Chapter 1 #4
“Have I told you how much I love you?” He nuzzles my neck, and I lift my chin so his lips fall just where I want them to. I haven’t washed my hair in three days and I have stains on my sweatshirt and I’m not wearing a bra, but he wants me. I wrap my arms around his neck and—-
Molly cries.
“I’ll get her,” Adam says, but I shake my head.
“She’s hungry,” I tell him, already feeling my milk let down as I reach toward the bassinet.
I let Molly nurse until she falls asleep at my breast. But the swell of my skin pushes up against her nose, and for a moment, her little chest goes still. Panic sizzles through me. I jostle her in my arms, and she wakes with a scream—-but she wakes. Adam runs in from the kitchen. “What’s wrong?”
“She stopped breathing,” I burst out.
“She what?” He leans closer, watching Molly suckle again. “She’s breathing.”
“Now,” I clarify.
“I’m sure she’s fine,” Adam says.
“You didn’t see what happened!”
“Do you want me to call the doctor?”
I feel my stomach turn over. What if we call the pediatrician and it turns out that I wasn’t holding her right? “I’ll just watch her,” I tell him.
When my nipple pops out of the baby’s mouth, I pretzel myself so that there is no part of me pressing against her face that could smother her accidentally.
I stay that way as Adam packs a small suitcase, readying for his trip tomorrow.
We heat a lasagna our neighbor brought over.
“I can watch her while you shower,” he suggests, but I shake my head.
I know that he won’t watch the baby as closely as I do. No one will.
Even after Adam is in his pajamas, asleep beside me in the dark, and Molly is back in her bassinet, I remain awake.
I lie on my side, staring through the mesh side of the bassinet, watching the rise and fall of her little chest. I will my eyes to stay open, in case the moment they close is the moment Molly stops breathing again.
It’s hard to remember if it’s been two days or three that Adam has been gone, but my heart won’t stop racing.
It’s like I’m running a marathon in the confines of my apartment, and my mind is whirling at the same speed.
When Molly is asleep, I’m vigilant. When she is awake, I cannot stop thinking about everything that could go wrong when she isn’t.
I look up SIDS on the computer and change the sheet on the bassinet to one less thick; I crank the air--conditioning in the apartment so that she doesn’t overheat; I take all stuffed toys from the corners of her crib, even though she doesn’t have the mobility yet to pull them onto her.
I’m terrified to take the baby out in public because she hasn’t had her shots yet.
I won’t even let Evie visit, because of that.
When my phone rings, I startle so hard I knock over a lamp. I stare at the broken pieces on the floor while Adam tells me about his day. “Are you okay?” he says finally. “You seem weird.”
“I’m fine. We’re fine.” I cannot describe how I really feel—-as if my head and my body are no longer connected. Did I sleep at all last night? I can’t remember.
“Maybe you should get out of the apartment,” Adam suggests. “You must be going stir crazy.”
“Maybe,” I agree. “We have Molly’s checkup today anyway.”
After I hang up and feed the baby and change her diaper and then her onesie because she’s pooped all the way down her leg, I vacuum up the glass from the broken lamp.
Then I take out the little plastic tub that fits in the sink and fill it with water to bathe the baby.
She hates being cold and wet and shrieks, but I don’t want the pediatrician to see a streak of diarrhea on her leg and think I’m a terrible mother.
I grease her thighs and belly with Johnson’s soap and wipe her down with a little washcloth that has giraffes printed on it.
Meanwhile, Molly screams like I’m sticking pins in her.
I realize I’ve forgotten a fresh towel to wrap her up in.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I murmur, a litany, as Molly sobs so hard she chokes (is she breathing?) and her face goes tomato red.
I carry her with both hands, squirming and wet, into the bedroom and lay her down on the comforter (five children, on the bed, soaked).
I yank a clean towel from a stack and burrito her into it, then rock her against my chest until her cries subside into shudders.
It’s then that I feel it: someone watching me.
The sensation raises all the hair on the back of my neck.
I’m still bouncing and shushing Molly, trying to calm her, but I swivel my head.
Behind me is the dresser. A television sits on top of it, along with some perfume bottles I never use and a jewelry box Adam got me last Christmas. Beside that is a bookshelf.
