It was worse for Jaqe; she too had tried to escape into the shower, only to find that the sound of her child not only penetrated the wall of water but also prodded her breasts to squirt milk. Laurie had heard a thump in the shower. She’d been rocking Kate in her arms, trying to quiet her so Jaqe could get washed, and maybe eat breakfast at the table, when she heard the noise. For a second she looked from the baby to the bathroom door, confused, before she set Kate down and ran to help Jaqe. She found her leaning back against the wall, her eyes squeezed shut and her hands against her forehead as streams of white arced across the shower stall to drown in the fall of clear water.
The only thing that worked at all, Jaqe found, was never putting the baby down. If Jaqe carried her everywhere—and it had to be Jaqe, Kate could tell the difference instantly if it was Laurie, or Mrs. Lang, whether from the feel of the arm, or the weight, or the pressure, or maybe, as Jaqe believed, the smell of the milk “brewing” in Jaqe’s breasts—if Jaqe carried her everywhere, then Kate just might stay quiet for more than a few minutes. And Jaqe had to hold her. Kate wouldn’t accept riding in a sling, even the kind that nestled her against Jaqe’s breasts. She demanded Jaqe’s arm around her. Jaqe took to doing everything with her right hand, joking that her left arm soon would look like Popeye’s. She became skilled at things like making coffee, combing her hair, even washing her face and getting dressed with just one hand. If necessary, she could slide Kate from one side to the other to put on a blouse or a dress.
Only, as she told Louise, she could do everything, but never quite right. Her hair always looked messy, probably, she said, because she never dared take the time to condition it properly. She had to limit her meals to the things easiest to prepare, usually ready-to-eat foods, and even this became difficult, or actually dangerous. Once, she cut herself opening a sardine can, and when she had to put Kate down to wash and bandage the cut, the baby’s screaming drove her to do it all quickly, as quickly as possible, so that she didn’t really clean the cut and sterilize it the way she would have done in what she called her “previous life.”
Keeping clean was the hardest. She told Louise that she smelled all the time and only waved her (free) hand when Louise insisted it wasn’t true. She wore the clothes that were easiest to put on and take off, and since neither she nor Laurie seemed to have enough time to go down to the washing machines in the basement, most of her clothes were stained. It would have been pointless to try to keep them clean, anyway. Preparing and eating food quickly, while holding the baby, made sure her clothes received a portion of whatever she ate. “I’m like a walking museum of food,” she told Louise.
Worst of all—and this she could not make herself tell Louise—she could not keep her body clean. It wasn’t just the infrequent showers or the dirty clothes. She couldn’t even wipe herself properly when she went to the toilet. If she laid Kate down in her crib, the crying would cut through Jaqe until she just wanted to finish what she was doing and get back to Kate and make it stop. And if she held the baby while sitting on the toilet, the awkwardness as well as concern for the baby’s cleanliness made her rush to get it all done. It was such a simple thing, she knew, something you mastered before you even went to school. Somehow she just couldn’t do it. And she couldn’t talk about it, not with Louise, and certainly not with Laurie.
Jaqe was scared for Laurie. She knew how hard Laurie was trying, always staying cheerful, positive, promising relief and solutions that never came. She wished she could talk to Laurie, not for herself, but for Laurie. It seemed so unfair, Jaqe thought. Laurie didn’t want a child, and now, having a child who cried without rest and a lover who could never do anything, Laurie never complained, never got angry, just kept trying and trying to make it right.
Laurie, in turn, couldn’t talk to Jaqe. She was convinced that Jaqe suffered so much more than she did. How could she dare to say anything? And Laurie knew that she at least could get away to the quiet of work. Getting away didn’t help, however, for Jaqe’s greater pain exaggerated Laurie’s own inadequacy. And getting away just made it harder to go home. For the first weeks, when it became clear that Kate would not stop shrieking, Laurie thought constantly of the stories of women who beat their babies. She would check herself, examine her urges, look at her hands whenever she had to pick Kate up, as if they might change into fists without her knowing. But instead of a desire to beat or hurt her baby, Laurie just wanted to leap down the stairs and out to the street, where she could suck deep on the polluted air. Only—she remembered—it was men, fathers, who did that, abandon their families. She couldn’t even do things like a proper woman, she thought. She wasn’t the baby’s mother or its father. She was nothing. And there was no one she could talk to, no one. Louise would just lecture her about women-loving women claiming their rights as full parental partners. Mark would stay calm and say something sensible, if a little strange. No one could understand. No one could help.
