asleep when Neal
came out of the emergency room and (to his relief) had stayed that
way ever since. Now, she was in her crib, and Neal could hear her
breathing little, hoarse baby-breaths.
He lay there on his back until just before
six a.m., his throbbing foot propped up on a pillow to minimize
swelling, as the doctor had instructed. Neal thought it was all in
vain, however. He was convinced that the wound was teeming with
bacteria and it was only a matter of time before symptoms of
infection appeared and he returned to the emergency room. A part of
him told him that he was being a hypochondriac, but another part of
him seemed certain about it.
As he lay there, a phrase the doctor had
said popped into his mind:
We don’t know what kind of foreign matter
may have been on the end of that trophy you stepped on...
Neal sat up in the bed and gazed at the
tennis trophy. He could see it clearly now in the dawn light,
sitting on the top shelf of his trophy case, where he had put it
before Annie had taken him to the hospital. Before they had left,
he had glanced at the end of it to see if anything more had broken
off, but he hadn’t really paid that much attention to its
cleanliness.
Neal quietly got up and, with considerable
difficulty, limped across the room to the trophy case. When he
passed the crib, he fought the urge to look at Natasha, afraid he
would see those black eyes again. But he could not help
himself.
He was relieved to see that she was still
fast asleep, her eyes shut, but her tiny hands clenched to her
chest, in the fetal position. Just a little, harmless baby. It was
hard to believe that he—a grown, 21 year old man— was actually
afraid of her.
Careful not to make a sound, Neal picked up
the tennis trophy and limped into the kitchen, using various pieces
of the rental furniture to support himself. His left shoulder ached
almost as much as his foot—every time he moved his left arm, he
winced. Neal hadn’t even mentioned this to anyone at the hospital.
But he was certain it was nothing but a bad bruise.
His foot, however, was another matter.
When he finally reached the kitchen, he went
over to the sink and turned on the florescent light fixture mounted
directly above it. He held the trophy under the bright white light
and examined the broken tennis shaft very closely. It was caked
with dried blood now, so it was hard to tell how clean it was
before it had ripped through the bottom of his foot.
He scraped off a little bit of the blood. It
was a deep maroon color and chipped off the metal in tiny little
chunks. Neal turned the trophy one way, then another, to try and
get a better look at it. As he did this, he noticed something new.
The racket shaft was hollow—this he had noticed before, when he had
tried to glue it back together. But now, something was plugging up
the end. Some kind of “foreign matter.” He thought it was probably
a piece of himself, a bit of tendon or gristle or maybe just skin.
But it didn’t look like skin or gristle. It looked like dirt, like
dried mud.
Neal frowned, his upper lip curling in
repulsion, as he scraped at it with his fingernail. But this
wouldn’t work. He needed something small and sharp to insert into
the hole in the shaft...
He opened the cupboard and retrieved a
toothpick from a little cardboard box, then held the trophy under
the light again and scraped some of the brown stuff out.
That was when he noticed the smell.
Neal held the toothpick up to his nose. His
upper lip curling again, he inhaled. He recoiled, staring at the
little brown-smeared sliver of wood.
It was
shit
.
And not just any shit.
It was
baby
shit.
Neal dropped the toothpick in the sink, his
throat bone-dry. He reeled for a moment, trying to convince himself
that it might have just been blood or something else, but there was
no question about it. He knew that odor very well, that
almost-sweet fragrance a baby’s stool will emit for the first few
months, when the child is consuming
came out of the emergency room and (to his relief) had stayed that
way ever since. Now, she was in her crib, and Neal could hear her
breathing little, hoarse baby-breaths.
He lay there on his back until just before
six a.m., his throbbing foot propped up on a pillow to minimize
swelling, as the doctor had instructed. Neal thought it was all in
vain, however. He was convinced that the wound was teeming with
bacteria and it was only a matter of time before symptoms of
infection appeared and he returned to the emergency room. A part of
him told him that he was being a hypochondriac, but another part of
him seemed certain about it.
As he lay there, a phrase the doctor had
said popped into his mind:
We don’t know what kind of foreign matter
may have been on the end of that trophy you stepped on...
Neal sat up in the bed and gazed at the
tennis trophy. He could see it clearly now in the dawn light,
sitting on the top shelf of his trophy case, where he had put it
before Annie had taken him to the hospital. Before they had left,
he had glanced at the end of it to see if anything more had broken
off, but he hadn’t really paid that much attention to its
cleanliness.
Neal quietly got up and, with considerable
difficulty, limped across the room to the trophy case. When he
passed the crib, he fought the urge to look at Natasha, afraid he
would see those black eyes again. But he could not help
himself.
He was relieved to see that she was still
fast asleep, her eyes shut, but her tiny hands clenched to her
chest, in the fetal position. Just a little, harmless baby. It was
hard to believe that he—a grown, 21 year old man— was actually
afraid of her.
Careful not to make a sound, Neal picked up
the tennis trophy and limped into the kitchen, using various pieces
of the rental furniture to support himself. His left shoulder ached
almost as much as his foot—every time he moved his left arm, he
winced. Neal hadn’t even mentioned this to anyone at the hospital.
But he was certain it was nothing but a bad bruise.
His foot, however, was another matter.
When he finally reached the kitchen, he went
over to the sink and turned on the florescent light fixture mounted
directly above it. He held the trophy under the bright white light
and examined the broken tennis shaft very closely. It was caked
with dried blood now, so it was hard to tell how clean it was
before it had ripped through the bottom of his foot.
He scraped off a little bit of the blood. It
was a deep maroon color and chipped off the metal in tiny little
chunks. Neal turned the trophy one way, then another, to try and
get a better look at it. As he did this, he noticed something new.
The racket shaft was hollow—this he had noticed before, when he had
tried to glue it back together. But now, something was plugging up
the end. Some kind of “foreign matter.” He thought it was probably
a piece of himself, a bit of tendon or gristle or maybe just skin.
But it didn’t look like skin or gristle. It looked like dirt, like
dried mud.
Neal frowned, his upper lip curling in
repulsion, as he scraped at it with his fingernail. But this
wouldn’t work. He needed something small and sharp to insert into
the hole in the shaft...
He opened the cupboard and retrieved a
toothpick from a little cardboard box, then held the trophy under
the light again and scraped some of the brown stuff out.
That was when he noticed the smell.
Neal held the toothpick up to his nose. His
upper lip curling again, he inhaled. He recoiled, staring at the
little brown-smeared sliver of wood.
It was
shit
.
And not just any shit.
It was
baby
shit.
Neal dropped the toothpick in the sink, his
throat bone-dry. He reeled for a moment, trying to convince himself
that it might have just been blood or something else, but there was
no question about it. He knew that odor very well, that
almost-sweet fragrance a baby’s stool will emit for the first few
months, when the child is consuming
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