Motherish

by Laura Rock

  The idea of these kids having kids. One night when they were definitely away, I scurried across the street and left my pregnancy manual on the porch. That girl needs help. Not that she’ll take it. I keep checking, though. The book is gone, but I’ve never seen her reading it.

  A couple weeks ago I realized that she hadn’t been around for a while, and then she returned, perfectly skinny, clutching her new responsibility. Now, she paces up and down the sidewalk and back into the house, her circumscribed perimeter. I haven’t seen the baby’s face, just swaddled blankets. The kid—the mother!—looks fourteen. Father tow-boy barely glances at her or the baby. Something unpredictable has grown between them. Nerves, accusation.

  The other afternoon, Stella stood next to the rocker as I nursed Hazel. Soon I’ll have to think about weaning, but not yet. The tugging at my breast, the flaming arrow to the groin as my milk let down and I settled into the task, unvalued by the working world yet indisputably necessary. I gazed at Hazel’s damp cheek, her face scrunched in concentration, put an arm around Stella, and pulled her close, and we made a tight trio. Stella told me her class was learning about things to be when you grow up. Careers, essentially. A word I can no longer pronounce without sneer quotes. Because I’ve chopped my career into tiny pieces? Because careerism is a dangerous illusion? I wanted to warn Stella that a career will never love you, but I stopped myself. She freed herself from my grasp and began hopping on one foot.

  “The teacher says I can be a fireman, or a nurse, or a chef, or actually anything,” she said, panting. I smile at actually. My bright girl. She came back to the chair and peered into my face. “How did you decide to be nothing?”

  How indeed? I should send that one to a magazine. As an editor, I took satisfaction in wrestling with other people’s words. A job too abstract for a child to understand—no uniform, I get that. I’m still laughing with my darling. And yet. I didn’t expect to be undone by the relentless need for my attention. I wasn’t a baby person before, but now I am. I regularly bore friends, former colleagues, and my lover.

  Fatima seemed fine earlier, but she’s sick again. This evening, as I was folding laundry, she sent a fax saying, ‘Fell out of bed, what a clumsy oaf! Not a good day, after all.’

  I quickly fax back, ‘Crazy busy over here. Never a dull moment. But can I get you anything?’

  Five minutes later, the incoming fax arrives. She needs milk. I curse Nilda, wherever she is. So she has a problem with our nuclear family configuration. Well, I have a problem with her free-spirit flights. She should try painting our neighbourhood; there’s plenty of life to witness right here.

  The fight has already started across the road, and it’s getting louder. A few extra guys hang with the tow-boys tonight. I check on the kids, grab my wallet, lock myself out, and run into the chilly dark. I’ve never left them home alone before. It’s not far to the corner store, but all the way I’m thinking headlines and jail time and public shame. What if there’s a fire? How long does it take for flames to spread in the old, close-set buildings on this street? Minutes, and I’d be out on the sidewalk. And Barbara away yet again. I almost fall to my knees.

  I buy the milk and stop at Fatima’s, try the door: unlocked. I call out and immediately feel foolish. I’ve never been inside before. The entrance is dark, surrounded by wood-panelled walls dimly visible in the light from a small round window on the landing of the stairs above me. That window jars me—the layout is the same as our place, and so I could climb the stairs and know which way to bedrooms, which to the washroom. I banish the sudden image of Nilda in her bed, waiting for me.

  Here I stand, shivering, my kids alone, and where’s the dog? What if this is some kind of trap? You read about these mishaps, where the mother intended to return right away, and no one finds the babes for days.

  A single light shines at the far end of the hallway. I step in, set the milk at the bottom of the stairs, back away. Run home, unlock my door with unsteady hands, lock it behind me. Charge upstairs to find Stella mumbling in her sleep, words I can’t make out. Hazel’s breath is deep and even, her face unperturbed. Thankful. Thanks.

  I return to the basement to send one last fax, checking off the Fatima obligation: ‘Left the milk inside, talk tomorrow. Feel better!’

  The fight across the street turns rough. An older guy comes out—father of tow-boys?—and starts yelling. Then the girlfriend appears—where’s the baby?—and pushes her man in the chest, shrieking. Soon they’re wrestling on the front lawn. The guys cheer them on.

