Seven, eight ... Gonna stay up late (Rebekka Franck #4) (24 page)

Willow Rose
is an international Best-selling author. She writes Mystery/Suspense/Horror,
Paranormal Romance and fantasy. Originally from Denmark she now lives on
Florida's Space Coast with her husband and two daughters. She is a huge fan of
Stephen King, Anne Rice and Isabel Allende. When she is not writing or reading
she enjoys watching the dolphins play in the waves of the Atlantic Ocean. Her
books have been downloaded in more than 250.000 copies.

Connect with Willow
online: 

http://www.willow-rose.blogspot.com/
www.facebook.com/willowredrose
https://twitter.com/madamwillowrose

The
following is an excerpt from Willow Rose's newly released Horror Short Story:

Rock-a-bye
Baby
.

1

I'm doing
my Zumba class. I'm sweating heavily
while glancing anxiously at the baby carriage on the other side of the window
where my princess is sleeping heavily next to all the other babies who have
come with their mommies to the
Mommy-and-Me
Zumba Extraordinaire
that the local fitness center in
Karrebaeksminde hosts every Monday morning. Monday, naturally, because they
know Monday is the day every mom wants to start a new life of exercise and
diet. The carriage is not moving. She's still asleep I think relieved while I
push myself and dance to the fast rhythms trying hard to sweat off the butt
giving birth to my third child has given me.

I'm forty-one, I'm not tired as my mother says I
am. I have enough energy to do it all. I know I do.

When I come home, the baby is still sleeping. I
eat an organic, low-carb, fat-reduced lunch and drink a smoothie made from
beet, spinach, lemon and apple. I drink a skinny-latte afterwards while reading
the
Zeeland Times
. My old friend
from high school Rebekka Franck has an article in the paper about a fire in
Neastved, the biggest city close to us. I read it feeling good, happy and
energized from the exercise and healthy food. I detect a typo in the third line
of the article. It annoys me. I pick up my iPhone and call the newspaper to let
them know. They tell me that they are very sorry, and that they'll make sure to
tell whoever is responsible. I hang up feeling good about myself. If people
make a mistake they need to know.

The baby is making sounds, I pick her up and
bring her to the changing table. Quiet, cleanliness and regularity those are
the keywords to having a baby. I change the diaper and tickle her stomach.
Josephine is three months old. I gave birth to her on a Sunday after only three
hours of labor. I had a natural birth. No sedatives. Just me and nature. I gave
birth in water in my own house. The mid-wife came to help, but I didn't need
her much. I didn't even need my husband. Like the two first times I did it by
myself.  I took control of the birth. It's my body, I told them when they
wanted to discuss anesthesia. I told them I found it repulsive that they wanted
to sedate me, I told them that women through all times, in all kinds of
countries had done this without being sedated, so why shouldn't I?

I am not a natural blond, but I do color it
which I'll admit to if asked, but I won't reveal that I recently had a
laser-treatment remove the facial hair that is beginning to grow on my chin and
upper lip.

My baby is laughing and smiling, but all I see
is the weird blemish in her forehead that won’t go away. Strawberry mark, the
mid-wife had told me after the baby had arrived and I saw the mark. "It'll
eventually disappear on its own." But it hadn't. Not yet. I'm thinking
tumor and look it up on the Internet while the baby is in the playpen. An
article suggests that scientists don't agree on the subject. In some babies
they even keep growing, some parents have them frozen and cut off when the baby
is six months old. I consider it. I look up doctors who will do that for me and
write their names down. I put the note on top of the other notes, I've made the
last week.

I get up and walk to the kitchen. I drink a
glass of water, one of eight I have decided to drink every day to make sure I
get enough water. The baby is whining, I pick her up and give her my breast. I
read a magazine about educating children while my baby drinks her milk. I have
breastfed all of my kids till they were more than a year as is recommended by
the Danish health department.
To give your
baby the best start
, the flyer from the hospital said.

I read about sibling jealousy and decide to
spend more time with my older children when they come home from school. I think
about my husband and plan to give him a blow-job tonight after reading another
article about the difficulties relationships experience once there is a new
baby in the house. It's been three weeks since we last had sex, I count by
looking in my calendar in the phone where I have marked the last time. It's
about time we get intimate for the sake of our marriage.

The baby sucks on my breast and it hurts
slightly. Such a precious time, I think to myself. And so brief, when they're
all dependent on you and your breasts. I caress my princess' thin hair while I
sing to her.

