Hush Little Baby (32 page)
“Drew,” I snap.
“What?”
“Drew, come here, now.”
“Mom, I’m playing.”
“Drew, now!”
My screech must have gotten his attention because, though he looks annoyed, his head pokes out of the study. “What?”
I gesture with my head to the shoes. He steps up beside me, looks at the neat alignment of the toes, and I see him swallow as his body shifts closer to mine.
A light shines softly from beneath the kitchen door, and I can’t remember if I simply forgot to turn it off.
“Come on,” I say, and we back out of the house.
* * *
I stare at my parents’ home through my neighbor’s window. It’s silent. The kitchen light is on; the rest of the house is dark.
Finally, Gregg arrives. It’s his night off so he’s not in his uniform. He wears his gun in a holster over his T-shirt and jeans.
“I’ll check it out,” he says, and I hand him my keys.
I watch as the lights turn on one by one and as his shadow passes in front of the windows. Each second I wait for an explosion.
Ten minutes later, he’s back.
“All clear,” he says.
But it doesn’t matter what he says or how many times he says it, Gordon was there, and I know he’ll be back. He was in the house.
I carry Addie, and Gregg walks with Drew.
“You gonna be okay?” he asks when we get to the door.
I nod, but I know we’re not.
My choice is to run and hope he doesn’t find us or to stay and hope that, when he comes, I’m ready.
“Want me to stay?” Gregg asks. “I can either camp in my car or sleep on the sofa.”
“Thanks, but we’re okay for tonight.” It’s tomorrow or the next day or a week from today I’m worried about.
He gives me a wooden hug, endearingly sweet in its awkwardness. We’re like bumbling, uncomfortable friends who don’t know each other very well, but have a bond like that of soldiers who have served together in battle.
I close the door behind him. “Stay here,” I say to Drew, who sits beside Addie, who’s asleep on the couch.
Gregg assured me the house is empty, but it feels possessed.
My nerves prick at every sound as I creep toward my dad’s study.
It’s so quiet.
I push open the door and jerk as it squeaks.
The room is empty. I peek behind the door and peer under his desk, then from the safe, retrieve Sherman’s gun.
I edge past the dining room, my heart thumping in my ears, the gun heavy in my hand.
Drew’s eyes follow me.
Each step on the stairs is a different note, and I try to stay near the edge to silence the symphony.
Outside the door of my room, I wait, listening—the only sound, my blood beating in my chest.
Somewhere in the neighborhood a dog barks, and my heart jumps.
The floor groans as I reach for the knob.
An empty room.
I bend to see under the bed.
I check the empty bathroom, then my parents’ room and the kids’ room. No one is there.
I
t’s been two weeks since Addie’s last treatment, and her strength is returning along with her hair, which is now straight and soft as down. Her white blood count is good, so she no longer wears a mask, and for the first time in three months, we don’t need to be paranoid about germs.
Tonight we’re going to San Onofre beach to join a dozen other families for a night of surfing and fire pit cooking of hot dogs and s’mores.
Addie bounds into the living room, her red skirt flaring around her white thighs. A rhinestone headband winks on her almost hairless head, and my heart fills with so much love I think it’s going to explode.
“Wready?”
Drew emerges on cue, his board shorts so low on his hips they seem in danger of sliding down, and he reminds me of Paul.
My dad’s going to sit this one out. Although he walks better now, sand is an obstacle better left for those who haven’t had a stroke.
“Bye, Pops,” Addie says, and plants a kiss on my dad’s cheek.
“Bye, Sicle,” he says. “Have fun.” Since the kids have moved home, my dad’s taken to calling Addie Sicle, and she’s shortened Papa to Pops because they go together—Pops-Sicle. It cracks Addie up every time. And he never makes the mistake of calling Drew anything but Hawk.
Addie slides on her sandals.
“Your shoes are on the wrong feet,” Drew says.
Addie looks up at him confused. “But I don’t have any othewr feet.”
And my mom and I bust up laughing. Our laughs are the same and blend together in perfect harmony, and every time we laugh together, which lately has been often, I wish it hadn’t taken so long for us to share it.
* * *
It’s a beautiful night, still and chilled. A grinning moon bathes the beach in a soft, yellow glow. The heavens, an enormous indigo umbrella punctured a million times with a pin.