  I cannot leave the window, must monitor the brawl. Should I call the police? Maybe someone else will call. Where is that baby? The older guy slowly sets his beer down and steps, unsteadily, between them. The girlfriend keeps coming, and he shakes her until she howls. The fighting’s never lasted this long. Poor babe. I hope it’s sound asleep. Noise doesn’t penetrate an infant’s skin the way it does mine. After a long time at the window, I finally go to bed, only to thrash fitfully, mired in dreams requiring me to be constantly vigilant.

  First light Saturday morning, a banging door wakes me. I stagger outside in my bathrobe to pick up the paper. The girlfriend stands across the way, hands on hips, surveying plastic milk crates filled with clothing, a line on the sidewalk. She glances over but doesn’t acknowledge me. Her lips are pursed, eyes puffy and red, and for once not edged in black, so she looks even younger than she is. Skin so pale: probably anemic. She doesn’t appear to be strong enough for any more drama, but she slams the door going in and out.

  I hope my babies stay in bed. Sometimes they’ll wake but not get up, chattering in their high voices, bed to crib to bed, and I’ll realize anew how lucky I am to hear their emergent conversations. Sometimes I want to hand Hazel to Fatima, give her a temporary fix of that life force, pure hope. I make tea, check on the progress outside. Only six. Her material possessions in six crates.

  The doorbell rings, jolting me to the entrance. CHILDREN SLEEPING, I want to shout. I open up warily, jamming my foot behind the door, to a skinny man standing on the porch. There’s something familiar about his sloping shoulders. He’s older but ageless—fifty or seventy, impossible to tell. He clears his throat, introduces himself as Fatima’s father, no name given. I look frankly into his face and identify her long nose and dark eyes. I pull my robe tighter, cross my arms.

  “I must you to tell.” He pauses, examining his shoes.

  He’s originally from Portugal, I knew that. Fatima told me the story of how he met Nilda, whose family is from the same village, while she was an exchange student in Lisbon. Long ago.

  “I feel it much to disturb this house.”

  I clutch the doorknob, mind running ahead to fill in the blank of this news: Barbara? No, that makes no sense. Nilda?

  “My daughter, she die.” His voice cracks at the end. He looks up at the ceiling of our verandah. “Night passada.”

  I fall back, hand over throat. His fingers cup his cheeks: he looks stricken, but also embarrassed to have to convey the bluntest of facts: shock strangled by propriety. I mouth sorrysorrysorry. A soundtrack in my head instructs me to invite him in, offer tea and sympathy. And somehow, I can’t. I don’t even know this man. There are babies to protect. How can I be sure it’s true? I see everything in this neighbourhood; I keep watch. He conned his way in, people will say later, and murdered the children in their beds.

  And why did he come to me? As soon as the question arises, I know. My faxed pages—I see them, falling to the floor of the darkened house next door—have brought him. My breezy notes, the last received or not received. I can’t probe for details about her final moments. Poor Fatima. Before or after the milk delivery? I will never be able to ask this.

  His face betrays nothing further. I waver, mute, inadequate to this crisis. Finally he nods, walks through our gate, turns down Fatima’s walk, and enters her house.

  Creeping into the girls’ room, I cup
Hazel’s head in my hand and then crawl into bed with Stella. She turns over, presses her back into my front. A parent has lost a child. An adult child, sickly, but neither of those things would alter the magnitude of loss. Fatima, my semi-friend, my cipher: I didn’t really try to understand you.

  Morning doesn’t officially begin until the kids are up, but I pour cereal into plastic bowls, screw lids on sippy cups. I won’t tell them anything when they come for breakfast, not yet. God, how am I supposed to explain death to either one of them? If only Barbara were here. Why am I the one who has to handle everything? Would she come home early if I called?

