Nursery Crimes

by Ayelet Waldman

  Whatever she had done, this child was in terrible pain. Whatever had made her do it, she really was nothing more than a poor, scared child.

  I walked over to her, slowly, and reached my arms out for her. She fell against me, awkwardly because of the protrusion of my stomach, and rested her head on my shoulder. Sobbing heavily, she continued, “I hated her. So much. And she hated me. She did. I swear she did. They both did. They just hated me so much.”

  “Oh, honey.” I stroked her hair.

  “She married Daniel like fifteen minutes after my daddy died. She couldn’t wait to marry him. And then they didn’t want me. They never wanted me. Daniel used to hit me, you know that? He’d smack me and she’d stand right there and let him.”

  “It’s going to be all right. I’ll help you.”

  She stood up straight and looked at me in surprise.

  “You will?”

  “Of course I will. I’ll call a really good lawyer right now. And I’ll go with you to the police. There are a bunch of defenses we can use. We’ll figure something out.” I wasn’t so sure that we could, but now wasn’t the time to bring up my doubts about the abused-child defense.

  Audrey looked at me, horror-struck. “What are you talking about? I’m not going to the police.” She jerked away.

  “You have to, Audrey. There’s no other way. They’ll figure it out somehow, and it’ll be worse for you if they come to you instead of you going to them.”

  “I’m not going to the police!” She was screaming again, and her face had turned a deep, blotchy red.

  “Honey, calm down. I know you’re scared, but I’ll be here. I promise I’ll help you.” I leaned over to her, reaching my arms out again.

  Audrey looked at me, her face contorted with rage.

  “No!” She screamed and ran around to the other side of the desk. Before I could follow, she wrenched open a drawer, the same one I had seen her close when I had first walked through the door. She reached in and took something out. For some reason, it took me a few seconds to realize what she was pointing at me. Maybe I couldn’t figure out what it was because I just couldn’t believe it. Her hand was shaking, and the little silver pistol jerked in her fist.

  Before I even registered that she was holding a gun, I felt a thud in the side of my right thigh. I didn’t hurt at first, but the force spun me around, and my leg collapsed under me. I fell to the ground. I did my best to break my fall, but I landed on my stomach, hard. Suddenly the pain in my thigh was unbearable, hot and sharp. My entire leg felt leaden and useless. I rolled onto my left side and, crying, tried to sit up. I felt like my leg was on fire and that, at the same time, it belonged to someone else—I couldn’t make it move. I reached my hands down and covered what felt like the fiery center of the pain, and watched as blood seeped through my fingers. It looked thick and viscous, and I felt faint. I lay back down again, closing my eyes. I thought of Isaac and began to whimper. I reached my arms around my stomach, almost as if I were reassuring myself that he was still there.

  “Juliet.” Audrey’s voice wasn’t angry anymore, it was small and quiet, or maybe that was because it sounded far away to me, like I was standing at one end of a long tunnel and she was at the other. I opened my eyes. She stood over me.

  “I didn’t want to hurt you,” she said. I saw that she was crying again.

  “Okay,” I murmured, terrified that she was going to shoot again, but unable to get up or even move.

  “It’s just your leg. It’s not such a big deal.”

  “Okay.” That seemed to be all I could say.

  “I’m going to go away. You wait ten minutes and then you can go.”

  “Okay,” I said again, but she had already run from the room. I lay there, listening, as Audrey ran around the house for a few minutes. I heard her pound up the stairs and then down, a moment or two later. Finally, the front door slammed and an automobile engine started up.

