June, this year #4
The woman yanks open the front door, and turns back to face me as I stand before her, in a foolish stupor, holding the baby awkwardly away from my body.
She spits out, “That’s the last time I watch her for you, Millie, I swear.
And you still owe me for when I sat for her last week.
You can put the cash under my door. And you better pay me the same rate for today, as well. ”
She slams the door behind her, and I can make out her footsteps stomping across the hallway’s linoleum floor, and into the apartment opposite. Another door slam.
I pull the wailing baby close to me and jog her on my shoulder, like I’ve seen people do. She makes an unpleasant gurgling sound and promptly vomits a surprising amount of milky liquid onto the T-shirt I’m wearing. A Taylor Swift tour shirt, of all things.
The baby is still whimpering, a little less fiercely now, and I hold her up to look at her face. A fat tear has stuck on a cheek below the enormous, wet-lashed blue eyes that are staring at me.
She’s beautiful. Even when crying, and with a dribble of milk on her chin.
“Angie,” I whisper to her, softly. “Don’t worry. It’s me. Your mommy.”
It’s me.
And it’s not me.
Can she tell?
We stare at each other for several minutes. Then Angie emits a long, low, wet fart.
“Ugh, baby!” The smell is hitting me. “Okay. That’s fine. Totally fine. I’ve watched people change diapers. How hard can it be? Huh, Angie?”
It’s hard.
Not so much the diapers, which come with instructions, but more the wiping. Then I think I’m supposed to do something with diaper cream, or powder or something, so I sprinkle a bit of powder on her skin and hope for the best.
At least now she’s not crying.
I settle down on the slightly stained couch with her, cradling her head in the crook of my elbow. She’s getting tired now. I pick up a baby book, and read a story about a giraffe to her, slowly and quietly. Her wide eyes flicker from time to time, then droop, and she’s gone.
I stay up all night with baby Angie, holding her in my arms. Feeding her a couple more times, when she wakes and cries, with pre-prepared bottles from a half-empty fridge. Changing her three more times.
Not sleeping once myself. Just holding, feeding, rocking, staring, feeding, changing, rocking, staring.
To be honest, I’m terrified something bad will happen to her on my watch.
After all, I’m not used to taking care of a baby.
I might do something wrong. If I fall asleep, I won’t be able to see if something is wrong, or be able to save her.
After her fourth time waking and falling back asleep, I put her into the crib in the apartment’s only bedroom, and lie in the twin bed beside her. But still I don’t sleep.
I’m nearly dropping off, at around seven in the morning, when she wakes me with her whimpers again.
She’s the sweetest, most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. And I think I might die if I had to live like this.
In the small hours of the night, I had researched emergency daycares that were open on the weekend. There’s one in Lincolnwood, right by highway 94 that leads back to Lake Bluff. It’s expensive, but I need somewhere safe to leave the baby in the morning, and I clearly can’t ask the neighbor.
Because I can’t do it.
I can’t live this life.
The baby is gorgeous, but she’s not really mine, and it already seems incredibly hard to be a single mother with very little support. I’d need Bonnie, and Ben, and the Masons, and even my own mom, and all sorts of other people to help me. Not just some pissed-off neighbor.
At eight am, I get up, put on some clean clothes, feed the baby again, she throws up on me again, I change into new clean clothes, I change the baby’s diaper and clothes, and we make it out of the house.
It takes me another twenty minutes to figure out how to secure the infant car seat in the back of the car, but I get there.
I drive to the daycare in Lincolnwood, and tell the person behind the desk — a woman younger than me with a name badge reading “Shelley” — that I’ll be back by the end of the day.
I add that she shouldn’t get freaked out if I don’t remember much, as I have memory issues.
Shelley seems indifferent to this — as an emergency, indiscriminate daycare center, I’m sure she’s seen much worse.
Before handing Angie over in her carrying cot, I kiss her on the top of her finely haired head, and she looks up at me with those huge eyes.
“Bye, baby girl,” I tell her, surprising myself as my voice catches in my throat. “Mommy will be back to pick you up. I love you.”
Driving away from her, heading back up to Lake Bluff, is the hardest it’s been. Even harder than leaving Stephen. A lot harder. This time, the entire way, my vision is thick with tears and exhaustion.
I park outside the house, leave a long note on Mommy Millie’s phone and a shorter paper one on her dash, and jump the gate into the empty driveway, the house shining bright in the midday sun.
I head for the lower side door, and tug it open.
The basement is dark, cold, and lonely.