My mom and I unload our beach chairs, blankets, and cooler, and the kids take off into the sand. The smell of charcoal and meat drift past my nostrils, and my stomach rumbles.
People have short-term memory—either that, or they’re very good at faking it. Our night at the beach is surrounded by complete acceptance.
I owe a great deal of this to Michelle, who, without being overbearing, keeps a watchful eye on me and my clan to make sure we’re included.
“I’m not a boy,” Addie says to a kid who’s a foot taller than her. Addie’s hands are in fists on her hips, and her legs are set in defiance.
“Look like a boy to me, a boy in a skirt,” the kid says.
I try to push myself from my beach chair, but my pregnancy slows my progress significantly.
“Who you calling a boy?” Drew gets there first. He’s the same height as the antagonist but much thinner.
“What’s it to you?”
“That’s my sister.”
“Well, she looks like a freak.”
Drew attacks, his fists flailing, but it lasts only a second before it’s broken up by several dads, with no damage done.
I pull Drew to me as the mother of the other boy glares and marches her son in the other direction. Addie’s beaming.
“You showed him,” she says.
* * *
At nine o’clock, we’re partied out, and we pack up our gear and head home full of hot dogs and marshmallows.
I park in the driveway, and before I step from the car, I know something’s very wrong. The sprinklers spray, and puddles pool around the heads that pop from the lawn like android groundhogs spinning to look for their shadows. I turn off the water and push open the front door. It was unlocked, and the alarm wasn’t set.
My mom’s behind me carrying Addie, who’s asleep on her shoulder.
“Pops?” I call.
I scan the first floor, and my mom sets Addie down and searches upstairs.
The answering machine blinks. I hit play.
“Grace, it’s Jan. Don’t freak out. Nick’s fine. A neighbor took him to the hospital. He was having some chest pain. I tried calling your cell, but there was no reception. He’s at Mission Hospital, and they’re running some tests. He needs to stay the night.”
My mom grabs the keys from my hand and is out the door.
I close it behind her, lock it, and set the alarm.
I
wake with a start and walk barefoot down the hall, aware before I even get there that they’re gone.
I look in the closet, peek my head into the bathroom, check the kitchen. By now, my heart’s throbbing, and sweat has pooled in the hollow of my neck.
After my mom left, I locked the door and set the alarm, but he was already in the house. It was the mistake he was waiting for.
I call Gregg, then my mom, then nobody.
They’re gone.
T
ime passes, the seconds throbbing by with the relentless pulsing of my heart, moving in lurches and lulls, passing just the same.
I miss them every day and always.
Snapshots of memories, an endless reel of moments spinning through my head. I remember holding Drew in my arms, his tiny fingers curled around mine, the rustle of his breath, the heat of his small body. I think of Addie and the time we found a piece of purple sea glass when she was a toddler, a rare day of just the two of us, her diaper sagging with water, her white belly, her giant laugh. Snippets, a dozen, or maybe a hundred; moments frozen in my brain, playing in an endless loop of torture.
Every week, Gregg updates me with the non-news of the search for Gordon and the kids. The police theorize he’s left the country. My mom and dad believe we’ll never see him again.
Only I know he’s not gone. He’s waiting. There’s still unfinished business, and he won’t leave until it’s done.
I live in constant fear.
Like a ticking time bomb, as my stomach grows and the baby’s kicks get stronger, the threat looms larger.
I responsibly care for the life inside me. It’s a tedious exercise of obligation—I eat to nurture it, walk to insure its health, and take my vitamins—the routine a groaning monotony, a single track of elevator music played just for me.
My parents suffer the same malady of despair. We wait for this baby to arrive, wanting it but not wanting it, none of us brave enough to open our hearts again.
This child is doomed. I have no more chance of protecting it than I did of protecting Addie and Drew. Gordon will claim what’s his, then perhaps he will kill me, or perhaps he will realize he already has and leave me be.
It’s hard to believe how much has changed in nine months. It seems longer than all the other time I existed put together. Little League games, my job, our home—it was at least a lifetime ago.
Yesterday was Addie’s fifth birthday.
I wonder how they celebrated.