  I closed my eyes again, repeating her words to myself. “It’s just my leg. The baby is fine. It’s just my leg. Isaac is fine.” Then I felt a familiar tightening across my belly. The contraction seemed to go on forever. The combination of that familiar but nonetheless awful pain and the new and terrible one in my leg were too much for me to bear. I tried to breathe through the contraction like I’d been taught, but every time I felt myself climbing on top of it, the agony in my leg sent me crashing back down. I lay on the floor of Abigail Hathaway’s living room, crying with great, racking sobs. Finally, the contraction ebbed and stopped. I gave another small moan, this time of relief. My relief was short-lived, however, because the ache in my leg started to overwhelm me again. I realized that I might not have a lot of time before the next contraction came. I couldn’t stand much more of these competing agonies. Using every ounce of strength I could summon, and keeping before me the vision of baby Isaac desperately trying to get out of his wounded mother’s body, I bent my left leg and rolled over onto my left side. Keeping as much of my weight on my hands as I could, I slowly began pushing up off the floor. Every movement of my right leg brought another wave of pain crashing over me. I kept it as still as I could, and slowly, impossibly slowly, I dragged myself, using my hands and my left leg and pulling my useless limb behind me, over to the couch where my purse lay. I reached up for my purse, grabbed it, and collapsed onto the floor next to the sofa. I dug frantically for my cell phone. Then I dialed 911 and waited. Nothing happened. I began crying again, this time in frustration, and only a minute later realized that I’d forgotten to press “send.” I jammed my finger onto the button and, wonderfully, heard the sound of the ringing. I was on hold for a while, how long I don’t know, because I had a contraction during the wait. I surfaced from the haze of pain to hear a voice.

  “What is your emergency? What is your emergency?”

  “Help me. I’ve been shot and I’m in labor.”

  “Are you having a baby, ma’am?”

  “Yes, but I’m also shot. My leg. It’s bleeding.”

  I felt another contraction coming impossibly quickly behind the last and had time only to tell the operator Abigail Hathaway’s address before I had to put my head down and fall into the pain.

  The contractions seemed to be coming one right on top of another. After the next one, I held the phone in my shaking hand and dialed home. I began weeping with frustration when the answering machine picked up.

  I have no idea what I said into the machine. I know I was hysterical with pain and fear, and I’m sure I absolutely terrified my husband. It was only after I’d hung up the phone that I realized that he would probably play the message in front of Ruby. I was crying too hard to call again. Hearing another hysterical message would only scare them more.

  The wait for the ambulance was interminable. After a couple more contractions, during which I felt like I was drowning under waves of pain, I began dragging myself out of the living room and toward the front door. I turned once to look behind me at the beautiful Oriental runner in the hall and remembered how I’d been so afraid of ruining this same carpet that I’d cleaned up lasagna sauce with my shirt. Now I was leaving an indelible trail of blood.

  I reached the front door just as the ambulance and police arrived. Reaching up to open it, I promptly collapsed into the arms of a man in a firefighter’s black rubber coat. He had warm, brown eyes and sandy hair and looked exactly like the kind of person who could protect you from fires, earthquakes, and even homicidal teenagers. Holding me in his arms, he carefully eased me down onto the floor in the hall.

  “Don’t worry, ma’am. We’re here. It’s going to be all right.”

  I smiled at him and closed my eyes in relief. I felt another contraction begin, and barely noticed the police officers who were stepping over me and pounding into the house.

  When I surfaced from the contraction, I found myself lying on a stretcher, the leg of my tights torn off above my thigh, and my rescuer leaning over me, his hands pressing a bandage onto my wound. He smiled reassuringly, and I closed
my eyes again.

  “Ma’am. Ma’am,” a voice said urgently.

  I opened my eyes to see a police officer bent over me.

  “Do you know who shot you, ma’am?” he asked.

  I just had time before the next contraction to tell the officer that Audrey Hathaway was responsible for my injury. I asked him to call Detective Carswell and tell him that Audrey had confessed to murdering Abigail Hathaway. Another contraction hit as I finished, and I don’t remember anything about his response.

  The next thing I knew, I was rolling through a white hallway. I saw faces leaning over me and heard a woman’s voice asking me, over and over again,

  “Mrs. Applebaum? Can you hear me? How far along are you, Mrs. Applebaum? Can you hear me?”

  “Thirty-six weeks,” I said. “It’s too soon. The baby’s coming too soon.”

  “It’s all right, Mrs. Applebaum, you’ll be just fine. Can you remember your home phone number? What’s your home phone number, Mrs. Applebaum?”

