by Mark Souza
Something heavy thudded against the sofa and a stench stung Moyer’s nose. He lowered his book. Robyn stood in the kitchen doorway; teeth gritted, and flung something white at his head. The diaper bounced off his chin and landed on his lap. “You’ve been here all afternoon. It’s not fair to ignore a dirty diaper and leave it for me. It’s your turn,” she said.
The brown doll lay splayed upside down next to Moyer, ripe as month-old garbage. “I picked it up from your mother’s. This is the fourth time today,” he said. “I’ve changed it twice, your mother once. It’s your turn with the Plastic Pooper.”
Robyn’s posture sagged. “I’m tired and sore and can’t deal with it right now.”
“This was your idea. Do you want a baby or not? Because if you do, this is what it will be like — every day.”
“You take it. I’m having a bad day,” she said.
Anger churned inside Moyer. Raw emotion threatened to spew from his mouth, and for a moment, fear made him hold the words behind gritted teeth. How many times had he swallowed anger to maintain the fragile fabric of their relationship, accepted inequity to keep the peace? But there was something different this time, something that demanded honesty regardless of the risks.
“Everyday is a bad day with you lately. Has it ever occurred to you that I might have bad days too?”
Robyn rolled her eyes. “What? Did you have a spat with your girlfriend?”
She acted as if she was inured of his constant whining though he rarely ever complained. “You remember the other day when I said I thought I killed her?” he said. “Well today it’s official. She died. No, that’s not right. She was killed. Yes — killed implies action by another.”
“And you feel you are responsible?” Robyn’s face was skeptical.
Moyer met her gaze and a bitter smile spread across his face. “Yes, honey. Me. I killed her, and over a dozen others.”
“You?”
He nodded. “With a simple flip of a switch. I screwed with their brains just to show I could, that I was clever, that I was the best at it. And within days they started dropping like flies.”
He was quiet a moment as he tried to harness the courage to ask the question that eventually had to be asked, despite the risk of shattering the quiet comfort of the status quo. When the words sprang from his mouth, he was as surprised as Robyn. “Do you honestly love me? Or am I merely a means of getting a baby and a nice apartment in a good part of town?”
He waited. Robyn said nothing. She looked too dazed to speak. “Though I don’t remember much about my mother,” Moyer said, “I do remember how her death broke my father. Like glass. I don’t quite get that impression from you. It feels to me as if my absence would mean little more to you than having to put up a message on an on-line bulletin board for a roommate who can pick up half the rent.”
An expression of stunned shock was frozen on Robyn’s face. She floundered for words like a beached fish gasps for the ocean. She seemed awash with conflicting emotions, just none she could articulate. She appeared close to panic. Confused and hurt, she fled the apartment and scurried down the hall. Moyer knew she’d go straight to her parents. He wondered if he’d ever see her again.
Moyer plucked the brown doll off the sofa. In the heat of the moment he had forgotten the stench, but it was back again. The whites of the dolls eyes pulsed red. Sensors inside the doll registered that it had been thrown, and because of the size of Robyn’s hands, the doll knew who had done the throwing. His wife had officially failed parent training.
He set the doll down and went to the kitchen for wipes. Ironically, tonight was the last day of class and dolls had to be returned. Robyn had been mere hours and one diaper change away from passing.
Later that night inside TrinityTemple 709, Moyer found Robyn huddled with Eve Ganz at the back of the classroom. Eve gave Moyer a concerned glance when he arrived. Robyn’s nose and eyes were red and swollen, a clear indication she had told Eve of their spat, if that’s what it was.
After Robyn charged out, the apartment became quiet as a grave, and Moyer realized that not all silence is the same. Since meeting Robyn, quiet had acquired a comforting background din that was nearly imperceptible until it was gone. There was warmth to it. The silence that filled the apartment after she left was heavy and cold.
