by Mike Wells
BABY
NATASHA
It arrived in the mail two weeks after the baby was born, after she finally had a name. Giving the child a name had been such a source of contention between Neal and Annie that “Jane Crawford-Becker” had simply been entered on the birth certificate. They both agreed to officially change it later. Because Annie was so sure her child would be “special,” she insisted on a unique name. Boy, had the names ever been unique! Her first choice was Amethyst, followed by Raziel and Zealanda.
Neal couldn’t stand any of them. Having suffered his way through grade school with the quintessentially nerdish “Rupert” as his middle name, he was against choosing anything that might cause his baby daughter any distress. He was in favor of a simple name, like Susan or Diane or, yes—even Jane.
But Annie wouldn’t hear of it, not for her baby.
Finally, one evening Neal had a brilliant idea.
“Let’s let our little daughter choose her own name,” he’d suggested. They were sitting in the living room on the plastic covered couch. Annie was holding the baby in her arms.
Neal’s young wife frowned at him. “You want to run that by me again?”
“I’m serious.” He jumped up and retrieved the tome of baby names that Annie had nearly worn out during the past six months, ever since she’d found out the baby was a girl.
“Give her to me—you take the book.”
Annie looked at him like he was nuts, but carefully handed Neal the infant.
“Now start flipping back and forth through the girls’ names. The first time she makes any type of sound, stop on that page.”
Annie immediately understood and began steadily flipping through the book. The baby kicked its feet and turned its little head, almost as if she understood what they were doing, too. But a long time passed—she was completely silent.
“Ga!” she said suddenly.
Annie stopped flipping. “She’s in the N’s.”
Neal leaned forward, looking. “Now start running your finger up and down the names, very smoothly, back and forth, back and forth. Yeah. Next sound she makes, that’s her name. Agreed?”
Annie looked skeptical. “Well...maybe...” She kept running her finger up and down the two open pages, looking at her little girl. “What’s your name, tweety? Can you pick your name for Mommy and Daddy?”
Neal leaned forward, looking at the names. “God, I hope she doesn’t choose Nefertitti.” The book listed every name known to mankind, and a lot that sounded completely made up.
“Geeh!” the baby finally said.
Neal leaned forward to see where Annie’s finger had stopped.
“Natasha!” they both said together.
“Hey, I kind of like that,” Neal said.
Annie frowned again, but he could tell she wasn’t completely against it. “Natasha... that’s not bad, I guess. But it sounds too Russian, don’t you think?”
“No. Lots of Americans are named Natasha these days. It’s a little exotic, but not too over-the-top.”
Annie took the baby back and peered closely at her tiny face. “Are you Natasha?”
“Gah!” Natasha said, drool running out of the side of her mouth.
That last “gah” sealed it.
A week later, they’d received the jumper that Annie’s mother had supposedly made for her granddaughter. He never had liked the ugly thing. Neal soon discovered a tiny a MADE IN CHINA tag on the inside. All the lazy woman had done was embroider Natasha’s name across the front. And she probably hadn’t even done that herself.
In any case, whenever the baby was wearing the hideous garment, he thought she looked ridiculous. She reminded Neal of a mean little wrestler, the wild-and-crazy types you saw on the Saturday morning TV programs.
Ladies and gentlemen, in this corner, hailing from Atlanta Georgia, and weighing in at a solid fifteen pounds, our defending ‘enfant terrible’...BABY NATASHA!
Neal’s thoughts came back to the present...he realized he’d just been sitting in the hospital parking lot for about five minutes, staring out the windows at nothing...the defroster had cleared the fog off the glass. It must have been the pain killers. He finally got the nerve to glance over at Natasha.
Asleep in the baby seat, with her arms outstretched, her head down, the flabby baby-flesh under her chin bunching together like a fat old man’s...she actually looked like a little wrestler, exhausted, in between rounds, waiting for her manager to douse her with water.
Neal shook his head and downed a few more pain killers, popping them into his mouth like gum drops. He backed the car out of the parking space and began to make his way out of the lot, to the street. He felt another strong urge to glance at Natasha, but fought it.
Concentrate, Neal, concentrate. She’s just a little harmless, sleeping baby. Why are you so afraid her?
Neal gave a reassuring nod to himself, feeling a little better. He decided to go over all the supplies he would need. Yes, that was a good idea—make a mental list of things he would need in order to take care of Natasha. That would keep his mind occupied.
1. Formula.
That was the most important thing. Annie had plenty of it at home—she had bought a half-dozen cans the day before, so that wasn’t a problem.
2. Diapers.
He was sure there were some diapers around the apartment, too, though Natasha seemed to go through them at the same rate that he went through the pages of the classifieds. But he would manage.
What else did Natasha need?
Neal struggled to think, desperately trying to concentrate...to avoid looking at the baby...
She was looking at him, though.
He could feel it.
No, it’s your imagination, Neal. She’s asleep. Concentrate, buddy, concentrate. Don’t lose your grip on reality again!
