by Various
“You hate doulas.”
“I never said I hated them.”
“Yes you did.” He catches himself. His DADDY mug, this new woman. The raw jealousy and irritation he feels are like something out of the fourth grade.
They pause. Sarah looks at him a moment, smiling, amused by his jealousy. She knows him too well. A sudden, worried look crosses her face. Her eyes well up with tears.
Michael says, “Honey, are you okay?”
She laughs, wiping her eyes. “Hormones. Crazy.” She looks at him again and cups his face in her hands. “I’m so glad you’re here.” She kisses him.
When they pull apart, Michael checks his watch.
She says, “Are you expecting someone?” That nervous tone is back.
“The messenger’s supposed to come at ten for the samples from my trip. I should take them downtown myself, but they offered.”
Sarah looks around at the mess of a room anxiously and smoothes her hair.
He knows what she’s thinking and says, “It’s a messenger, honey. He doesn’t care what things look like.”
She says, “I can’t. We can’t have anyone see the apartment. And”—she searches for something and the tone in her voice when she comes up with it makes it sound like a child making up a lie—“the baby’s not supposed to be around anyone new just yet.” He looks at her in disbelief. She adds a hasty, “Germs.”
He asks, “What about Herr Greta, there?”
“She’s a doula, honey; babies are her business. Please, Michael, no one in the apartment, not yet.”
He says, “I’ll leave it by the front door.”
“In the hallway, with a note?” she says, hopeful.
“This stuff has come too far to be left in the hallway. I’ll leave it by the door.” He sees that she isn’t calming down and fear is growing in her eyes. She has the look of a cornered animal. He finds himself saying anything just to get that look off her face. “I will wait until he rings. I will open the door only enough to push the case out. I will close it quickly.”
She appears relieved. Tim squalls from directly behind them, making Michael jump. Sarah seems undisturbed. He realizes that the baby monitor is on the counter. Sarah grabs his hand, a mischievous smile creeping across her face. “I’ve been talking with Greta and she says it’s okay if you hold the baby.” She pulls him out of his chair and leads him down the hallway.
Michael sputters in indignation. Why wouldn’t it be? Greta dwells in and rules the realm of baby, where clearly, he has not yet been initiated.
“He was having stranger anxiety. Once he gets used to you, he’ll be fine.” Her tone is soothing, as if she’s speaking to a child; this bothers him.
“I don’t understand.”
In the nursery, Tim’s little fists shake and his feet kick and he’s an unnatural shade of red. His cries are so deep they seem to shake his body, too big to be created by something so tiny.
Sarah says, “Go ahead, pick him up.” She hangs a burp rag over Michael’s shoulder. He picks up the squirming thing in his arms. He’s so little and fragile, yet so violent. Michael tries to nestle the baby’s head against the burp rag. The child starts beating his head against his father’s chest, like a bird looking for something.
Sarah says, “Oh, he’s hungry.” She sounds so matter-of-fact, as if this infant child bashing his face into people like a blind lunatic is a normal thing.
Such a feeling of helplessness rises in Michael that he needs to hand the child off. Now.
But before he can, Sarah moves over to a bottle warmer and pulls out a clear plastic bottle. He looks at her, confused.
She says, “I pumped.”
Ick. It’s his first reaction but he doesn’t say it. He takes the bottle, warm with a liquid that came from his wife. Throughout their love-making and all of their illnesses, he thought they’d experienced all the fluids each had to offer, but clearly not. Instinctively, he turns the bottle upside down into the feeding position. Drops of this mysterious liquid cling to the plastic after the rest has moved down to the nipple. It oozes slowly away from the sides like a viscous oil. A fine, grainy residue remains once the liquid has moved on. Chalk dust. Milk dust. Future bones.
Michael cradles the thrashing boy in the crook of his arm.
