While They Watch

by Sosie Frost

  And suddenly, I wasn’t entirely convinced the aches and pains originated from a runaway ice cream truck.

  Doctor Owens held the door open as the nurse wheeled in the bassinet. They parked it on the side of my bed and stepped back.

  It wasn’t polite to stare.

  But the baby stared right back.

  The doctor plucked the bundle of blankets from the bassinet, soothed one very irritated cry, and looked at me.

  Oh no.

  “Well?” Her voice gentled. “What do you think?”

  “I…think it’s a baby.”

  “Yes.” She nodded. “What else?”

  I think the windows had been bolted shut so I couldn’t leap from the room. “I’m not sure…it looks too little to be the truck driver.”

  “Here…” she said. “…Is your baby.”

  That was to be expected from her grand presentation of the child to me, but that didn’t make my heart thump any less frantically. Every muscle in my body cramped with tension.

  “That’s good information. Can you please wheel in my husband next?”

  Doctor Owens approached, cradling the child so I could peek into the blankets. “This is probably a shock, but I was hoping you’d remember—that something would trigger—if you saw the baby.”

  “You’re striking out today, Doc.”

  “When you arrived in the hospital, you were in labor. Full term. The baby is healthy, and the delivery was textbook…if not celebrated with a sundae bar.”

  “I…had a baby?”

  “Yes.”

  I nodded. “That explains why it feels like the truck hit me in the choco-taco.”

  “We can help with that. But first…here.” She edged close. “Go on. Hold your baby.”

  Hold.

  A.

  Baby?

  Was she out of her goddamned mind?

  That little memory bomb was six pounds, twenty inches of concentrated chaos. I couldn’t remember my own name. I couldn’t picture the accident that put me in the hospital. I didn’t even have a clue that I had given birth.

  These were all monumental life moments that deserved a cursory Facebook post at the very least. Yet I had nothing in my head that prepared me for this. It wasn’t like they made a What To Expect When You’re Not Expecting To Be Expecting book.

  I couldn’t remember a single thing about babies. Not how to hold them. Not how to talk to them. Nothing about feeding or sleeping or dressing or anything.

  Holy hell, usually the newborn was making their first memory. I was still piecing together if I was right or left handed, if I could roll my Rs, if I had a husband sitting at home waiting for his dinner or for his child to be born.

  No way. This had to be one monumental mix-up. One for the history books…or a very cheesy Lifetime movie.

  Women didn’t just forget baby stuff. Instincts didn’t fall out of people’s heads when their skulls collided with a truck.

  “There has to be a mistake,” I said. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think—”

  “Arms out.” Doctor Owens wielded the baby with a skill that came from either two hundred thousand dollars in medical training or her own experience. “You’ll be fine.”

  I froze. That didn’t help—it only confused a T-Rex, not an infant.

  Not…my infant.

  I cupped my hands. No. That wasn’t right. My arms were pinned against my sides. Maybe if I crossed them? I angled my shoulders and made way for a fussing, generally displeased infant who shared my distress.

  “Relax,” Doctor Owens said. “This is your baby.”

  “Most women remember giving birth to their child.”

  “And most women would rather forget that experience and skip to this part. Just do what comes naturally.”

  Screaming, flailing, and bargaining with the devil was probably the wrong thing to do.

  Instead, I stopped breathing and clutched the child to my chest. No sense testing that bouncing baby theory now.

  Especially not with this one.

  With those big eyes.

  Curling fists.

  Trembling lips.

  The baby quieted in my arms. A positive step. Too bad I didn’t know what I did that was so soothing…or how to replicate it. The only advice my ice cream addled brain could give was to support the head. But that wasn’t much of a maternal instinct. The kiddo was a the definition of the word floppy.

  Still…the head of hair was amusing.

  And the kid smacked a pair of adorably full lips.

  The baby was beautiful.

  And mine?

  “Since when do storks do hit and runs?” I asked. “I thought they dropped a bomb on you and flew south.”