  I told her the number and then felt them hoist me onto a bed. I felt a sharp sting in my left arm and then, blessedly, nothing for a little while.

  I awoke to hear the sound of voices.

  “The bullet went clean through, and we’ve cleaned and sewed the wounds. The bleeding has stopped, and I don’t think there’s any collateral damage we need to worry about. The question is, do we allow labor to proceed, or do we do a crash C-section right now?”

  “I’d like to get the baby out as soon as possible. The monitor is showing unfocused contractions two to four minutes apart. She’s only two centimeters dilated. It could be hours before this baby shows up, and I don’t like the idea of putting her through a long labor after the trauma of a GSW.”

  “No, no reason to do that. Anyway, there’s evidence of a prior section, so we may as well go ahead with this one.”

  “No!” I shouted.

  The two doctors looked down at me in surprise. One was an older woman and another a boy of about twelve. At least that’s what it looked like.

  “I’m having a vaginal birth,” I said. “Call my midwife, Dorothy Horne. I’m having a VBAC.”

  They looked at me doubtfully. “Mrs. Applebaum, you’ve just been shot. Our primary concern is your health and that of your baby. You should not be going through labor right now.”

  “Look, I’ve been doing goddamn prenatal Yoga for six months so that I’d be in shape for a vaginal birth. I’ve read every goddamn book on vaginal birth after cesarean ever written. I’m not having a goddamn C-section. Anyway, I’m fine. I feel fine.” And I did; I was in no pain.

  “That’s the lidocaine. We’ve given you a painkiller.”

  “It’s working. So I can do this. Call my husband, call my midwife, and get me to labor and delivery.” With that, I felt another contraction starting. The anesthetic had taken the edge off the pain, and this contraction was much more manageable. I breathed my way through it, making an ostentatious show of my Lamaze competence for the doctors who seemed so eager to cut me. They watched me, then looked at one another.

  “Take her up to L&D. Let them decide,” the woman said, snapping shut the medical chart she held and walking away.

  Within minutes I found myself in an elevator and on my way to the maternity ward. I guess my gunshot precluded them from putting me in one of those lovely bedroomlike delivery rooms. I found myself in a decidedly medical setting, strapped to the fetal monitor, and watched over by two nurses and a doctor. The doctor was a man, about my age, who was going prematurely bald. He looked like a nice guy, like the kind of guy you’d want to be your doctor.

  “We’re going to prep you for a section, Mrs. Applebaum,” he said in a soft but firm voice.

  “I want a VBAC.”

  “I’m afraid a vaginal birth after cesarean isn’t a good idea, given your injury.”

  “How long have I been here?”

  He looked at my chart. “About two hours.”

  “Is the baby okay?” I asked.

  “It’s fine. The fetal monitor shows a nice, steady heartbeat.”

  “Is my leg okay?”

  “Yes, it’s fine. The bullet passed cleanly through, and both the entrance and exit wounds have been cleaned and stitched. You’re on IV antibiotics now in case of infection.”

  “So if I’m fine, and the baby’s fine, how come I can’t at least wait until my husband and my midwife show up?”

  The doctor looked down at me and finally smiled. “I’ll tell you what. We’ll put in an internal fetal monitor, and if the baby remains in good condition, we’ll give you another hour before we do the surgery. That should give your husband time to get here.” He patted me on the foot and turned to leave. At that moment, Peter rushed into the room. As soon as I saw him, I burst into hysterical tears.

  Peter crossed the room in two huge steps, leaned over the bed, and scooped as much of me as he could reach into his arms. I couldn’t seem to stop crying as I nestled my head into his chest. Suddenly I felt a hot flash as he inadvertently brushed against my right leg.

  “Ow! My leg!” I hollered.

  “Oh, no,” he said, dropping me like a hot potato. “What hurts? What did I do? Oh, God, Juliet. What happened?” I could swear he was crying, too.

  “It’s just my leg. My thigh. She shot me. Audrey shot me.” Then another contraction began and I couldn’t speak anymore.

  I surfaced to hear Peter slowly murmuring my name. I felt his fingers in my hair, gently rubbing my scalp.