When Jaqe got sick, neither she nor Laurie realized it at first. Jaqe was so tired and confused all the time anyway—what difference could it make? True, Laurie could feel the heat radiating from Jaqe’s body, but Jaqe had always been warmer than Laurie, she’d always heated the bed in winter, so that if Laurie ever shivered in the middle of the night she only needed to slide closer to Jaqe’s body, put her arms over Jaqe’s shoulders, her leg over Jaqe’s hip, and warmth would flood her cold thin body. So it took a while for them to understand that something was wrong beyond the confused and joyful agony of trying to satisfy a yelling child.
Even when Jaqe started throwing up she could tell herself it was just stress, and the need to eat in such a fast and sloppy way. Or that it simply was the flu she’d had a few weeks earlier, swinging back for a return visit. And if her hand burned with pain where she’d cut it awhile back, well, that too was nothing special. It was her own fault, she knew; she never should have done anything so foolish as to try and yank open a sardine can with just one hand.
She had, in fact, worried about the cut at first, especially when it sent a line of puffy red blisters up her wrist. For several days she’d just kept washing it with alcohol and making sure to keep it covered, from fear that Laurie would see it. Laurie had far too much to worry about already. Finally, she’d just set Kate down in her crib, and with the steady rhythm of Kate’s shrieking pushing her to hurry (she thought, dreamlike, of the days when she could take her time with simple tasks, do them right, and even pause afterwards to admire what she’d done), she sterilized a large needle as best she could in fire and alcohol, and then pierced her way along the line of pustules until all the green and red and yellow liquid poured down her hand into the sink. Afterward, she’d washed and then lightly dressed the wound with a row of Band-Aids, once more covering the whole mess with a long-sleeve T-shirt so that Laurie wouldn’t get alarmed, wouldn’t think Jaqe had tried to hurt herself in a moment of panic. And then she’d rushed back to Kate, offering the reward (or bribe) of her breast to her daughter’s impatience. In a day or two, the skin had healed enough that Jaqe could do without the Band-Aids and concealment, just using a little makeup for the areas that remained discolored.
Only when diarrhea joined the occasional vomiting did Jaqe admit she was in trouble and maybe needed to see a doctor. Even then she didn’t want the doctor for herself, but only because the illness made her afraid to feed Kate, even to hold her. They returned to keeping Kate much of the time in her crib, or set up on the couch or the chair in a wooden cradle Mark had given them. Laurie bottle-fed Kate, a practice which enraged Kate.
Jaqe lay in bed, feeling out of balance, the alignment of her body all wrong without her baby against her side or her breast. At least twice a day, Jaqe would get out of bed and walk heavily into the kitchen or living room, loosely clutching her bathrobe, to stand hesitantly before Laurie and Kate. “Why don’t I take over?” she’d say.
“Honey,” Laurie always answered, “go back to bed, okay? Let me take care of it. Okay?” Jaqe would stand there a momen
t, half raising her arms to reach out for Kate, who was demanding the real thing, and then another stab of pain, or maybe dizziness, would strike her, and she would rush to the toilet or simply back to bed.
Somehow Laurie persuaded the doctor to come. He confirmed that Jaqe did indeed have a high fever, as well as other symptoms. He pronounced that she had a severe case of a flu that was going around. (Jaqe imagined it visiting people’s houses, knocking politely, and then leaping down their throats when they gullibly opened the door.) Jaqe did not tell him about the cut, or the infection. Laurie was standing alongside her, and Jaqe didn’t want to admit she’d concealed something. Besides, she told herself, the flu was an infection, so any treatment the doctor gave her would apply as well to whatever traces were left on her arm.