  More noise: the clanking, chiming tow truck. I march to the window. Those people are hopeless. Both tow-boys loiter on the sidewalk, the baby’s father bearing a black eye. He puts on dark glasses, gets in, and runs the damned truck, imperceptibly adjusting its angle against the curb, honks the horn, gets out. They curse. Chocolate bars are opened, wrappers tossed on the ground; gloved hands test the winch. The brother steps into the street, reaches in the open driver-side window, and honks the horn. The girl comes out, hair in a raggedy bun, carrying the baby. Her crates are gone. They’re still arguing, she from the porch, the two boys at the street. The hem of the baby’s blanket drags on the ground in front of her as she crosses the yard. Don’t trip. Don’t. She says something unintelligible. Her boyfriend shrugs, walks around to the passenger door, and opens it. She hands him the bundle, and I cringe. Don’t. He holds the baby in one arm and helps her into the cab with the other. Then he lifts it up to her and closes them in. I look at her profile, curled over the child, rocking gently. Wait for her to find the car seat and settle the baby in it, but she doesn’t. Wait for her to wrap a seatbelt around herself, at least, but she doesn’t. I automatically look toward Fatima’s house—does she see this?—and then correct myself. No, she doesn’t.

  Father tow-boy gets into the truck, guns the motor, and takes off. The boy left behind stands on the sidewalk, appearing uneasy and naked without his rig. He watches the truck turn at the intersection, then studies our house. He meets my gaze with a defiant stare before going back inside. I snap the curtains closed. Check on my babies upstairs, who are chanting a verse about chirping birds, and return to the living room, to my post by the window. I wonder if funeral arrangements are being made at this moment by Fatima’s father, if he’ll call Nilda overseas and tell her to come home, and if he’ll say why, or if he’ll wait until she arrives. Which would be worse? There are no good options for the absent mother.

  Should I have phoned an ambulance last night? Would Fatima be alive if I’d done that? Was it even her illness? I can’t shake the idea that she chose death. What if I’d gone into the house all the way? What was the right thing to do? It’s too late for doubt—so futile and fleeting, so quick to dissolve into a thin wash of grief. Fatima, the observer who did not judge, who had no skin in the complex, competitive games of motherhood: gone in an instant.

  I circle the living room, searching for the notebook where, long ago, I wrote the licence number of the tow truck. Lift cushions off the couch, check underneath. Dizzy with questions. Sick about an infant unsecured in a speeding vehicle. Stupid kids, inexplicably entrusted with life. Perhaps they’ll lose custody; perhaps the kiddie-parents will be forced to attend training camp. That’s not my problem.

  Finally, I find it—Stella has doodled over the numbers, an angel-winged stick figure that makes me smile even in my state—and thankfully she hasn’t drawn a house on fire. My daughter has a shot at being well adjusted. The number is legible under the crayon. I pick up the phone. This is a day of decision, a day that’s about to get much worse for certain people.

  But then I stop myself, hearing Barbara’s voice parodying this act. How typical of you, she’ll say, to think calling the cops is a decisive action. You might feel better, but it will make no difference in the long run to the baby, my darling. We don’t get to choose our parents. Who do you think you are, the baby-fixer?

  My hand hovers mid-air. It’s hard enough to win arguments with Barbara when she’s here.

  The truck screeches to a halt out front. The girlfriend sets her bundle on the seat. He gets out first. She leaves the truck door ajar, encroaching on the sidewalk that earlier displayed her belongings. Together, the parents walk into the house. Carrying nothing.

  I step onto the verandah, check up and down the street. No one around. It’s still early, and I remember: Saturday. My bathrobe covers me to the ankles; my slippers are moccasins, good enough. Hiking the robe, I run across the road, reach the safety of the truck, and crouch down on the street side. Quickly I open the door, lean into the cab, and slide the blankets toward me, across the gleaming slab of bench seat. A mewl, and then a slight movement that might have been imagined, as I shift the weight into my arms. Backing out of the truck, I’m already rocking gently.

  Six paces and we’re safe inside. I unwrap the bundle on the couch, inspecting: a little girl. She looks well fed—the right amount of fat ringing her wrists and upper thighs, the feet plump and pink. Infant smell surrounds her: sour milk and warm scalp and soap. I nuzzle her neck, breathing deeply. Freed from the blankets, she flails her limbs, yet meets my eyes placidly, unblinking blueness. Her peaceful new soul offers reassurance: you did the right thing, Judy. See? No crying. You are the good mother. You know what to do.

  Only I don’t. Trembling, I rewrap the baby and hold her close. If there were bruises or signs of malnourishment, no one would condemn this theft.