  “It’s over,” I said.

  “I know,” he whispered. “I can see it on the monitor.”

  “How did you find me?” I asked. “Where am I? This isn’t Cedars Sinai.” I’d planned on delivering my baby at the plush hospital to the stars.

  “You’re in Santa Monica Hospital,” a voice interrupted. I turned to see a nurse dressed in pink surgical scrubs standing on the other side of the bed, fiddling with the monitor. “The anesthetist will be here in a moment to put in your epidural.”

  “I don’t want an epidural,” I said angrily. “I’m having natural childbirth.” Just then another contraction hit me. In the middle of it I turned to the nurse and said through gritted teeth, “Get that goddamn doctor in here right now. I want that goddamn epidural right now.”

  She smiled and left the room. Within twenty minutes I had a tube the size of a single hair dripping blessed pain relief directly into my spine. It put me into the most wonderful, magical pain-free mood.

  I turned to look at Peter and smiled.

  “It’s working,” I said.

  “Good.” He smiled back.

  “So now tell me how you found me.”

  Peter told me how he and Ruby had come home about an hour after I’d called. Ruby had gone straight to her room to find her Barbies, and, thankfully, had not heard my phone message. Peter had immediately called 911. The emergency operator directed him to the Santa Monica police dispatcher and from there to the fire department. Within fifteen minutes he had tracked me to Santa Monica Hospital.

  “Where’s Ruby?” I asked, suddenly worried.

  “At Stacy’s. That reminds me: Stacy and Lilly both left messages on the machine. Lilly said that there’s a space for Ruby at Beth El preschool. And Stacy said that a colleague of hers at the agency sits on the board of a nursery school called Robin’s Nest . . . or was it Bluebird’s Nest? . . . something’s nest. Anyway, a kid is moving to Europe or New York or somewhere and there’s a space for Ruby for next year.”

  “Wow. Two schools. An embarrassment of riches,” I said.

  “Should we go visit them?” Peter asked.

  “You know what?” I said. “Let’s just toss a coin. I don’t think I have the energy for more than that.”

  Peter smiled. “How ’bout we just send her to the Jewish school?”

  “Really?” I asked. “That won’t make you uncomfortable?”

  “Please. Of course not,” he said. “It’ll be nice. I’ll learn all about Hanukkah and .
. . what’s that one where you eat in the hut?”

  “Succot.”

  “Yeah, all those holidays. It’ll be great. I’ll call the school tomorrow.”

  “Thanks, sweetie,” I said. Meaning thanks for calling. Thanks for letting Ruby go to a Jewish school. Thanks for finding me at the hospital. Thanks for marrying me.

  “Let’s call Stacy and let her know I’m okay. She’s probably totally freaking out.”

  Peter picked up the phone. “What’s her number?” he asked me. I told him and lay back on the bed, idly watching the fetal monitor.

  “I’m having another contraction,” I told him.

  He put his hand over the receiver. “Can you feel it?”

  “No. I can see it on the display.”

  “Hi. It’s Peter,” he said into the phone. “She’s fine. Long story, but everything’s fine now.” He turned to me. “Do you have the energy to talk to Ruby?”

  I grabbed the receiver out of his hand.

  “Ruby? Rubes? Baby girl?”

  “Hi, Mama.” She sounded so tiny and sweet.

  “Hi, honey.”

  “Are you in the hostible?”

  “Yes. I’m in the hospital, having Isaac.”

  “Can I come, too?”

  “Not right now, sweetie. But you can come tomorrow. How ’bout that?”

  “Okay. Bye-bye.”

  “Wait! Ruby, wait!” But she was gone.

  “She hung up on me,” I said, handing the receiver to Peter.

  The door swung open and Dorothy walked into the room, dressed in scrubs.

  “Hello, folks,” she said in her soft voice with its touch of East Texas twang.

  “Hi.” I said. “I’ve been shot.”

  She smiled at me and walked over to the fetal monitor. “So I hear.”

  She picked up the strip and looked at it carefully.

  “I’ve been talking to the doctor.”