Short Story

MADDIE

A Simple Mess

     Now, the only vibrations that the air knew were the reliable, echoing ticks that marked the passing of each second. The ticks and her ocean breath. No more bald cries. No longer was the unbroken wailing that would go on unaddressed, jarring her head and her patience. Now, the house was hers again. Vacant, she sauntered throughout her house, peering into each careful room, searching for her sanity in the brass candlesticks and unlit wax that resided in them. She took the time to stand in each room, amongst her things, and admire the dainty details that otherwise would have gone overlooked, from the Bigelow sculptured carpets to the methodical arrangements of Roses of Sharon and Porcelain Berries; no wood was unpolished, and no pastel pillow dared to face the wrong direction. All of these things provided her with great fulfillment and collectedness that nothing else could.

     She found herself in the kitchen, hovering over the stove that warmed a pot of tea. The ritual of brewing tea quietened her mind; however, she still thought back to the master bathroom, a room now forever tainted with noise and disorder. She was not experienced in cleaning such a mess, but a mess it simply was, and it would be treated like any other. She neared the white-tiled bathroom with an awkward shuffle and stood in the doorway, staring hard at the porcelain bathtub, knowing well of what lay inside. From the entrance, nothing seemed out of place besides the little puddles of water near the claws of the tub that looked as if someone had just stepped out of the bath or a child had been carried away splashing and playing. She considered her emotions, wondering if any weariness or shame would arise, but then she remembered the cacophony that had been the last six months of her life and felt justified in her actions. She drained the pearly water, standing heavily and looking off while the deep gurgling of the drain faded out. She hoisted the dense and slippery body out of the tub with both hands, firmly gripping its mid-section, watching the head and limbs conform to gravity and dangle like a doll. She walked with a stiffness, unskillfully supporting the body across her inner forearms with her fists clenched. Absent was the innate desire to cradle the head in the nook of her arm and hold its body close to hers. Once in the bedroom, she placed the small thing onto the bed and looked at it for a long time. The naked, doughy body glistened with water that had not yet dried. Its sparse, black hair slicked to its uneven head. Its eyes were closed, and the mouth was agape. She searched for some kind of meaning, some kind of love in the baby, but found none.

     His name was Desmond. His father called him Desi and has loved him since he was conceived. Richard was never bothered by the crying, although he did spend most of the days away from home. He even loved her; he could not think up a concrete reason why he loved her, but he did. He was well aware that she was inattentive and had not a maternal bone in her body. He did not find her soft or conventionally beautiful. She was large and awkward and seldom had anything to say. She preferred to be alone for most of the time and could barely prepare a TV dinner. When she told Richard that she was expecting, he had never been happier and more fulfilled; there was nothing more in his life that he wanted than to be a father. She, on the other hand, had attempted to self-abort multiple times but found herself becoming faint at the thought of pain or blood. She was confident that she would never be able to properly care for a child. Getting married was one thing she could bear, but raising a child was something beyond her. The ring on her finger and the body on the bed imprisoned her in a way that nothing else could.

     Her mind turned to Richard and the reaction she expected from him and could not fathom what he would do. She imagined he probably felt something deep in his gut when it happened, but he could not place it. She pondered her options, which she believed she had two. She looked through her drawers and found a square piece of cloth that she was saving for sewing patterns that would most likely go unattempted. She laid down the cloth, taking her time and smoothing out the wrinkles and edges. Placing a firm hand under the head and the other under the back, she lifted once again, still surprised at how much weight such a little thing can hold. Its body still gave off a slight warmth, but it was beginning to stiffen around its jaw and neck. She transferred the body to the cloth, tucked its limbs into its center line, and secured the cloth snuggly around it. She made her way into the sterile nursery that looked as if it had never been used, placed the baby into its crib, and waited.