by John Jodzio
“That mole is nothing to worry about,” the doctor told me, “but you’re pregnant.”
I was shocked. I called Mitch from the parking lot of the clinic, heard the clicking of phone interchanges from country to country as my call snaked its way to him over land and sea.
“You need to come home now,” I told him. “There’s no way in hell I can do this alone.”
“You know I can’t come home yet,” he said.
“Maybe you could shoot off something nonessential from your body, like your pinkie, and they’d fly you back home for a few months to recuperate?” I asked. “Or maybe they would they send you home if you accidentally lopped off a decent-sized part of your ear?”
For my first trimester, there was no one to hold my long hair when I puked from morning sickness. There was no one to scare away the deer that kept traipsing through our backyard and eating our flowers and shrubs. There was no one to talk me out of going on the Internet and reading all the things that could go wrong with a baby inside the womb and everything that could go wrong with a baby when it was out in the real world.
A few months later I drove to the clinic and my ultrasound tech pressed a paddle against my belly. She said there was a boy swimming around in the sluice. Instead of giving my husband a hug, I had to give her one. Yes, Mitch continued to call me and yes, he reassured me things would be fine, but his phone calls were usually full of static or full of background explosions.
“Put the phone up to your stomach,” he told me. “So I can talk to my boy.”
I did this for Mitch during the second trimester, rested the receiver on my belly for Mitch to talk directly to our son. At the beginning of my third trimester, the baby began to kick the crap out of me whenever he heard Mitch’s voice and instead of placing the phone on my stomach, I started to set it against my palm.
“Can you just come home for a couple of days when he’s born?” I asked.
“I just told him I’d do my best to make that happen,” Mitch said.
I wiped the phone sweat from my palm onto my pants.
“Of course you did,” I told him.
My mother came to stay with me a few weeks before my due date. She’d just turned sixty-five, was fresh off her third divorce. Her latest marriage ended when she walked in on her husband, Dan, sucking on the back of her dog walker’s knee. She thought her Pomeranian, Snowball, was partially responsible for Dan’s infidelity and so she’d given Snowball to me.
“He could’ve alerted me to what was going on,” my mother said. “It’s as much that fluffy bastard’s fault as anyone’s.”
I quickly tired of my mom’s constant chatter about Dan and the dog walker and I certainly got sick of seeing her standing in her panties in front of my bedroom mirror, wondering if her knee joints still looked hot.
“Even if Mitch comes home in one piece,” she told me, “he’ll probably leave you in a few months because your hamstrings have gone all saggy.”
My mother drove me to the hospital when my water broke. She held my hand and fed me ice chips during labor. We tried to update Mitch on my dilation, centimeter by centimeter, but his staff sergeant could not reach him. My mother called every half hour, but everyone told us he was unreachable.
“What does ‘unreachable’ mean?” she asked.
“It means that he’s out on a mission,” they said.
We called and called after Swayze was born, but Mitch was still on that mission. I knew there was something horribly wrong, but I tried to stay positive because I knew that staying positive would keep my breast milk positive and positive breast milk would give my baby a wonderful outlook on life instead of a dire one. Still, I couldn’t help thinking that my milk was betraying me subconsciously, that it knew it was sad and worried milk coming from sad and worried tits and that it was probably poisoning my baby against the entire damn world.
After the second day without any word from Mitch, my mother and I began to escalate things, calling our senators and representatives, wading through governmental phone trees and their patriotic hold music and being stiff-armed by their secretaries and schedulers. Finally Mitch’s colonel called back.
“I’m truly sorry,” he told us, “but there’s been an accident.”