Mrs. Wagstaff entered and quieted the class with her raptor-like stare. In her hand, she held a stack of completion certificates. Students fixed their eyes on the stack to ascertain whether the number of certificates matched the number of parents. It was clear they didn’t. The stench of anxiety flooded the room. He wondered how many would lose babies to adoption if they failed. Maybe it would be a good day and no one would. Most still had time to retake.
Mrs. Wagstaff started calling out names in no particular order: Wilson, Everett, Monroe, and so it went. Initially no one celebrated, because until the other spouse’s name was also called, no one was guaranteed a baby. Moyer’s name was announced and it caught him by surprise. Apprehension tightened Robyn’s lips into a thin line and Moyer saw worry in her eyes.
As the stack of completion certificates thinned, names began to pair. The Monroes were first. Relief gave way to smiles, which in turn faded when they recognized the drama wasn’t over for some, people who through the class had become friends. Eve Ganz jumped when her name was called. She hugged Robyn, who stiffened and barely reacted.
The Perezes started crying before the last two names were called. They knew. They were laborers and theirs was a lottery baby. It was clear they were out of time for a retake and didn’t have the money for a black market certificate. The last certificate went to the Everetts. Robyn cast her eyes to the floor.
Mrs. Wagstaff announced that couples who had successfully completed the course could leave, and that she wanted a word with those who had not passed. Eve Ganz waved to Robyn on her way out, a guarded smile on her face. She more than most knew what Robyn was going through. Robyn still appeared to be in shock.
“All is not lost because you failed this class,” Mrs. Wagstaff said. “There will be other opportunities. Some of you have enough time to re-enroll. A few of you are out of time and will lose your children to adoption. To you I would still say retake the class. Once you pass, your name can be added to the adoption waiting list. Children become available every day.”
“Why did we fail?” Jimmy Perez asked. His wife was still sniffling.
Mrs. Wagstaff’s tone took on a note of compassion. “Sensors in your replica regularly recorded periods of up to ten hours where a dirty diaper wasn’t changed.”
“But both of us work. I brought the doll on the job with me a couple of times and my boss put me on report. What were we supposed to do?”
“That is exactly the issue. You both work and have no one to care for your child. How could that possibly succeed?” Wagstaff waited a couple beats for a protest that didn’t come. “Retake the class when you have a workable child care strategy. When you pass, you’ll be eligible for the adoption list.”
The Perezes left.
The rest had enough time for a retake. The Monroes, an older couple, seemed unconcerned. They looked to have credits to burn. Mr. Monroe’s expression said he’d had enough, and Mrs. Wagstaff’s encouragement to retake was a waste of breath. Moyer figured a black market certificate was Monroe’s preference. To Monroe, the certainty and lack of hassle were probably worth the 20,000.
Everyone started to leave. Mrs. Wagstaff stopped Robyn and told her to wait. Moyer waited with her while the classroom emptied. “Mrs. Winfield,” Mrs. Wagstaff said, brows furrowed and nostrils flared. “Sensors in your doll detected abuse earlier today. I have placed a marker on your file. You will be required to seek counseling and pass a psych eval before being permitted to retake. Good luck to you.” From Mrs. Wagstaff’s tone it was clear that if left to her, Robyn would never qualify for a baby.
“Please, you can’t. My baby is already under way,” Robyn begged.
“It wasn’t he
r fault,” Moyer said.
“The reason doesn’t matter. When the sensors detect abuse, I have no choice in the matter.”
Robyn walked with Moyer to the tube in a near stupor. Moyer was surprised when his wife didn’t take the Beech Avenue line to her parents. They sat together quietly on the same seat. Robyn was inconsolable. They were still similarly charged particles held apart from one another by some invisible force, but the fact that she was with him was a sign. It meant something. Moyer didn’t press. As they approached Washington Street Station, Moyer wiped away her tears and stroked her hair.
Wednesday, 21 March
The formal notice for a retake of baby classes arrived via the net. It contained a warning that a signed psych eval was required to attend the next session. A net address was provided for scheduling an appointment.