Rock-a-bye baby, on the
treetop,

When the wind blows, the
cradle will rock,

When the bough breaks, the
cradle will fall,

And down will come baby, cradle
and all.

2

My oldest
daughter is the first to come home. I
have just put the baby down for her afternoon nap when I hear the front door
open. I jump down the stairs and welcome her as she enters.

"How was your day, sweetie?" I ask.

Amalie throws her bag in the hallway and her
jacket on top of it. She gives me a look, walks past me to the kitchen while
grumbling "Whatever."

I pick her jacket up from the floor and put it
on a hanger. I brush it off lightly and remove a couple of spots with my nail,
scratching them off before I put it in the closet. I place her backpack by the
foot of the stairs so she can grab it before she runs upstairs to do her
homework. I hear her go through the refrigerator and feel my hands shake
lightly at the thought of the mess she is about to make. I calm myself down by
counting to ten a few times before I brace myself and walk over to her.

"Any news from school?" I ask keeping
my smile on even when everything inside of me frozen by the look of the counter
where she is now making herself a sandwich.

She looks at me like I'm a complete idiot.

"Like what?"

I shrug and try to not let the tone in her voice
bother me. I close the refrigerator door and stand by the sink. "So
there’s nothing new to tell me? Any cute guys we should talk about?"

Amalie rolls her eyes at me and sighs
frustrated. "Please don't pretend to be interested in my life, Mom. It's
gross."

"How can it be gross?"

She sighs again. "It just is. It's too much
all of a sudden."

I tilt my head. "All of a sudden? I've always
been interested in your life. You know that."

Amalie scoffs. "As if ..."

"What do you mean?"

"Ah come on. You and Daddy haven't been the
least bit interested in me and Jacob ever since ..." Amalie pauses and
looks at me. Then she shakes her head. "Never mind."

"Ever since what exactly, Amalie?" I
ask. "Since I had the baby?"

Amalie shrugs. "Yeah. You know.
Whatever."

I nod and smile to let her know I understand and
respect her feelings just like the article told me to do. Jealousy was common
in the older children and could be very difficult for them to express. It is my
job as a mother to help them put words to their feelings.

"So what you're saying is I don't pay you
and your brother enough attention. Is that it?" I say to help her find the
words.

Amalie shrugs again. "Well, I mean it's
only natural that you don't, with all that has been going on and all. It's just
... well it's been three months now and ... well I guess I'm wondering how long
this is going to keep on?"

I nod again understandingly. "I know
sweetie. It must have been hard on the two of you."

Amalie nods slowly. "Yeah. It kind of has
been. I mean with everything going on at home and all, it's been pretty hard to
focus on school. So ... I guess what I'm saying is ..." Amalie looks into
my eyes, then hesitates. "You know what? I'll just talk to Dad about
it."

"You can tell me anything, Amalie. You know
that," I say. "I'm here for you."

"Are you sure you can handle it?"

I smile at my daughter's great compassion for
me. Worry about me just because I haven't been sleeping much lately. Yes I am
tired from being up several times at night and breastfeeding, but I can
certainly find the strength to listen to my daughter's problems. "I'm
stronger than I seem," I say.

"Well ... It seems I might be ... failing
math."

I feel my fingers grow numb. My daughter reads
it on my face.

"My teacher says it's okay. I can take a
summer class and there will be no problem after that. It's okay, mom. It really
is."

I restrain myself, but my nostrils won't relax,
neither will the vein in my forehead that my daughter is now staring at.

"Mom? Are you okay?" she asks.

I close my eyes and count to ten, then count
again and force pictures of relaxing places, long, white beaches stretching as
far as the eye can see, nice clean hotels with nice service and rose petals on
the nicely made bed. I open my eyes again and look at my daughter. Then I reach
out and touch her cheek gently. "Of course I'm okay," I say.
"Now what did you say the name of your teacher was?"

3

I go
directly to the front office and ask to
speak with Mr. Berendsen, my daughter's math teacher. They tell me he has gone
home for the day but will be back tomorrow. I smile and nod politely, then
leave the high school, running down the street pushing my sleeping baby in the
carriage in front of me.