Neal underwent this internal struggle for the next few minutes, until he approached Roswell Road. He managed to keep himself under control. He could not and would not look at Natasha.
She’s looking at me, he thought, as he turned the corner. I know she’s looking at me...
Neal slowly turned his head just a little bit to the right, his gaze focusing first on the radio...then the glove compartment... the passenger door handle...
She’s looking at you, Neal. She’s watching you...
When Neal could stand it no longer and finally looked over at her face, he jumped so violently that the car swerved to the left.
Natasha was looking at him, all right! Her eyes were open wide, her fuzzy little head turned in his direction, both her eyes blacker than the drizzly night. But that wasn’t what frightened him so much.
Her toothless, infantile mouth was twisted into a grin.
Neal tried to get the car under control, but it had already started skidding.
Then, to Neal’s absolute horror, Natasha spoke.
“Feeeeeeed meeeeeee!” she cried, in a high-pitched, scratchy voice. It sounded almost like that of an elderly woman, like Grammy Snell.
Neal screamed.
A second later, a horn was blaring in his ears. He realized that he was about to smash into a car that was in the left-hand lane.
Neal swerved his own car over to the right. This caused the back end to begin fishtailing, first to the left, then back around to the right...
“Feeeeeed meeeee, Neeeeeal! Feeeeeed meeeee!”
Hearing his name come out of the tiny, hideous mouth pushed Neal completely over the edge. He closed his eyes, no longer concerned with whom or what his car collided.
After another wide fishtail, the car began to skid sideways across the slick pavement. Neal was only dimly aware of the blaring horns of other cars, headlights in his face, and still more blaring horns, a SPEED LIMIT 40 sign that seemed to sweep within inches of his left-hand rear view mirror, and—
The car shuddered to a halt.
It took Neal only a fraction of a second to realize that it had somehow—miraculously—come to a stop on the shoulder of the
road, positioned at a right angle to the traffic, without hitting anything.
He flung his door open and jumped out, shrinking back from the car, staring at Natasha.
She was still staring at him, her black eyes seeming even darker than before.
“Feeeeed meeee!” she shrieked.
“Holy mother of God!” Neal yelled.
Several cars slowed down almost to a stop, the drivers staring at him as they rolled past. One shouted something, but Neal was oblivious to all but the screaming monster inside his own car. He was standing smack in the middle of the right-hand lane of traffic. He didn’t know what to do.
“Get out of the road, you dumb-ass!” somebody else yelled. “What the hell’s the matter with you?”
Neal turned around, only dimly aware of the pain in his left foot, squinting into the headlights of the oncoming cars, disoriented. He blinked once, then saw more lights. And blue flashes coming from somewhere.
He staggered backwards, looking across the street, then behind him, stumbling. He now saw that the blue flashes were coming from a police car—it was making a U-turn.
“Uh-oh,” he muttered. The sight of the law enforcement vehicle and its strobe lights had jolted him back to reality. He quickly got his bearings and hobbled back over to the driver’s door of his car.
The police cruiser rolled up and stopped.
There were two officers inside—a white male, at the wheel, and a black female in the passenger seat. The male officer opened the door and got out.
He approached Neal with professional caution, one hand resting on his gun.
“What’s going on here?”
Neal hesitated. “I lost control of my car.”
“No kidding.” Keeping a safe distance from Neal, the officer peered into the car with a flashlight. “Is that your child?”
“Yes,” Neal said.
“Don’t you know children are supposed to be strapped into the back seat?”
“Oh.” Neal vaguely remembered this rule. Annie always strapped Natasha in the back seat when the three of them went out, but Neal thought that was only because Annie sat in the passenger seat. “I guess I forgot.”
The cop shook his head and shined the flashlight on Natasha again. Working up his nerve, Neal looked inside the car, too. But all he saw was a normal-looking five month old baby girl, drooling and fidgeting in her car seat.
The cop pointed the flashlight in Neal’s face. “You had anything to drink tonight?”
“No.” Neal made a conscious effort to stand up straight on his throbbing foot. “I’m on my way home from the hospital.”
The cop shined the light on Neal’s shoeless foot.
“Not for that.” Neal hoped to invoke the policeman’s sympathy. “My wife was in a car accident tonight. She’s in intensive care.”
The cop remained stone-faced. He motioned to Neal’s car. “You’re lucky you aren’t in intensive care yourself, mister.” He paused, looking at Neal more closely. “How exactly did you lose control of your vehicle?”
“My daughter...she scared the hell out of me.”
The cop shined his light back into the car, at Natasha. She turned her head towards the light. “Gaaaaaa,” she said, kicking her feet a few times.
“Yeah, she’s really scary,” the cop said. “I can see why you nearly caused a ten-car pileup.”
“I didn’t mean...” Neal ran his trembling hand through his drizzle-soaked hair. “What I meant was, she screamed and I thought something was wrong with her. When I looked over to see if she was all right, I drifted into the other lane, then I over-corrected, and...” Neal shrugged. “I’m sorry. I’m pretty upset about my wife.”