I turn away, focusing on Molly. “We’re better now, right?” I croon. “We’re nailing this.” She hiccups at me as I lay her back on the bed (five children, soaked), fold a diaper beneath the healing stump of her belly button, and wrestle her damp limbs into a onesie.
Click.
I whirl around, but I don’t see anything. I try to listen for the hum of a video camera, but who would be filming me?
Is it Adam? Does he not trust me with the baby?
Or does this have nothing to do with the baby? Is someone spying on me for another reason? Is this a peephole? Some weird kink a neighbor has?
I lift Molly into the bassinet, turning the crank on the mobile to entertain her.
Then I systematically go through every bottle on the dresser. I dump the jewelry from the box. I unplug the television and turn it to face the wall. I pull every single book from the shelf, to see if there is a hidden camera.
When the mobile stops and Molly cries, I look at the mess I’ve made. All this, and I haven’t found anything, and I still feel like I’m being watched.
Gathering Molly into my arms, I hurry out of the bedroom and close the door behind me.
In the living room I lay the baby down on the couch, noticing the glint of something in the carpet.
Glass from the lamp? I don’t have time to vacuum again if we are going to make our pediatrician’s appointment, so I roll up the carpet from one edge, leaving the floor half--exposed.
I slip a hat on Molly, buckle her into her car seat, shove my wallet in her diaper bag and sling it over my shoulder, and with my free hand grab the folding frame that the seat snaps into to become a stroller.
It is a perfect June day in New York—-slightly overcast, the air redolent with the scent of blossoms instead of garbage.
It’s only about a mile walk to the pediatrician, but I’m worried about having Molly out in even moderate heat.
So I flag down a taxi, strap in the car seat, and give the driver the address.
The motion of the car lulls the baby to sleep.
I rest my head back on the banquette and am just dozing off when we pull up to the curb. “$10.50,” the driver says.
We both wake with a start, and Molly starts crying again.
I don’t know if she’s wet or hungry or just having an existential crisis but I can’t stay in the cab to figure it out.
Instead I lug her car seat out of the vehicle, set up the base of the stroller again, and wheel her into the doctor’s office.
Over her wails, I get her checked in with the receptionist, and then—-covering my shoulder with a baby blanket—-
I duck her underneath it and let her root around for my breast.
A mother across the room, whose toddler is currently smashing together Thomas the Tank Engine trains, smiles tiredly at me. “Just wait till she’s walking,” she says.
When we finally get to see the doctor, Molly is alert and sated and behaving like a model infant.
I watch the pediatrician check her height and weight, examine her belly button, test reflexes and reactions.
Her little arms and legs pinwheel, a flawless machine.
She smells like baby shampoo, which is to say, better than I do.
When she is finished with the exam, the pediatrician reaffixes Molly’s diaper and hands her to me. “Well,” the doctor says, “Miss Molly looks exactly the way she’s supposed to look. She’s lost weight, but—-”
“She’s lost weight?” I look up, worried.
“It’s very common for babies after they leave the hospital. Nursing is going well?” I nod. “How long between feedings?”
“Every three hours or so,” I say. “That’s about the longest she sleeps.”
“Again, very normal. And how about you?” the doctor asks, folding her arms. “Are you getting sleep?”
I am suddenly aware of the fact that I haven’t showered, that my shirt is still wet from Molly’s bath, that the circles under my eyes are dark and pronounced.
I turn away, busying myself with the snaps on the baby’s onesie.
I think about the mess waiting at home for me. “Oh, you know,” I say, and I shrug.
“Also normal,” the doctor says.
My father had not wanted us to go to public school. He would have preferred that Adie and I be homeschooled, but my mother convinced him that having us in the mainstream might bring more families to the congregation, and he couldn’t argue with that.
By age fifteen, I had filled all my elective classes with art.
Ms. Robichaud was my teacher, and also the only friend I had at school.
I dressed in high--necked blouses and skirts below the knee and sensible shoes, not spaghetti straps and neon.
When our English class read Romeo and Juliet, I was sent to the library to do a research project instead, because my father said it glorified sex and suicide.
Needless to say, I didn’t fit in. Instead, I spent my lunch periods in the art room.
I became the teacher’s pet, devouring books on chiaroscuro and intaglio and neo--impressionism.