Each morning when I wake up, I like to read a random passage from Nurture Against Nature. Today I open to page forty-three and read this:
There will be some of your friends and family who will not understand your decision to rear your child exclusively indoors. They will not understand the logic. They will look at the light box you use to keep your baby from being seasonally depressed and they will shake their heads. It’s unnatural, they will say, inhumane. They can certainly have their own opinions, but perhaps you should ask them why they do the things they do? Why are they submitting their children to the ills of carcinogenic sunlight or super viruses, why are they letting them get anywhere near unfamiliar pubes in public restrooms? How, in our crazy Amber Alert–colored world, can they let their children out of their sight for even one second? Listen to their answers and then ask yourself, are their explanations about how they raise their children any better than yours? Do their children seem any happier or smarter than yours do?
When I’m finished reading, Swayze starts to fuss. Swayze and I sleep in the master bedroom and Mitch’s hospital bed is in the guest room. This is how it has been since the VA dropped Mitch off, gave me a live-in nurse for three days to train me on how to care for a man who couldn’t use his arms and was missing his legs.
I set Swayze in his high chair and chew up some Cheerios for him. I put my mouth up to his mouth and spit the mush onto his tongue. I chew most of Swayze’s solids for him because I want to make sure he will get the antibodies from my saliva and because it helps us to bond. Dr. Halder says that chewing up my baby’s food will make him able to digest more easily and also make him less prone to dairy and nut allergies.
When I’m done feeding Swayze, Snowball runs inside through his dog door. I fill his dish with kibble. Next, I blend Mitch a protein shake and set it on his drinking tray. I prop a pillow under his head so he can watch television. I take care of everyone here, but there is no one to take care of me.
“Honey,” Mitch says, “I wish I hadn’t stepped on that landmine. I wish I’d stepped six inches to the left or six inches to the right. You shouldn’t take out my bad luck on Swayze.”
I position Mitch’s straw on his lips and he takes a long swallow. I give him a sponge bath every day, but no matter how well I wash him or how many scented candles I burn there’s always a tinge of urine underneath the vanilla or elderberry.
“Being at the wrong place at the wrong time isn’t bad luck,” I say, paraphrasing a line from Dr. Halder. “It’s something you can help.”
Later that day I call the grocery store for a delivery. James answers. He’s the owner’s son, home from college for the summer. He’s got long brown hair that’s always in his eyes. He’s tall and lanky like Mitch used to be.
“How about two packages of diapers, a gallon of ice cream, a bag of pralines, and some chocolate sauce,” I tell James.
“You making sundaes, Mrs. Roberts?” he asks.
“Uh-huh,” I tell him, “I need a treat.”
“We all need a treat every now and then, don’t we?” James says.
“I need a treat more than most,” I tell him.
“I hear you, Mrs. Roberts,” he says.
While I wait for James to arrive, I bring Swayze to Mitch’s bedside and set him in his Johnny Jump Up. Swayze hops up and down wildly, like he’s trying to bust through the roof. I wipe away a thin line of drool that is extending from Mitch’s mouth to his shoulder. I remember how I used to be hot for his mouth and it used to be hot for me. Even when we were in public, I used to feel myself curling my chest slightly toward it when he spoke, wanting its warmth and wetness. Now Mitch’s lips are swollen, split in thirds like an ant’s body, his teeth are always gnashing, snarling.
“How
can you think this is a good way to raise a child?” he asks.
“Three hundred thousand copies sold worldwide,” I say as I hold up Nurture Against Nature and point to a sticker on the cover. “You can’t argue with sales like that.”
Swayze keeps jumping, giggling maniacally. When Swayze and Mitch are next to each other, it’s hard not to notice how much they look alike, the same almond-shaped eyes, the same bump on the bridge of their noses. When I look at Swayze, I honestly do not see one smidgen of me at all. It’s like whatever genetic code of mine was mixed in to make him was gobbled right up by Mitch’s genes. Like my genes were not the fittest of the bunch and they decided that instead of fighting they’d just lie down and get run over.
James’s Jeep pulls into the driveway and he hops out. He’s wearing a red polo shirt and khaki cargo shorts. He presses the button on the intercom.