  “At least you have a cute little bomb.”

  “Not ticking at least.”

  “Then you’re doing good.” She patted my leg. “You take it easy. Bond with the baby. I’m going to page your doctor.”

  “Aren’t…you my doctor?”

  She tapped her temple. “I’m your neurologist. I’ll fetch your OBGYN. I’m sure you have…questions.”

  Only about a million and a half…and all pertaining to a part of me that had seemed fairly innocuous until it popped out a kid.

  “Should I be worried?” I asked. “You know…aside from not having a clue where this little one came from?”

  “I can give you a basic anatomy lesson if you’re being literal.” Doctor Owens smiled. “But you suffered a concussion. You can’t force recovery on a brain injury, especially when coupled with memory loss.”

  I spoke a word uttered only in soap operas, and usually only combined with evil twin and back from the dead. “Amnesia?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fantastic.” I didn’t move, though the baby did. I went quiet.

  “It’s most likely temporary,” she said. “Retrograde amnesia cases are very rare, and you’ve already recovered from the initial concussion symptoms.” She arched an eyebrow. “Do you remember my name?”

  “Rory Owens.”

  “And the five words I asked you to remember?”

  “Bottle. Rattle. Crib. Milk. Diaper.” I winked. “You’re not subtle, Doc.”

  “Excellent. You’re doing fine.”

  “But I don’t know my name. My insurance information.” I cradled the baby as best I could, but I couldn’t cover his or her little ears. “I don’t even know where the f-a-t-h-e-r is.”

  Doctor Owens cleared her throat. The hope deflated from me.

  “Stay positive,” she said. “Rest. Enjoy your baby. Okay?”

  My baby.

  I looked down. The baby looked up.

  Now was the time for us to both collectively shit our pants. At least the baby had a diaper. Doctor Owens pulled the door closed behind her, and I took a breath.

  Panic wouldn’t solve anything. It also didn’t help while holding a fragile newborn.

  I could handle this. I could figure it out. I’d been through tougher scrapes than this. At least…I assumed I had.

  If nothing else I could pretend I’d endured worse than a little memory loss and the sudden arrival of a tiny, helpless, desperate baby. Hell, one bad case of poison ivy or a white dress and forgotten time-of-the-month would top this. Easy.

  Right? Sure.

  The baby squirmed. Was that a clue to squeeze tighter? That seemed like a bad idea. The kid had been cramped inside me for nine months. Probably just needed a good stretch.

  I thunked my head against the pillow. This was a disaster. Forgetting a name was bad. Forgetting my family even worse. But I had absolutely nothing in my head that prepared me for a baby.

  These sorts of surprises were sprung on people all the time—but at least they had seven or eight months to skim the Wikipedia articles before the big day.

  “Okay…” I was in no condition to bend, shimmy, or yoga-stretch myself into a proper position to hold the baby. Slowly, I deposited the child onto the bed, between my legs. “There. Now you’re stable.”


  The baby didn’t agree, giving an unimpressed hmph.

  “So…” I buzzed my lips. “What sort of baby are you?”

  I shifted the bundled blankets and revealed his—her?—curled fist.

  “Well…you have a pretty pink hat,” I said. “I suppose that’s code. Except…” I tugged on the powder blue onesie, emblazoned with Ironfield Regional Hospital over the front. “You’re throwing some mixed signals.”

  I supposed it was okay to find out for myself. Plus, it was prudent to reverse engineer the diaper situation before it was up to me to strap one on. After all…it was my baby. I’d be diapering a lot. And feeding. Clothing. Comforting. Raising.

  That was a lot of responsibilities to heap on someone who still wore a hospital gown and someone else’s underwear.

  I continued my fact-finding mission. Was this surprise kid of mine a boy or a girl? I unsnapped the onesie and tugged the diaper down.

  “Oh.” Break out the cigars. “A little girl. I guess that makes sense.” I pointed to the speckled pink paint on my arms. “I must have been decorating your nursery.”