  The baby sighs, settles into sleep, and her body quells my shakes. We walk, hovering at the edge of the window, out of the sight of passersby. I hum tunelessly.

  “Mama, I want a snack,” Stella calls down the stairs, stopping my walk mid-stride, striking me dumb. I clear my throat.

  “Just a minute, honey,” I whisper. While I take care of this usurper, alright? And you and your sister and this newborn and I will all live here undisturbed, happily ever freaking after. My breathing is audible, harsh recrimination.

  “Mama?”

  “Hang on, Stella! Be there in a sec!”

  I look around for something to give the baby. Yes. I will construct a rationale, gild it with gifts. Here are items we no longer need, because Hazel outgrew them. We’re finished having children, you see. The narrative builds itself.

  With one hand, I reach into the storage trunk that doubles as a coffee table, where I’d been stashing supplies just in case. A few outfits, a package of disposable diapers, some Q-tips and ointment. A baby-wipe warmer, forgotten shower gift, the most useless item known to woman, but this is about making a gesture. Everything must go.

  I fill a shopping bag. A small teddy bear peeks over the top, anchored by pink receiving blankets, never used. I shift the baby upright, pick up the bag, and prepare my announcement: impromptu baby shower—surprise! But I’m too late for guilt offerings.

  The couple re-emerges. I’m counting down steps and seconds until they reach the truck, and when they do, the mother cries out. The tow-boy doesn’t react. Shocked into blankness or dulled by his hangover.

  They look under the truck, walk around it. The girl sinks to the curb, hugging her knees. Her shoulders slump. Even now, holding her infant, I want to snap at her to remove her feet from the road before someone runs them over.

  The boy pulls out his phone, looks at it. His brother comes out, says something, and they all look across the street, at my house. I’m sure they can’t see me, but I fall back from the window anyway. No one makes a move.

  For a breath or two, I think they might be entertaining the idea of doing nothing. As though they could just walk away and call this an even exchange: their kid for getting their freedom back, escaping the drudgery of playing house. A silent sob catches my throat, sorrow for their plight and possibly mine. Home looks very different from inside and out. I imagine they see it as a trap rather than a haven, and I can understand that. They
remain suspended, until the girl’s face crumples. She wails, for real this time—body heaving, head on knees. The boy shakes his head, bends over the phone.

  I caress the baby’s face, which reveals no likeness to either parent. A face suffused with contentedness, singularly devoted to sleeping. I feel stored energy beneath the blankets and think of transferring some of it to Fatima. If only she could have held her. Maybe she did. Not everything occurs within sight of my window.

  Three decisive strides to the door, carrying the baby and her shopping bag on a gust of goodwill: that’s what it will take to restore everyone’s sanity. I can make that trip, smile glued on, bearing gifts, full of chatter about neighbours looking after each other—and isn’t that, when all is said and done, what makes this street so great? What the good-enough mother will do, this time. Return the baby to fate.

  Maquila Bird

  Maru reached for another jacket and draped it across the sewing table. Before starting, she took a moment to adjust the plastic specimen bottle strapped to her belly. It was warm, a comfort against tender skin. She revved her machine and guided the garment to the pouncing needle. As the quality control tag—Made by/Hecho por 867—met the needle plate, she inserted a different tag behind it and finished the seam. It took the merest flick of a finger; no one saw her do it. Where would her handiwork end up? Perhaps a tall and loud American girl in New York or LA would sling Maru’s creation over her shoulder for a winning look. She liked to think so. Daydreaming a life for the girl, she imagined a family, an admiring beau, and a clutch of stylish friends, who all found reason to admire the girl’s jacket, even if they didn’t go so far as to wonder about the unseen person who had made it.

  Pukka-pukka-pukka filled the room and her head and her bones. It was the sound of steel puncturing denim, Maru’s first stitch tracking to infinity, joining the stitches of a thousand other workers. They sat in numbered rows in the harshly lit hangar of an abandoned airfield on the outskirts of Tijuana. Today it was jean jackets, but not always. Sometimes they made lingerie, and, other times, stretchy outfits for yoga, tennis, or jogging, clothes good for only one thing.