Sarah says, “Watch his head.” She helps Michael guide the bottle to the baby’s mouth. Tim starts to suck greedily, in alarming gulps. Michael looks to Sarah, panicked that the child will drown, but she’s unconcerned. She nudges Michael’s shoulders and pushes him back toward the rocker next to the crib. He sits down and the gulps relax into a rhythmic sucking. The baby grabs onto his father’s pinkie and his wise eyes roll back into his head, like a user going into a heroin haze, clearly in heaven over this ambrosia.
Sarah says, “He likes our song. You know, the one you used to sing to me? That dream one.”
Michael starts singing to the baby, his voice startling him in this new space, the rocking chair in his child’s nursery. “When you were little, you dreamed you were big, you must have been something, a real tiny kid. You wish you were me, I wish I was you…”
This is so weird. This is so great. Sarah pets Michael’s hair gently, stroking the side of his face. Michael feels that she’s happy and this calms him. All of the strangeness and irritability he’d been feeling melt away and he falls into the wonder snuggling down in his arms.
• • •
There’s a knock at the door, but Sarah doesn’t get that spinning feeling this time. No growing darkness. No cold. This person won’t come in. She lets Michael go take care of it—he has to give them something. She doesn’t remember what, but she knows she was okay with it. Mostly, she remembers that for right now, he won’t leave.
He’ll find out about her eventually, but the longer she can keep him around, the more she can get him attached to Tim, the more likely he’ll choose to stay once he does find out. He doesn’t know Tim yet. She has to facilitate that. Watching Michael feed the baby filled her with such joy, she almost forgot how they got here. She could pretend for a moment that she’d lived. That she and Tim and Michael were starting out their new life together. They are, but it’s different from what she’d imagined.
“Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.” Greta was right. It’s better this way.
• • •
When the messenger comes, Michael absent-mindedly shoves the case out the door and closes it, eager to get back to this newfound world. Sarah’s weirdness over the exchange seems nothing but an unpleasant memory. He heads into the nursery, where he finds himself confronted with his first diaper change. He’s not prepared for this. He doesn’t know what he expected from baby poop, but it certainly wasn’t this thick, nasty mustard sauce that has filled every nook and corner of the diaper. It has a vague vinegar smell. Just as he starts to wipe at it, more starts coming out of the child’s behind, like someone is squeezing a tube of toothpaste way too fast. He’s horrified. “Oh. Oh, God, that’s awful. Honey!” He yells for help even though Sarah’s right behind him.
She laughs as she steps in and quickly closes the diaper over the boy, whose red face is contorted from the effort. She refastens the Velcro, announcing, “Disaster averted.” That first bottle did it. Sarah’s becoming more relaxed. Less edgy.
Michael sees that the stuff has started coming out the legs of the diaper. “I don’t know about that.” He looks up at his wife who has a patient, amused look on her face. She’s rubbing the boy’s belly and clucking to him. There’s a “mom” look in her eyes. Part weary, part patient, all kind. It’s odd to see something completely different and new in this person he knows better than anyone. Even when she was uber-Sarah, pregnant queen of the universe, this side of her didn’t exist yet.
A strand of her hair comes loose and curls around her cheek. She hasn’t got a stitch of makeup on, but he doesn’t think he’s ever seen her more beautiful. Her green eyes shine bluish in the morning light and he can count the feathers in her iri
ses. The angles of her face are soft and there are tiny smile lines around her eyes. And here they both are, Michael and Sarah, hovering over this erratic, charming, revolting, amazing and appalling creature that is their son.
Sarah’s suddenly all business. “I think he’s done.” The diaper has to weigh over a pound. Michael, armed with a wipe, goes in, but doesn’t know quite where to start. Sarah stands back, folding her arms as a sign that she isn’t going to help.
He implores, “Oh, come on.”
“Listen, Mister, I mastered it on my own. You can start from scratch, too.” She sits down, rocking nonchalantly. She snorts as he goes through five wipes without blinking. He does not seem to be making a dent in the sludge.
He’s exasperated. “Wouldn’t it be easier to give him a bath?” She laughs.