Robyn pulled the sheet off the printer and reread it. It was Mrs. Wagstaff’s final prod. The more Robyn thought of the old bat intruding into her life, even beyond the classroom, the angrier she got. Robyn’s fuse was lit.
She crumpled the page in her hands and hurled it across the room. It didn’t fly as far as she’d hoped and landed a few meters away, mid way to the garbage can. She went to pick it up but her temper was still simmering so she kicked it instead. It spun in an arc and came to rest on the coffee table.
Robyn plopped onto the sofa and stared at the wadded up flyer. She was tempted to kick it again. When the bile in her stomach settled, she snatched the flyer off the table and flattened it out the best she could. She contacted the net address of Dr. Jay Mackie’s office and made an appointment for after work. A long day would become even longer. At least she wouldn’t have to fetch the doll from her mother’s.
Friday, 23 March
Robyn rode to Dr. Mackie’s office straight from work. He was only a couple stops east of Freedom Circle and a short walk. The directory in the lobby listed Dr. Mackie as a Prenatal Psychiatric Specialist. It meant he was the gate keeper who decided whether couples who had transgressed in some way would be permitted to raise children. His office was on the fifth floor.
Women and couples crowded the windowless waiting area. Bright yellow paint and floral wallpaper couldn’t put a sunny face on the oppressive atmosphere. It was warm and fetid. The scent of dread hung in the air. Robyn’s skin went clammy.
When she noticed most of the people waiting were couples, she regretted leaving Moyer at home. He could help settle her nerves, make her feel she had at least one person in her corner. He had been so gentle and kind after Mrs. Wagstaff had nearly crushed her hopes. She studied the people collected there and tried to figure out what was wrong with them. What had they done to end up here?
She checked in with reception and counted the names ahead of hers. The doctor was running late. She found a seat and tuned into the net. She scanned for baby stores having sales and searched for discount coupons. It reminded her why she was here despite longing to be anywhere else. She would do anything to save her baby.
The door to the doctor’s office burst opened and a woman ran out crying. Dr. Mackie stopped at the doorway, pushed his glasses up on his nose and called the next name on his list. A couple stood and followed Mackie into his office.
Robyn’s stomach nearly flopped over. What had the Doctor said to make his last patient so hysterical? What would he ask Robyn? Could she somehow prepare?
Then she thought she knew. The Doctor must have told his last patient she had failed her eval and wouldn’t be permitted to continue in baby classes. What else could it be? What had the woman said or done? What had she gotten wrong? Whatever happened, Robyn resolved not to be that woman. She would not permit herself to breakdown or become a public spectacle no matter what the verdict from the Doctor.
Robyn searched the net hoping someone had posted psych eval experiences and could give her advice about what might be asked and how she should answer. Either everyone was too embarrassed to post, or someone was pulling down the posts as fast as they went up. She found nothing even peripherally related. Robyn’s stomach clenched. A part of her wanted to leave now. The maternal part of her recognized she was fighting for her baby and had to roll the dice no matter how scary it seemed.
Eve Ganz’s name came to mind. Eve had flunked before. She must have gone through the evaluation successfully to be in classes again. If anyone would know what would be asked and how to answer, it was Eve.
Eve seemed surprised when Robyn contacted her. Her first question was, “Where in the hell are you? It looks like a prison.” When Robyn explained where she was, Eve winced. “Are you scared?” Robyn admitted she was. “Don’t worry, everyone is. Just answer honestly. The fact that you’re frightened works in your favor. It shows you care.”
Robyn remembered the woman who rushed out of Dr. Mackie’s office sobbing. She obviously cared and yet it made no difference whatsoever. “What do they ask you in there?”
“It’s probably different for each person. For me it was why I didn’t have time to attend all the classes, and whether I would be making changes in my life to provide time to rear a baby. I don’t know what your issues are, but be prepared to talk about them.”