 I know where he lives. It's right next to
the school, so I decide to leave the car by the school. A few seconds later I'm
by his door. I park the baby carriage in his yard, then walk to the window and
look in. I spot Mr. Berendsen inside his kitchen preparing dinner. He's alone.
I bang on the window. Mr. Berendsen jumps inside of the house. I am grinning as
he spots me. I point at the door. He hesitates, then walks towards it. He opens
it slightly.

"Yes? Can I help you with anything?"
he asks.

"As a matter of fact, I believe you
can," I say and walk closer. He seems afraid of me. "You're my
daughter's teacher. Amalie Rasmussen?"

Mr. Berendsen relaxes and opens the door
further. "Ah, Amalie. In three a?"

"Yes, that's her. I'm her mother. My name
is Lisa," I say and we shake hands. Mr. Berendsen seems more relaxed now
and he invites me inside. I accept and follow him into the kitchen.

"I'm in the middle of preparing dinner, so
if you won't mind I'll be continuing while we talk."

"Having company over?" I ask and sit
at a kitchen chair.

"No, just for myself. I'm alone. Have been
ever since the wife left me two years ago."

I nod and smile like I know how that feels,
which I don't, cause I have never been divorced. I would never let that happen
to me.

"So what happened?" I ask.

"What do you mean?"

"Why did your wife leave you?"

Mr. Berendsen seems startled by the question,
but I pretend I don't notice. I look around the small kitchen and spot dust and
dog hairs in the corner. I pick some up, thinking this house needs cleaning. It
annoys me that people live like this. Filthy. Disgusting. Lazy. I look to see
if I can locate the dog.

"Why?" he asks.

"Why what?"

"Why do you want to know that?"

I shrug with a smile. "Just curious."
I pause and look at the man while he is chopping carrots. "Maybe you
cheated on her?"

The knife slips in Mr. Berendsen's hand and he
almost cuts himself. I look at him awaiting my answer.

"You are extraordinarily direct," he
says. "But if you must know then yes, I had an affair, but only briefly.
She had one that lasted for several years and now she is living with him."
He goes back to chopping carrots.

"I thought it would be something like
that," I say.

Mr. Berendsen stops chopping again and looks at
me. "Why?" he asks.

"Why what?"

"Why did you think it might be
something like that?
" he asks
gesticulating wildly with the knife in his hand making quotation signs. 

"Be careful," I say. "Don't cut
yourself."

Mr. Berendsen calms down and puts the knife on
the table. Then he sighs and looks at me. "Tell me again, why did you come
here?"

"Oh. It was about my daughter," I say.
"She tells me you're failing her."

"Well she's the one failing the class.
She's been very unfocused lately and hasn't done well on the tests. I'm sorry,
but I have to fail her. I told her she could take a summer class to make up for
it."

"Yes. I heard that. But you see there is
the problem that we're planning on going to Paris all summer, to visit an old
friend of mine who lives outside the city in a big wine-castle and who has
children the same age. We’ve had this all planned out and now ... well we can't
just change something that has already been planned, now can we? You see my
problem, Mr. Berendsen?"

"It's just for a week. If she passes the
test, she'll be fine. You'll still be able to go to France for several
weeks."

I slam my clenched fist onto the table. Mr.
Berendsen jumps. "Exactly how many weeks we have isn't the problem here,
Mr. Berendsen. It's the fact that we have to CHANGE our plans, that you force
us to rearrange everything just for you, just to make you happy. This is what
is wrong with this world today. NO one respects anything or anyone any more,
everything is just me, me and me. It's all about what I can get out of it and
someone simply has to put a stopper for this behavior, don't you think Mr.
Berendsen? I mean how are the young people to learn how to respect other
people's plans if all they see is that we can just CHANGE it to fit everyone's
need and do whatever they lust after whenever they lust for it. Not everything
in life is like a marriage that you can just CHANGE and throw away like you
want to, Mr. Berendsen. Some things have to be steady in life; some things just
can't be CHANGED!"

I am standing up now, without even realizing it.
Mr. Berendsen is staring at me. I close my eyes for a second while pressing my
gloved hands against each other. When I open my eyes again, I'm smiling at him.
"So you must understand that you need to let my daughter pass. Do we
understand each other? I think we do."

"Mrs. Rasmussen. I simply can't let your
daughter pass this class just because you've planned a trip to France this
summer."

I walk closer to him. He holds the knife out in
front of him. I can tell he's afraid of me. "You can't or you won't?"
I ask.

He never answers. I'm thinking tenderloin for
dinner tonight.