Michael’s up to fifteen wipes by the time he’s done. But now he’s enjoying it. Tim looks up at him, quizzical, little crossed eyes, his eyebrows forming a fuzzy, nearly naked caterpillar across his brow. Michael’s gradually becoming accustomed to his son’s tiny body, but his skin is red and scaly with a yellowish hue to it. His nose seems to be covered with tiny raised yellow bumps that look like scales on a lizard. “Is he… supposed to be this color?”
She laughs again. “You are funny.”
Michael says, “I mean, he doesn’t look like he’s got real skin yet. Does he need lotion or something?”
Sarah gets up and puts her arm around her husband, looking at Tim who squirms happily atop the changing table. “He is funny-looking. But it’s normal. That peaches and cream complexion only comes with time.” She reaches across the changing table for a white strap with a plastic clip. There’s a matching one on the front; she fastens it like a seat belt across the baby’s belly.
Michael says, “What, is he driving somewhere?”
She says, “Have to get in the habit. In a few months, he’ll be able to roll off.”
“Where did you get all this stuff? Did they give you courses before you left the hospital?”
She says, “I didn’t have anything to do but read books. It made me less nervous while you were gone.” Michael knows she’s not trying to give him a guilt trip, but still, it stings.
They lay Tim in the middle of the giant bed in their room, surround him with pillows, and put on some Mozart, which is supposed to develop the baby’s math skills. Michael looks at the beautiful, helpless, troll-like creature that is his son and doubts his mathematical abilities. But the music is soothing and breathes living air back into the apartment. The music makes him feel less cut off from the world.
He should call into work. He’ll do it tomorrow. Caroline will take care of the report. He needs to call Caroline, too. He hasn’t even charged his phone yet.
They’re so comfortable here and he was supposed to take paternity leave anyway.
Sarah curls up on one side of Tim, Michael on the other. She looks at Michael and strokes his face. This is more like what he’d been waiting for. Not the discord and alienation. Tim lets out one final squawk and kicks his legs before settling in and sucking his fist. His eyes drift back in his head and he closes them. As if Sarah’s still connected to Tim by an umbilical cord, her eyes droop as well, her breathing grows regular, and she falls asleep.
Michael watches them. After a few minutes, Sarah’s eyes dart back and forth beneath her closed lids, but her expression remains peaceful. Tim solves the problems of the world with starts and grunts, while his lips make sucking sounds that let his father know his dreams are at least nourishing. Michael wonders if their dreams are connected, too.
He marvels at them until the warmth from the sunlight streaming in the open window, the music and the spring air lull him into a doze.
• • •
There’s a knock at the front door and Michael wakes. It’s getting dark outside. He feels a chill and pulls a blanket up over Sarah and Tim, who sleep on.
The second knock is louder. Michael rubs his eyes and scrambles down the hall as quickly as he can, weighing which will be louder: a shout of “Coming!” or another knock. He gets to the door in time and opens it. It squeaks with an infuriatingly loud groan in their echoing hallway.
It’s Mrs. Grady from downstairs, holding a casserole dish. Her thick bifocals magnify a worried look. She’s wearing a gold-and-green-paisley housecoat, which probably dates back to the early sixties. The pink slippers, judging by the amount of dirt on them, are maybe only a few years old.
Michael says, “Hi there.” He’s trying to sound as if he hasn’t just woken up. It’s not working.
Mrs. Grady says, “See, I knew you were home early. No one was expecting you for another week and they said your phone wasn’t going through, but I knew you were home.” She pushes the glass casserole dish, crumpled, probably re-used tin foil clinging to its edges, into his hands. It’s cold from the fridge.
Then she says something odd: “You poor thing.” Her glasses give Michael the feeling he’s being investigated with a magnifying glass. He self-consciously straightens his hair; he must look a fright. He can see Mrs. Grady decide against saying something meaningful. Instead, all business, she says, “Forty-five minutes at three-fifty should do it.”
“I’m sorry?”
“If you like, cut it up and put it in Tupperware in the freezer to last you longer. You look like you haven’t had a proper meal in weeks.” Her words catch in her throat and she puts her hand on his forearm, “God bless you, Michael.” Her eyes fill with tears. Michael has a random fear that he’s starting to have this effect on everyone.
