.

  She started to grab for a basket - she didn't need much - but with the baby carrier in one hand there was no way to keep a hand free for the shopping. She always used a basket, when she could. She used to mock her mother for taking a cart when she was just gonna be grabbing a few things.

  But the cart had a child seat in the back, where the carrier could be balanced fairly easily, so she grabbed one of those instead. As she got going, the front left wheel started to rattle like it had palsy. She shoved through the crowd toward the toiletries, shivering.

  She got the toilet paper and the toothpaste before she remembered the coffee, and had to double back. On the way she passed the baby stuff, and a little display of bottles labeled "Nipple Butter." She felt ashamed to grab one, like she was admitting she couldn't figure out how to breastfeed.

  As she tossed it in the cart she saw the shelf of formula.

  Breastfeeding was best for the kid. Breast milk had everything the baby needed; it even adapted as the child grew to provide the right nutrients at the right time. Kids who breastfed had better immune systems, higher IQs, even better social development. She'd done a lot of research on this, and nearly everything she'd found was borne out by the materials they gave her at the hospital. Breastfeeding was the right way to do it.

  But before the baby, she'd had no idea it was even possible for her breasts to hurt this badly. The fabric of her bra - one of the stolid white ones, the sexy ones she'd bought when she was dating Cal didn't fit anymore - scraped against her nipples like sandpaper. She was wincing constantly; she had to walk funny to try to keep her breasts as still as possible. At the hospital, they warned of "discomfort." They didn't tell you it would make you feel like crying.

  I already screwed up my whole life. Why does it matter if I do this part right?

  It didn't, really, but she left the formula where it was. She had always pushed for the A, always gotten into the high-performance classes, always made the break rounds at debate tournaments. Excelling was an old habit for her, and she couldn't abandon it easily - even if nothing mattered any more.

  17

  As her cart rattled toward the checkout lines, the corner of Rebecca's mouth curled up in a tight smile while she slept. It made Sarah's heart catch. She is pretty, she realized, but her mom's voice chimed in fast.

  "Oh, she's not smiling, Sare," she'd said at the hospital the day she came to visit. "They don't smile until at least six weeks. She's just got gas. That's a grimace. You did the same thing, when you were little."

  Sarah had had trouble believing it at first - the lop-sided grin was endearing and human, however b
rief it might be - but she had learned. She didn't want to get tricked again, so she smothered the joy in her chest.

  A ripping fart issued from the carrier, lasting so long it drew the eyes of other shoppers. The creature's fake smile collapsed. The pretty girl Sarah had glimpsed an instant ago disappeared, replaced by a screaming thing.

  Just check out, Sarah thought, her cheeks burning. Just get to the car. But when she rounded the corner, there was only one register open. The line stretched halfway back to the entrance.

  The person ahead of her - a greying man in a business suit - was on his cell phone. He glared, his lip curled. Can't you shut that baby up?

  She leaned in toward the carrier, into the creature's clenched screams. "It's all right," she whispered, but it didn't work. Sarah could never soothe the thing. It knew she didn't love it.

  Its screams redoubled. More people stared. Sarah bit her lip; her heart was racing. Eliza's voice played in her head: "And she was planning to attend Yale! Is this girl even fit to be a parent?" The audience booed.

  "All right. All right." She undid the buckle on the carrier's belt, her hands quivering, and reached around to pick the baby up. Its butt was wet. She shuddered with revulsion, jerked her hand back. The thing howled condemnation.

  The guy in the suit looked disgusted. "I'll have to call you back." He put his phone away and stared at her. Just stared, like she was a specimen in the zoo.

  "Okay. Rebecca, please. Come on." She tried again, this time by sliding her hands under its armpits, but it was wet there too: all up its back, into its hair, even.

  How was that even possible?

  She cast about for the bathroom, saw it at the other end of the store. She'd lose her place in line, but she didn't have a choice. She couldn't stand here with this shrieking kid. She grabbed the diaper bag and -

  Except she didn't have the diaper bag. She'd left it at home.

  Fuck! Tears boiled into her eyes; her heart convulsed with panic.

  It had been one trip - one fucking trip - and she couldn't do it.

  She snatched up the carrier and fled.

  18

  The heat slammed into her like the maw of hell. She ran to the car with the carrier bouncing in her hands, heavy with screams. The car door caught when she tried to open it, and the carrier nearly toppled to the pavement.

  This time, there was no respite during the drive. Rebecca was furious, hurling shrieks at her like javelins. Sarah's hands shook on the wheel. She wanted to scream. She jabbed at the radio, twisted the volume knob, and some horrible Auto-tuned pop song blared out.

  Rebecca's screams shredded the music into ragged strips.

  Stopped at a red light a block from her apartment, Sarah remembered agonizing over whether to buy a can of formula, and snapped out a laugh like a whiplash.

  Might as well have bought it. Might as well use it. Who am I trying to impress? The kid? It doesn't care. Mom? She thinks I'm an idiot. Who am I trying to impress?

  Yale?

  She slapped herself.

  The light turned green.

  19

  It had shit everywhere: down its legs, up its back, in its hair. There was shit soaked through the blanket and stained into the carrier seat. Sarah had shit on her pants leg. She didn't even know how it had gotten there.

  She left the thing screaming in the living room while she went to draw a bath.

  Her mom had bought her a big plastic tub; she was supposed to use that to bathe the kid, but she couldn't remember where it was. A cursory glance in the bedroom closet revealed nothing. The kitchen was empty. The front coat closet was empty.