Gordon was always big on birthdays—grand celebrations with inflatable jump houses and balloons and hired princesses or magicians. I wonder if this year was different or if he still managed to throw Addie a big bash.
The baby kicks, bringing me out of my reverie. It’s time. I gather my backpack from the table. In it is my wallet, my phone, and my gun.
Gordon believes this baby is his.
I
’m two weeks overdue, which is why labor’s been induced. The baby doesn’t want to come out, and I can’t blame it. I wish I could return to the womb where it’s dark and warm and safe and everything is taken care of.
I’ve been given an epidural, so I feel nothing—the physical now matches the emotional.
“Jillian, it’s time to push.”
I do as I’m told. My mom stands beside me. My dad’s in the waiting room.
An hour later, the baby’s out and hollers a healthy wail.
“It’s a boy,” the doctor exclaims.
My mom and I say nothing. Our thoughts are the same. We miss Drew.
Ten minutes later, the nurse holds a blue-swaddled bundle toward me. I turn away.
“She’s tired.” My mom excuses me and holds out her arms for the child.
* * *
It’s been two hours since the baby was born.
Through the window, the sun cuts a ribbon across the ocean and I stare at the glare until my eyes blur.
My mom’s gone to the cafeteria to get some food. The baby sleeps in the bassinet beside me.
The cradle is acrylic, and through it, I look at my son. He doesn’t look like Addie or Drew. He’s dark like his father, and his chin is square. His name is Jeffrey Paul Cancelleiri.
His small mouth opens and closes in a weak attempt to root, then settles back to sleep. I watch him breathe. One hand escapes the swaddle, and the little fist pumps in victory. His nose wrinkles.
The sun is gone, and the window is gray.
He roots again, this time with more determination, his fist waving, searching for something to hold, searching for me.
I hit the button for the nurse.
Nothing happens.
He gets more frantic, his mouth glubbing, his head craning sideways.
I hit the button again.
The nurse pokes her head in.
“He needs to be fed,” I say.
“So feed him.”
I shake my head.
“Well, I can’t. We’ve got two deliveries.” And she’s gone.
Jeffrey’s other hand escapes, and he reaches out of his blanket, both hands waving. He’s still not crying, and I’m proud of his stoicism. He’s like his father; I bet Jeffrey wasn’t a crier.
Panic starts to fill his face and mine.
I can’t do it. I don’t want to do it. Where’s my mom? The bottle and the formula sit on the table beside the door, a mile away. My breasts ache.
I push my sore body up. “It’s okay,” I say. “Your grandma will be back real soon, and she’s going to feed you.”
My voice puts him over the edge. He wails with a cry that defies his seven pounds. It’s the roar of a lion and I’m jolted into action.
Before I know what I’ve done, I’ve lifted him from his cradle, opened my gown, and he’s nestled into the crook of my arm, suckling contentedly.
He’s beautiful. Stunningly, painfully beautiful, and tears stream from my eyes and soak into his blanket.
“Looks like you’ve come around,” the nurse says from the doorway, and I realize I’ve been duped. There were no deliveries.
M
y mom and dad have gone home for the night, and Jeffrey and I are alone.
He’s in his bassinet, and I’m staring at him sleeping.
When the door opens, I turn, expecting to see the nurse. Instead, silhouetted in the frame is Gordon, his features obscured in shadow as he glances at Jeffrey, then back at me.
My arms move toward Jeffrey, and my mouth opens to scream, but it’s all too slow. A pillow is over my face, Gordon’s weight bearing down on me as I choke on the cotton, and my arms flail, banging against the sides of the bed.
I feel the buttons on the rail and frantically press them, hoping one will bring a nurse. My air is draining so fast that it’s shocking how quickly I’m going to die, and with so little protest.
I want to fight, but I can’t. The pillow presses so hard against my face, it doesn’t allow for any hope of salvation, Gordon pinning it against me, not uttering a word or a prayer, simply standing above me, holding me down, waiting for me to die.
The world fades, blackness settles, and my brain begins to shut down. I lay limp, my body surrendering. Then suddenly, the pressure releases and I’m gasping for air as light blasts into my brain and oxygen fills my lungs. Spots dance in my eyes and, through the dizziness, I see Gordon shove the nurse out of the way and run out the door. The tail of a blue blanket trailing behind him.