Robyn thanked Eve and severed the connection. The sense of doom returned. If only her issues were as simple as providing more time to rear her baby. She had thrown their replica. Though only a momentary flare of anger, a lapse, she now felt sure if she framed her responses that way, it would appear as if she was flippant and didn’t take the matter seriously. What should she say? Was there any right answer? She had to make the doctor understand that she would never throw a child, that she knew the difference between plastic and flesh.
Dr. Mackie’s office door opened. His last appointment, the young couple, departed. They weren’t in tears, but they weren’t happy either. What had their verdict been? Either he’d approved them to move on or not. What other options were there?
A jolt ran through Robyn when her name was called. It wasn’t her turn. There were people on the list ahead of her. She wasn’t ready. Dr. Mackie’s eyes probed the waiting area and settled on Robyn. Though they’d never met, it must have been apparent from her reaction that he’d found his next victim. She stood on wobbly legs and made her way to the door.
The interior of Dr. Mackie’s office was decorated more like the living room in a well appointed apartment than a doctor’s office. A desk with a computer sat near the far wall. The rest of the space was appointed with tropical plants, a sofa, a table, and three overstuffed chairs. Mackie held an electronic tablet in his hand and led the way to one of the chairs. He sat with the tablet on his lap and opened her file.
Robyn sat across from the doctor. Mackie welcomed her with a friendly smile. He shifted his eyes to the tablet and scanned the page for a moment before raising his gaze. “Nervous?” he asked.
“A little.”
He grinned as if her situation amused him. Robyn noticed she was sitting on the edge of her seat. She slid back in the chair, eased into the cushion and tried to get comfortable. She felt tense, as if pretending to be calm despite having her fight-or-flight response fully engaged.
“I think nervousness is a good sign,” he said. “It shows you care and take parenthood seriously. That, in my mind, is a key component.”
Robyn nodded, feeling too scared to trust speaking. She had a tendency to talk quickly when she was nervous and to ramble on as if her off-switch had shorted out.
“Do you know why you are here?”
Robyn nodded again. “I threw my doll.”
“You say doll; you realize what it’s meant to represent, correct? Are you trying to minimize the gravity of your actions by emphasizing the artificial nature of the victim?”
The question was so direct it caught her off guard. Dr. Mackie wasn’t going to be delicate. With a lobby full of waiting patients, maybe he couldn’t afford to be. Tears pricked at Robyn’s eyes, she blinked them back. This wasn’t the place for a breakdown. She didn’t need to add emotional instability
to her growing list of parental deficiencies.
“I do understand what the doll represents,” she managed. She cleared her throat and continued. “I think perhaps you are right, that I am attempting to minimize the gravity of my actions. But please understand that I would never do that to a real baby. I do know the difference.”
Dr. Mackie’s lips were pressed into a tight line of skepticism. “What made you throw the replica? Were you angry?”
“Yes,” she admitted. Her voice seemed timid and small in her ears. She despised the sound of it.
“What about the situation made you angry?”
“I don’t know. I think it was the convergence of a few things. The night before, the doll kept me up with its crying. Then there were all the dirty diapers, and the stink that doesn’t go away. I simply needed a little time when someone else would take care of it.”
“You realize real babies do cry at night and mess their diapers? It’s why the replicas were created, to separate those with the capacity for rearing children from those that can’t.”
“But it’s not real,” Robyn cried. “I have a friend with a baby girl. I would never hurt her. With a real baby there are rewards and wonderful moments that counter all the bad. With the replicas there aren’t. The bad is all there is; the bad and that dead, thankless stare.”
Mackie’s face remained stern. “They are designed at the extreme on purpose, to show who has the temperament to endure the long streaks of adversity parents sometimes face with their children.” His caterpillar-like eyebrows arched as if he expected acknowledgement. Robyn dutifully nodded. “Do you understand the source of your anger?” he asked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Do you know why you were angry? Do you harbor anger toward your parents? Were they overly strict or did you feel ignored? Was your childhood disappointing?”