her crying: rosemary-scented sachets, calming lotion, and alarm clocks with waterfall recordings, white noise boxes, and a bear with taped womb sounds. Regardless of how much I bought, I never felt as if I could give her what she needed. I could buy entire stores and yet my attempts didn’t amount to anything. Because deep down inside I was a fake.
One day, with another collection of bags in hand, I went home. Jack was in his office, talking on the phone, holding Mia in his arms. She looked peaceful and calm, her face relaxed, her lips loose. The moment I reached for her, her face tensed, her lips curled downward as if to say
How dare you approach me.
I immediately let go of her as if my fingers had touched hot stone.
“Every time I pick her up, she cries. She hates me. What am I doing wrong?”
“How do you come up with that kind of stuff?”
“But she cries when I hold her. I must be doing something wrong.”
“You’re not doing anything wrong. Relax, she’s just a baby,” Jack said.
I told Jack that I constantly worried about someone hurting her, her suffocating on a pillow or blanket, choking on something. Jack told me to stop imagining the worst.
“Don’t overthink everything,” he said, “and don’t be so tense all the time.” As if taking it in stride was going to make it better. In his world, everything was fine. In his world, children didn’t die of SIDS, didn’t choke on marbles, didn’t succumb to high fevers, didn’t suffocate on their vomit. Didn’t have mysterious illnesses that went undiagnosed until it was too late.
There was this animal inside of me, created while she was in my womb, born on the same day Mia was born. At first, it had quivered ever so slightly, then it stirred, agitated at times, but I was able to pacify it by keeping watch. Then it started to thrashand I felt powerless. I went there. I went there all the time and then I stayed there. The thought of impending doom loomed over me, tethered like a wild creature with a rope, making it impossible for me to get away. And nothing could convince me otherwise. I didn’t want to hold her, because as long as she was in Jack’s arms, she was his responsibility, as if I could pass my duty like a baton to him. On his watch, she’d be fine.
That day in his office, Jack handed Mia to me, one hand under her head, the other supporting her legs, her body wrapped tightly in the blanket.
“I have to go to work. I’ll be back in a few hours.” He presented the bundle as if she were an offering.
Suddenly images of a sacrificial goat slaughtered on a mossy stone altar flashed across my mind. I could almost feel the sticky blood between my fingers. I saw a radiant light the size of a baby’s pupil glowing beneath the soft spot on her head. There was a demon trapped beneath that spot, a demon that made her reject me, made her cry and wail every time I touched her. If I could get to that spot, create a tiny hole, the demon could escape, and we could both find peace.
I remained still, didn’t dare reach out for Mia. Jack looked at me, bewildered, his lips curled into a half smile as he tried to gain control.
I grabbed the scissors from the pencil holder and left his office. In the hallway powder room, as the scissors rested on the edge of the sink, I pumped antibacterial foam into my palms. I studied my reflection in the mirror and tried to come up with some sort of courage to tell him about the darkness and the shadows that had become my life. A life reduced to a small pinhole, depicting the entire world misshapen and distorted. Through this tiny hole, I saw blood, I saw the cold stone of an altar, covered with sharp instruments, jagged and spiky and able to drill their way through soft fontanel tissue. A sharp instrument, like a pair of scissors, resting on the edge of the sink.
The nursery was fecund with smells: powder, oil, lotion, chamomile and rosemary, and dirty diapers. Jack had scolded me many times not to let them pile
One day, with another collection of bags in hand, I went home. Jack was in his office, talking on the phone, holding Mia in his arms. She looked peaceful and calm, her face relaxed, her lips loose. The moment I reached for her, her face tensed, her lips curled downward as if to say
How dare you approach me.
I immediately let go of her as if my fingers had touched hot stone.
“Every time I pick her up, she cries. She hates me. What am I doing wrong?”
“How do you come up with that kind of stuff?”
“But she cries when I hold her. I must be doing something wrong.”
“You’re not doing anything wrong. Relax, she’s just a baby,” Jack said.
I told Jack that I constantly worried about someone hurting her, her suffocating on a pillow or blanket, choking on something. Jack told me to stop imagining the worst.
“Don’t overthink everything,” he said, “and don’t be so tense all the time.” As if taking it in stride was going to make it better. In his world, everything was fine. In his world, children didn’t die of SIDS, didn’t choke on marbles, didn’t succumb to high fevers, didn’t suffocate on their vomit. Didn’t have mysterious illnesses that went undiagnosed until it was too late.
There was this animal inside of me, created while she was in my womb, born on the same day Mia was born. At first, it had quivered ever so slightly, then it stirred, agitated at times, but I was able to pacify it by keeping watch. Then it started to thrashand I felt powerless. I went there. I went there all the time and then I stayed there. The thought of impending doom loomed over me, tethered like a wild creature with a rope, making it impossible for me to get away. And nothing could convince me otherwise. I didn’t want to hold her, because as long as she was in Jack’s arms, she was his responsibility, as if I could pass my duty like a baton to him. On his watch, she’d be fine.
That day in his office, Jack handed Mia to me, one hand under her head, the other supporting her legs, her body wrapped tightly in the blanket.
“I have to go to work. I’ll be back in a few hours.” He presented the bundle as if she were an offering.
Suddenly images of a sacrificial goat slaughtered on a mossy stone altar flashed across my mind. I could almost feel the sticky blood between my fingers. I saw a radiant light the size of a baby’s pupil glowing beneath the soft spot on her head. There was a demon trapped beneath that spot, a demon that made her reject me, made her cry and wail every time I touched her. If I could get to that spot, create a tiny hole, the demon could escape, and we could both find peace.
I remained still, didn’t dare reach out for Mia. Jack looked at me, bewildered, his lips curled into a half smile as he tried to gain control.
I grabbed the scissors from the pencil holder and left his office. In the hallway powder room, as the scissors rested on the edge of the sink, I pumped antibacterial foam into my palms. I studied my reflection in the mirror and tried to come up with some sort of courage to tell him about the darkness and the shadows that had become my life. A life reduced to a small pinhole, depicting the entire world misshapen and distorted. Through this tiny hole, I saw blood, I saw the cold stone of an altar, covered with sharp instruments, jagged and spiky and able to drill their way through soft fontanel tissue. A sharp instrument, like a pair of scissors, resting on the edge of the sink.
The nursery was fecund with smells: powder, oil, lotion, chamomile and rosemary, and dirty diapers. Jack had scolded me many times not to let them pile
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