And in fact, the doctor did give her a course of antibiotics, along with orders to stay in bed, keep warm to the point of sweating, drink as much as possible, and rest, rest, rest. He might have stayed a little longer and examined a little more closely if not for the screaming child pulsing in his head and throughout his body.
Jaqe hated using her parents’ insurance to pay the doctor. She hated it not for herself, but for Laurie, who left the room to heat up a bottle for the baby, as if to avoid watching an obscene act between Jaqe and the doctor. Jaqe wanted to rush up to Laurie and tell her it was okay, it didn’t mean that Laurie didn’t love her or didn’t take perfect care of her, it was just money, and anyway it was the fault of the political system, a patriarchal structure gimmicked against women’s independence from their fathers. But she was just too tired, too weak. She could hardly talk at all, and besides, she never could do that stuff very well, even after years of listening to Louise.
Laurie had to send Louise for prescriptions, since she didn’t want to leave Jaqe with the baby. Louise offered to watch Kate so Laurie could go for the antibiotics and food supplies, but Laurie insisted she needed to stay. Kate wouldn’t like it if her mother was sick and some stranger was there. Louise wanted to say, “Well, what’ll she do, cry?” but poor Laurie looked so close to tears herself that Louise didn’t dare. So instead she saluted, and said, “Okay, boss,” a phrase that seemed to bring Laurie closer to tears than ever.
Mark, too, offered his help, mostly by telling Laurie to take as much time as she needed. Laurie didn’t want time, she wanted to work, she longed just to stand in the chaos of books, stand and breathe amid the noiseless whispers of print, the aromas of words.
Mark came for a visit the evening after the doctor. It was not the first time he’d come there since Kate’s birth, but the conjunction of Mark’s visit and Jaqe lying in bed reminded Laurie of Kate’s conception. If Laurie expected to feel resentment, or regret, she surprised herself with a wave of gratitude for Kate’s presence in her life, so vivid it almost knocked her onto the rug. She rushed over and picked up Kate and held the body tight against hers, wishing she could satisfy her the way Jaqe did.
In the past, Mark had made sure to talk with Jaqe, bringing her news of the outside world, as if Jaqe lived in some isolated settlement far from civilization. But now, with Jaqe too miserable for visitors, Mark spent his time with Kate. Laurie expected Mark to talk to the baby, to discuss some intellectual concept with her, maybe the feminist linguistics he’d learned about from Laurie. Instead, Mark held Kate firmly in front of him—and stared at her. At first, Kate did nothing, just looked back at him. After a moment, however, she began to squeeze together her face muscles in preparation for crying. Laurie rushed forward, not sure if she was rescuing the baby or her boss, but Mark only motioned her away with a shake of his head. He said, “Why don’t you go see if Jaqe needs tea or anything.”
At the archway leading out of the living room, Laurie looked back. Kate’s face seemed to quiver, as if trying, and failing, to hold on to the launch of a cry. In the bedroom, Jaqe moaned, whether at sight of Laurie or just on principle, Laurie couldn’t tell. “Um, sweetie?” she said. “You want some tea?”
Jaqe squinted at her, like Kate trying to figure out Mark. “God,” Jaqe said, “Goddess. I’d love some tea. Blackberry.”
From the kitchen, Laurie could glimpse Mark, still holding on to Kate, who had given up any plans of an outburst, and now was reaching out to poke Mark’s face, so much fleshier than that of either of her two mothers. As Laurie was passing through the living room with the tea, Mark leaned forward and whispered something to Kate. The baby smiled widely and then shook slightly, laughing uproariously without any sound.
Laurie said, “What did you say to her?”
“I told her a joke,” Mark said.
“A joke?” Laurie repeated. She remembered all the funny sounds she’d made for Kate, the gulping motions with her mouth, the rolling of her eyes, none of which ever stopped the river of noise for more than a few seconds. “You mind telling me that joke?” Laurie said. “Maybe I could repeat it to her when you’re not here.”
Mark shook his head. “Oh, I wish I could,” he said. “But now she already knows the punch line. Besides, you had to have been there.”