  The kid made a face and grunted, truly impressed with my detective work.

  But the kick was unnecessary. And the punch. And the little pinched face heralding a distraught cry at my presumption to disrobe her. I wrapped her back in the blanket, but I think I did it wrong.

  Her mouth opened. Fists curled. Tongue flexed.

  And the scream wailed over the room.

  Great.

  “Please…don’t.” I patted her tummy. I thought babies liked that? Or was that puppies? “There…there. No crying. We’re in this together. You cry, and then I’ll start crying, and one of us has more head trauma and hormones raging than the other. You’ve gotta keep a level head.”

  Most children gave it eighteen years before they split. This one was done after eighteen seconds.

  “It’s okay. I promise.” I cringed as her cry sharpened into a judgmental wail before hic-uping its way into a round of sobs that ached everywhere in me. “I’m sorry. I’m normally better equipped for these things. I think.”

  I folded the blanket over her legs. Nothing. I tucked it. She cried harder.

  What was I doing wrong? Did she want to be picked up? Fed?

  Or did she just now realize that the highlight of her life was popping into the world via the bumper of an ice cream truck?

  The door opened, and a middle-aged nurse fluttered into the room. She whip-cracked her stethoscope over her shoulder and tutted at me, a smile on her face.

  “Would you listen to the commotion in here!”

  I raised my voice over the screaming baby. “Introductions didn’t go so well.”

  “Don’t you worry. She’s just exercising those lungs.”

  The baby’s face wrinkled with rage and absolute misery.

  I sighed.

  “She’s got a healthy pair in her.”

  The nurse smirked. “Yes, indeedy. Must come from good stock, right Momma?”

  How would I know? “We’ve been issued a five-star test crash rating.”

  She laughed. “Well, you’re looking much better. And I’m glad you’re finally getting to bond with baby. Looks like she got out of her swaddle. You might want to bundle her up while we do this paperwork.”

  “Windsor or square knot?”

  “Can knock the sense out of you, but not the humor. Here. Let me show you.”

  I flinched as the nurse hauled the baby into her arms at catapult speed. At least if she had lost her grip, the kid would have launched straight to the ER. I resisted the urge to leap up and play catcher. The nurse didn’t notice—like she trebucheted kids all day. She balanced her on one arm and folded the blanket into a diamond shape.

  “So what is this little cutie’s name?” she asked.

  Good question. “I’m not sure. Ask her if she knows mine.”

  She gestured to the baby and blanket. “You square her shoulders with the blanket here, then tuck this edge across with her little arm, and you pull this bottom bit up—” The nurse made a shushing sound that effectively silenced both me and the infant. “And you wrap the other bit around her like this. And…here you go.”

  She handed her to me, straight-jacketed in the white blanket. But the baby-bondage worked. The newborn gave me a yawn instead of a scream.

  Progress.

  The nurse checked a chart. “So you haven’t picked a name for her yet?”

  I ignored the itch on my nose to ensure I kept both hands firmly on the baby. “Well, we haven’t had time to discuss it yet. She’s thinking something unisex, but I was leaning toward a classic.”

  “I understand. We’ll come back to her.” The nurse tapped her paperwork. “We have other documentation to go through…as best we can. This is a special case…so let’s put Evie down for a name.”

  I perked up. “Oh. Evie. That’s a cute name.”

  “The ice cream truck found you on Evie Street.”

  “That’s perfect. She looks like an Evie.”

  “No, Momma. We’ve been calling you Evie. Jane ‘Evie’ Doe. It felt more personal.”

  “Oh.”

  “So we have your name listed for the birth certificate, but we’ll need to name the baby before you leave the hospital.”

  “Shouldn’t I get my memory back before I leave the hospital?”

  “Well, we certainly hope so.”

  That didn’t sound good.

  “But this paperwork is very important,” she said. “We’ll fill out as much as we can now, in case you don’t recover your memory in time.”