“Upset is no excuse. You need to be more careful. If you’re that upset, you shouldn’t be driving in the first place.”
“I know.”
“And you need to strap your daughter into the back seat, according to the law.”
“Yes sir.”
The cop opened his mouth as if to continue his lecture, but apparently changed his mind. “May I see your driver’s license, please?”
“Sure,” Neal said, pulling out his wallet. He handed the license to the policeman and then glanced at all the cars that were slowly rolling by, and at the people in them who were gawking at him.
The cop shined his light on Neal’s license and studied it. “Mr. Becker, how about moving your care over to the shoulder of the road, so it’s not blocking traffic. And strap your daughter into the back seat, where she belongs.”
“Okay.” Neal hesitated briefly, not wanting to get back into the car with Natasha. The cop did not take his eyes off Neal—his square-jawed face showed a kind of suspicious curiosity.
Neal reluctantly climbed back inside his car, started the engine, and moved it over the shoulder of the road, aligning it with the traffic. He was aware of Natasha’s steady breathing, but he would not allow himself even to look in her direction. Avoiding her eyes, he picked up her car seat and moved it into the back, his hands shaking so violently the buckle chattered a little bit as he secured her. He wasn’t sure if it was a curse or a blessing to have her in the back seat—he wouldn’t have to look at her face, but God knows what she might do behind his back.
He quickly shut the door and walked back around to the driver’s side of the car.
“Please wait inside your car, sir,” the female cop told him from the window of the patrol car.
“I really need some air,” Neal said, “if you don’t mind.”
The policewoman eyed him momentarily, then said something to the other officer, who was now sitting beside her in the police car. They talked for a few long minutes—Neal could hear the police radio crackling, a dispatcher giving them information. He thought he heard the word “hospital.”
The policeman finally got back out of the patrol car.
“The address on your license isn’t correct,” he told Neal.
“No. I just moved a few months ago.”
The cop motioned down the street with his flashlight. “You live right down the road here, then.”
“That’s right.”
“You realize I could cite you for reckless driving, don’t you?”
“Yes sir.”
“And for not having your child properly secured in the back seat.”
“Yes, of course.”
He glanced down at Neal’s bandaged foot again. “And for not wearing your shoes. Technically, you can’t drive barefoot.”
Neal nodded.
The cop sighed. “Well...since you’ve had a rough day, I’m gonna give you a break.” He paused, and for the first time, his rugged face softened. “I heard about your wife earlier today—one of my buddies was on the scene. Pretty messy. How’s she doin’?”
“Not too good,” Neal said.
The policeman nodded sympathetically. “Well, you got to be more careful. This is no time for recklessness, Mr. Becker. Your child needs you more than ever right now.”
“Yes sir,” Neal said, trying to appear grateful. Getting a measly traffic ticket was the least of his worries. In fact, he almost wished they would arrest him.
The cop handed Neal back his license. For an instant, Neal considered taking a swing at him. Then they would have to arrest him and he’d be in jail for a couple of days at least, and Natasha wouldn’t be his problem anymore.
But Neal just got back into his car, aware of both officers watching. He gave them an appreciative wave as he pulled away, then glanced over his shoulder at Natasha. He wasn’t afraid of her anymore—he was too pissed off at her to be afraid. But at the moment, there wasn’t much to fear. She was still behaving the same way she had in front of the cop, playing the role of the innocent child, kicking her legs around and making cute little baby noises.
Neal was actually glad that he had almost had an accident and gotten pulled over—it had shaken him back into reality. What was so scary about her, anyway? Of course, the policeman didn’t know she was only five months old and c
ould already talk. But so what if the damn baby could talk? What harm could it do? Let her say whatever she wanted.
Sticks and stones may break my bones...
Neal focused his eyes on the road ahead of him and told himself that no matter what Natasha said, he wasn’t going to let her get under his skin.
(End of Book 1 – to be continued)
To purchase Book 2 (and conclusion) of Baby Talk, please go to my website at www.mikewellsbooks.com
A Letter to My Readers
Hello, Dear Reader!
I hope you enjoyed Baby Talk. If so, you’ll like many of my other novels. I write in a variety of genres—thrillers & suspense, romance, young adult, and horror. All my stories are written in the same gripping, fast-paced style with plenty of suspense and surprises. As I say on my website, my goal has always been to write novels that are so engaging and entertaining that you can’t stop reading after a couple of pages—“unputdownable” books. You can read all my book descriptions and read/download free chapters on my website/blog, www.thegreenwater.com
Also, if you liked this ebook, I would greatly appreciate any help you can give me in spreading the word about what I have to offer. Positive word-of-mouth for independent authors like me is the only formula I know for success. Please pass this book along to your family and friends—give it to anyone who you think would enjoy it.
I always welcome comments about my books—please feel free to give feedback via email ([email protected]) or via my blog. Book reviews on Goodreads, Amazon, B&N, etc. are also appreciated.
Thanks for reading!
Mike Wells
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