He says, “Uh, thank you. Are you okay, Mrs. Grady?”
Her chin rises in a pout of concern one would give a child; it becomes apparent that she’s left her dentures out. She raises her hand to Michael’s face and clicks softly with her tongue. She turns to go and he can hear her muttering to herself and sniffling as she shuffles down the hall.
“Michael?” It’s Sarah. She’s awake.
He closes the door quickly, feeling caught. He wants to avoid whatever craziness Sarah was having yesterday and a quick shutting of the door seems like the answer.
She comes down the hallway and slips her arms around him, kissing him on the shoulder. She says, “Why’d you get up? It was so snuggly in there.”
He says, “Mrs. Grady brought us a”—he holds it up and sees cheese and red sauce through the side of the glass—“lasagna?”
He feels her hands go stiff and she steps back. “Really.”
Either some feud has developed with their old-lady neighbor while he was gone or Sarah has gotten weird about company. Michael figures it’s the latter.
“I don’t understand, honey, am I supposed to not answer the door because we have a baby? Because I read all the same books you did and I didn’t read anything about shutting out the world.”
Sarah laughs nervously, but he can tell that she’s performing for his benefit. She asks her next question carefully, “What did she say?”
He says, “Not much. Just directions for how to cook it. Then she started to cry.” He muses over this last part, but then realizes he should have left it out.
Sarah doesn’t say anything. Michael hears Tim’s voice from the other room. Not a cry, but the early staccato huh-huh-huh that means crying is about to happen.
But Sarah stands there, clearly still stewing. Michael tries to keep it light. “Weddings and babies. My grandmother used to cry at grammar school graduations.”
This seems to satisfy her. “Right. I’d better…” And she’s off down the hallway. It seems like he doesn’t even know what he’s trying to accomplish when he talks to her anymore. But if she leaves a conversation soothed, he feels he’s done his job. Why?
The phone rings. Sarah flinches as if she’s heard gunfire. Michael heads to the telephone, but Sarah whispers, her voice sounding downright creepy in their high-ceilinged hallway. “Don’t answer it.”
Michael says, “Oh, really.” This is their stock, “I’m going to do i
t anyway” phrase. He heads toward the phone. He doesn’t hear her follow him, so he’s surprised to find her hand clamp onto his before he can reach the telephone. Her hand is icy cold.
She’s looking at the caller I.D. She says, “It’s Anna.”
“Since when are you not talking to your sister?”
“Don’t answer it.”
He looks at her, worried.
She rolls her eyes to assuage his fear, but he knows she’s hiding something. But why? She says, “Honey, we had a huge fight. It’s nothing. We’re not talking. But it’s nothing. I don’t want you to get in the middle of it.” She looks at him too anxiously, waiting for his reaction. When he lifts his hand from the phone he sees her relax. Then the machine kicks in.
Hi, it’s Sarah. And Michael. We’re not here right now, but please leave a message. The end of the message is Sarah laughing. Michael had tickled her at the time.
He smiles at this. “We need to change the message. It’s not only Sarah and Michael anymore.” Beep.
“Hi, Michael? It’s Anna.” She sounds anxious. “Are you home yet? Your cell phone isn’t working for some reason and… I need you to call me the minute you get back. Please.” Her voice cracks as she starts crying. “Oh. God. I’m sorry. That message.” Click.
Michael says, “She sounds upset.”
“I’ll call her tomorrow,” Sarah says flatly.
He’s surprised by her callousness. “What could you possibly have fought about that would be that bad?”
She sounds regretful. “I love her so much.”
“Then call her!”
“I want to. But I can’t. I can’t.”
She heads off down the hall. Tim has given up his “huh-huh” and gone quiet again; maybe he comforted himself back to sleep.
Sarah and Anna have always been pretty intense together, but they haven’t fought in years. Michael will talk to Sarah about it tomorrow. He takes the lasagna to the kitchen and puts it in the oven, turning it to three-fifty. He can’t remember the last time he ate anything more than cereal. It will be good to have something homemade.
• • •