  I took a breath. The baby stopped fussing, her eyes blinking heavy as she rested in my arms. Poor thing. She had no idea what had happened since she was born. Then again, neither did I.

  The kid was all cheeks. And eyes. Big, brown eyes. A full head of hair. Darker complexion, but…

  I compared my arm to her cheek. While my skin looked like a cup of coffee, she seemed to get most of the creamer.

  This was a question I never thought I’d ask. “Does this baby look black enough to you?”

  The nurse laughed. She lowered the clipboard and took another peek. “I’ve worked in pediatrics for fifteen years. I’m no genetics expert, but I think you might have a little blending right here. Interracial. A white daddy maybe?”

  “Well, there’s a clue.” I studied the bundle of evidence in my arms. “Except…”

  I held the baby tight, quickly flashing my left hand to the nurse.

  “I’m…not wearing a wedding ring.”

  The nurse took a breath and bestowed a gift of optimism upon me. “Some women remove their rings when they’re pregnant. Their fingers tend to swell.”

  Mine looked thin to me. Small even.

  “Well, I’m sure my husband is out there looking for us right now. He’ll be sad he missed the birth, but, then again, so did I.”

  “It’s never pretty, despite what they say.”

  Who needed all that bonding time and empirical evidence anyway. A good surge of hormones could solve most problems.

  “Well, we both seem healthy.” I hoped the kid didn’t mind me talking for her. “If not a little…upset.”

  “Fussy.”

  True. The kid wasn’t stoic, that was for sure. She squirmed, not trying to get away though. More like trying to dig through me.

  “She must be hungry,” the nurse said. “Are you planning to continue breastfeeding?”

  “Breast—breastfeeding?”

  “Yes.”

  “I…uh…I mean, we just met.”

  “You might not remember. We had you with her before, poor thing. But your head was still in a tizzy. Of course, we recommend the breast but…”

  The tone in her voice went beyond recommending.

  Oh Lord. The thought of drinking milk out of the carton weirded me out. I hoped the kid didn’t have similar reservations.

  “Yeah, sure. Let’s…flop them on out there, I guess.” I bit my lip. �
��Should I…talk with her first, or is she gonna know the game?”

  “Don’t worry. It’s all instinctual. It’s a bump on your head, not a problem with your boob. I’ll get the lactation consultant. Don’t get up. I’ll be right back.”

  Move? I was holding a baby! Even if I wanted to get up, hop around, and do the post-partum polka, I didn’t trust myself to cough, let alone carry the kid. The nurse scurried from the room.

  And the baby and I were left alone.

  Maybe it was my imagination, but I think she was demanding some answers.

  And I had no idea what to tell her.

  “I feel like…I should know you.” My confession was the least of the kid’s concerns. “And you should probably know me…at least, the inside of me.”

  I adjusted her and felt brave enough to settle against the bed, just enough to ease the strain in my shoulders.

  “I’m sorry I don’t remember you.” I propped her up a bit to see the pink paint on my arms. My only clue to the past wasn’t as thrilled by my fledgling artistic talent. “But look. I was prepping a room for you. I was waiting for you.”

  She didn’t understand, but I had to say it. The newborn didn’t deserve a life where her own mother was shocked to be holding her. I couldn’t think of anything more wretched than to feel unwanted.

  And she was never going to feel that way, no matter how many head injuries or ice cream trucks got in my way.

  “It’s going to be okay,” I whispered. “We’ll handle this together. You…be a baby. And I’ll…”

  I could do this. I could handle it. I’d overcome it.

  “I’ll be your momma.”

  My words soothed her, and that was good because they sure as hell panicked me. I didn’t recognize my own voice. A stranger walked in my skin, and I just hoped they did a better job of living my life than I did in the moment leading up to the accident.

  I couldn’t let it scare me. I had a baby to raise. Memories to regain.

  A life-time supply of ice cream to sue out of a reckless driver.

  Some people said the future was uncertain.

  But now? It was all we had.

  2

  Baby furniture.