“Hi, James,” I say.
“Hello, Mrs. Roberts,” he says. “I’ve got everything you need.”
From our phone calls and our chats over the intercom, I know James wants to be a pharmacist, just like his dad. The last time we talked he told me that he’d just broken up with his high school sweetheart and he was taking it pretty hard.
“Come on in,” I say.
James knows the protocol—I open the garage and he walks inside and sets the grocery bags down. Then he walks back out to his car. I press the garage door opener and the door creaks shut.
I watch through the window as James climbs back in his Jeep. His radio is blaring. It is a song with a lot of bass that rattles the glass in my hutch. He gives me a hang loose sign with his fingers and then drives away. Sometimes I wonder if he wants to know what I look like, if he thinks that someone threw acid on my face or I was disfigured in a fire. Sometimes I want to invite James inside and talk to him face-to-face, prove that I’m normal. Sometimes I want to let him see that I’ve lost all my baby weight, that I still look damn good.
In the garage, James’s cologne lingers. It smells like rain with some citrus notes mixed in. I close my eyes and hug the grocery bag until his scent slides away. When I put the groceries away, I notice he’s given me an extra bag of pralines, free of charge.
The next day my mother brings medical supplies and our mail. She makes the trip twice a week here now, on Tuesdays and Fridays. She’s been very supportive of me; she doesn’t judge our indoor lifestyle, she sees the advantages.
“You turned out the way you did because of the things I did,” she tells me. “So who would I be to criticize? I’d be criticizing myself.”
I put Swayze in his playpen and my mom and I split a ham sandwich. She tells me she’s met a man named Jerome on the Internet. Jerome lives in Fort Lauderdale and she might go visit him soon.
“Jerome thinks my legs are beautiful,” my mother says. “So thus far we’re a perfect match.”
My mother tells me more about Jerome, how he owns a catamaran, how he lives in a gated community, how he always wanted to have kids but somehow never got around to it.
“This may be my last real chance at love,” she says, which is the same exact thing she said to me right after she met her last two husbands.
While we’re eating, I hear a scream in the backyard. I look out the window and see an eagle trying to lift Snowball off the ground. Have you ever heard a dog scream? I hadn’t. It sounds way more human than you’d think. I grab Swayze and all three of us watch as the eagle tries to get his claws into Snowball. Snowball bites and growls, giving the bird a good fight, but the eagle finally grabs him and flies off.
“What the hell is going on?” Mitch yells out from the other room.
My mother and I watch Snowball being carried away across the sky. This small white puff being pulled right up into the clouds and disappearing from our lives forever.
Today when I wake up I read this passage:
Your indoor baby will sometimes stare longingly out the window at the world. This is normal. Your baby is an inquisitive baby and he or she will wonder what is going on out there. Totally normal. This is how your baby tests their boundaries. Sometimes your indoor baby will bang his or her head on the window. Again, testing their boundaries. Sometimes your child will paw the window with their hand, run it down the entire length of the pane leaving these smeared and seemingly desperate handprints. All absolutely normal.
Swayze’s first birthday is coming up. He just started walking. This afternoon he tries to climb up on the kitchen counter. Over and over, he keeps trying to hoist himself up, he won’t quit.
“You are not going to be able to hold him for long,” Mitch told me yesterday. “That’s the thing. You think you’ll be able to hold him inside here, but sooner or later he’ll escape.”
Mitch might be right. I haven’t figured out how I’m going to explain all of this to Swayze yet. My mother thinks I should make up some elaborate story about the apocalypse, about a nuclear event, about how his skin will melt off if he steps outside. Luckily I’ve got a little while to decide.
After Swayze and Mitch fall asleep, I call the grocery store. It’s only Thursday, but James has already been here three times this week. I don’t know what it is with me lately, but I’ve become absentminded. No matter how many times I call James I always forget something I really need.