  She hated this place. Growing up, she had occasionally gone to other kids' homes who lived in apartments. She'd always felt sorry for them. The place was too small, too cramped. Too poor.

  She didn't really live here; didn't know anything about it. It was a prison, worse than solitary confinement because it was never quiet and the thing would never shut up.

  Finally she stalked to the kitchen sink, plugged the drain, and started running warm water. Two memories hit her, suddenly, like strikes of lightning.

  The first was of an old Polaroid of her dad bathing her in the kitchen sink at the house. In the picture, she wasn't much older than Rebecca. Her dad was smiling. This was from years ago, before he'd left.

  The second was of her mother, looking down at her while she washed dishes. "We used to bathe you in this sink," she said. "Do you remember?"

  She was smiling, too: like she was recalling a happy memory, not a horror story.

  The visions struck Sarah dumb. She froze with her hands under the water until the creature's screams finally drew her back to the living room.

  20

  It howled all through the bath; it resented her for cleaning it. Afterward, it punished her with a savage attack on her ruined breasts. When it was finished, it released her and lolled its head back in disdain, asleep.

  She carried it to the swing and placed it inside as carefully as she could. When the machine had established a steady rhythm (creak, click), she retreated to her bedroom and cried.

  It started slowly, with silent tears streaking her cheeks as she lay in bed hoping for some sleep. But it grew in her chest until she was shuddering with sobs, fighting to keep quiet because she didn't want to wake the baby.

  She couldn't have explained when she had gotten on her knees. She didn't remember doing it. But she had, and now her hands were clasped, and she was whispering:

  "God, I screwed up."

  It was the first time she'd ever started a prayer with anything other than a formal "Dear Jesus." It felt irreverent and desperate, but she didn't even care anymore. That was how God wanted his followers anyway: desperate and willing to surrender. That's what Pastor Dennis always said. And she was truly desperate, but because this reflective thought flickered through her mind as she started her prayer, she suddenly felt like a big fraud, too.

  The tremble in her voice eased. "I really did. I had this baby, and I know that was the right thing to do" - she didn't, not anymore - "but I don't know what to do now. I'm... stuck here. I can't make it happy. I'm trying."

  My mom kicked me out of the house. A shudder of grief seized her; she shook it off.

  "When it eats, it hurts, and I don't know how to fix it. I don't know what I'm doing wrong. I've always been really good at figuring stuff out and now I don't know what I'm doing wrong."

  This time last summer, she had been spending every night with her friends. She'd been getting ready to go to debate camp in preparation for her senior year. She'd just met Cal for the first time, and his interest in her was driving Heidi crazy.

  "I... I miss my life, God. I don't feel like I should, but I do. I wanted to go to Yale. You made me smart enough to go. You let me get in. Why..."

  Why would you give me that gift and then yank it back?

  "How do I do this? How do I get through this? I don't know what I'm doing!"

  Pastor Dennis whispered: I surrender it to you.

  "I surrender it to you."

  Lord, we just place this problem in your hands.

  "Lord, I just place this problem in your hands."

  Your baby is not a "problem," Sarah. It's a gift from God. What is wrong with you?

  21

  Cal was behind her, shoving in, grunting and groping as she stared at the wall. She should have been enjoying it, she knew that - Heidi would be ecstatic to have him inside her like that - but she wasn't. Bored, a little. Mostly just nauseated.

  He could tell. Nothing he'd done had made her open up, but instead of trying something new or talking to her, he'd decided he'd tried enough and shoved on in anyway. He liked talking dirty, and now he was spitting it into her ear: things like, "Yeah, you like that, you slut," and, "You can't keep me out, you bitch."

  Why was she doing this? She didn't even enjoy it. And not just once, but over and over again.

  The bed creaked underneath them with every thrust, and then clicke
d back.

  Creak, click. Creak, click. Creak, click.

  22

  She started awake, a loud banging noise echoing in her ears. She didn't know if it had been real, or part of her dream.

  She snorted and coughed: made the kind of bestial noises people make when they're jerked awake. It was still light out, but the shades had grown dimmer. A glance at the clock showed that she'd been sleeping for three hours.

  It actually let me sleep for three hours?

  Then the banging came again. Someone was knocking on the front door.

  "Hang on!" she called. She swung her rusty legs out of bed, noticed that she was still wearing the jeans with the shit stains on them, and lurched toward the laundry basket of clean clothes in the corner. The pounding came again. She swore under her breath. "Hang on!"

  Bending over to pull her pants up made her stomach flinch. It still hurt from the abuse it had taken at the hands of the nurses trying to stop her bleeding. She was rushing, too, which made it worse.

  God dammit. She had actually been asleep.

  She finished changing and lumbered toward the apartment's front door, tore it open and snapped, "What?"

  Heidi was all done up: black skirt, heels, hair permed and lively. Bruce and Megan flanked her.

  At the sight of Sarah, Heidi recoiled. And I even changed out of my shit-stained jeans, Sarah thought, acidly.

  "What?" she repeated.

  Heidi recovered fast. "I told you what," she said. "We're going to Aqua."

  "I told you I'm not coming."

  Heidi rolled her eyes. "Isn't she sleeping? She'll be okay for a few hours."

  Sarah's jaw dropped. She wanted to say something, but she was actually speechless.

  "God, Heidi," Megan breathed. "Would you leave her alone? I told you she wouldn't be able to do this."