“Shit,” Laurie said, moving toward the bedroom. “I wish I was there now.” She found Jaqe asleep. Laurie set the mug and saucer down on the chipped mahogany night table Jaqe and a woman named Janine had found on the street one night. As gently as she could, Laurie stroked Jaqe’s hair, all greasy from days without washing.
She returned to the living room to see Mark laying a sleeping Kate down in her cradle. He said, “I better get back to the store.”
“I’ve got a better idea,” Laurie said. “I’ll take care of the store, you stay here with Kate. You can try out your whole nightclub act on her.”
Mark pushed his lips in and out, as if pondering the suggestion. “No,” he said. “No, I think she needs her mother.”
Laurie had to force herself to keep her voice down. She said, “I’m not her mother, Jaqe is.”
Mark said, “Give Jaqe my love. Tell her I hope she gets over this as soon as possible.”
“Why don’t you stay for dinner?” Laurie said. “We could order a pizza.”
“I’m sorry,” Mark told her. “I have to go.”
She listened to his footsteps, feeling her breath tighten as the sounds grew softer. Even after she knew he was gone, she couldn’t stop staring at the door, as if any moment he would change his mind and come back to help her. Or she imagined yanking open the door, running after him. The baby was sleeping, she told herself. What harm would it do? They could go to Wally’s, the bar around the corner from the store, where she and Mark used to go sometimes after work, and Mark would ask her to point out women she found attractive, and tell him why.
She started to cry, silently so she wouldn’t wake Jaqe or Kate. Stop it, she told herself. Jaqe mustn’t see her looking so weak, or helpless. And by telling herself to stop, she did. She was no longer crying. But it seemed to Laurie that the tears didn’t really stop, they only stayed inside. Her whole body was filling with tears, her lungs, her heart, her kidneys drenched in sorrow and fear. She didn’t understand. It was just a colicky baby. Just a lack of sleep. I’m no good, she thought. I just can’t do it. Why couldn’t Mark have stayed? She needed someone to help her. He wouldn’t have had to do anything. Didn’t he understand that? She just needed help.
Jaqe, meanwhile, was dreaming. It was a simple dream, one she’d had several times since getting sick. She was sitting in a rowboat with her family. She knew they were her family even though she didn’t recognize any of them. There were three of them, two adults and a child. Maybe they were her parents and Kate, though that didn’t make any sense, since where was Laurie? In the dream, she wanted to ask who they were, but she didn’t dare. She couldn’t even see their faces, because they all sat hunched over in front of her with their heads partly covered by loose coats or jackets pulled up high over their necks. No one was rowing. Instead, someone was standing up behind her, pushing the boat through the water with a long black pole. Jaqe wanted to turn and look at him (s
he knew it was a man, maybe by his strength in moving the boat so sharply through the water), but she didn’t dare, frightened she might disturb the boat.
They were crossing a river, or at least moving toward an island. Jaqe thought there were people on the island, for she thought she saw movement among the trees, but she couldn’t see anyone. The boat moved so quietly, not a sound from the water or the people. On one side, the left, the surface never stirred. On the right, however, every push sent out ripples, even small waves, though always without a sound.
Evening was filling the air around them, and everything was turning gray, giving up whatever color had tried to cling to it. The island, with its thick trees, was darker than the open water, where bits of light still rested on the mirror surface of the river. On the island, she could see people’s eyes moving between the trees, like dull lightning bugs.
Without warning, the boat struck the shore. Jaqe sat up, surprised. The people ahead of her all shuffled off and vanished in the trees. Jaqe stood up in the boat, struggling for balance. She had to get off, she knew, she had to step into the water and then onto the gray island. Why couldn’t she just go back? The boat had to go back the other way, didn’t it? Why couldn’t she just wait and travel back with it?
Someone stepped out from the trees. It was dark, and Jaqe couldn’t tell if it was a woman or a man; all she could see was someone tall and skinny. The figure reached up to the side of its face. It seemed to tug at something. Without thinking, Jaqe reached up a finger to the skin just below her ear. She began to scratch…
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