Tonight I order a pound of coffee, a bag of frozen chicken strips, two cucumbers, a bag of oranges, and a case of Diet Coke with lime.
“On my way,” James says.
This time when James sets the groceries down in the garage, I accidentally close the garage door too quickly and he’s stuck inside.
“Hello?” he calls out.
I immediately realize my mistake, but instead of opening the door, I press my ear against the door to the garage.
“Mrs. Roberts?” he yells out. “Are you there?”
The door’s locked, but I swear I can smell his cologne seeping through it. For a second I think about flipping the deadbolt open, inviting him inside, but instead I press the garage door opener.
“You can let me see you,” he tells me before he walks out of the garage. “I’d be all right with whatever happened.”
This morning, on page 204:
Babies are hard work. Especially indoor babies. May we suggest that you buy a harness and stake your baby to something immovable? Don’t skimp on the harness, because babies are very strong. Stronger than you might think. A baby with enough motivation can move a couch or a recliner or an antique armoire out from in front of a bedroom door. A baby with enough motivation can pull an oven off the wall and tunnel through the drywall behind it. A tip: when you do pound in your stake for your harness, pound the stake deep into the floor joists, so not even an adult can pull it out.
Today when I am giving Mitch his sponge bath, I lean in to lift him up to clean his back. My shoulder is right near his mouth. Mitch could sweetly kiss me, but he doesn’t. He tries to bite me. I pull away just in time.
“What the hell was that for?” I yell.
“We do our best with what little we have,” Mitch tells me, then he starts laughing.
I don’t understand what the hell he is talking about or why he’s laughing, but I back away from him. I turn to look at Swayze . . . he’s not there. I run through the house and cannot find him. Then I hear some squawking in the backyard. I look out the window and see Swayze standing on the patio and two eagles circling around him. He was just in his playpen a minute ago, but he must’ve escaped out the dog door while Mitch was distracting me. Swayze’s wearing overalls and by the time I get outside the eagles have looped their claws around his shoulder straps. They pull him upward, trying to gain lift-off. Fortunately Swayze’s a solid kid, much heavier than Snowball, and the birds only pull him a few inches off the ground before they set him back down and try again.
“Fight!” I yell to Swayze as I grab a broom. “Fight!”
But Swayze isn’t fighting. He’s jumping up and down as the birds flap their wings; he’s trying to help them get off the
ground. His jumping becomes more frantic when he sees me running toward him. I poke one of eagles in the gut with the broom handle and I knock the other one in the side of the head and they let go and flap away. Swayze is sitting on the ground now, holding out his hands to them as he watches them go.
Sometimes even with the best planning your indoor baby does not remain inside. Something goes badly. This is a time where you need to roll with the punches. Have a positive attitude, know which battles to fight, learn from your mistakes, have a steady hand, all of these things are necessary with any good parenting strategy. Your baby may not understand why these rules are necessary now, but later, later your baby will thank you for keeping him or her safe. Later, and this could be many, many years down the line, your baby will take your hand and look into your eyes and tell you all the good that you have done for him or her. Then all this hard work will be worth it, won’t it?
I stand over Swayze now and watch his little stomach rise up and down. I gave Mitch a pain pill about an hour ago. He’s snoring in the other room.
First I take a piece of plywood and I nail the dog door shut, then I pour myself a glass of wine. I sit on the couch underneath the skylight and watch the clouds move across the night sky. It’s been a stormy summer and sometimes the wind blows so hard that I think the whole damn house is going to fall down around me. Mitch used to tell me that I was crazy, that this house was as solid as they come, but I still can’t stop thinking that it just might happen, that one of the construction workers missed a nail somewhere, that maybe the trusses are moving in the opposite way the foundation is settling. Everything in the universe was mashed together all nice and tight at one time and then somehow it all blew apart, didn’t it? Who’s to say that the opposite can’t happen and that at some point we’ll all be smashed together again, noses into armpits and knees into crotches?