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Hope

by Beth Lauderdale

I go from deep sleep to full wakefulness like a flipped switch. I look at the clock. It’s one of the fancy ones that synchronizes with the atomic clock in Colorado . It reads 88:88; so much for accuracy, I think. I swing my legs over the side of the bed and glance back at my husband. He slumbers on, unaware. I am on my way to the bathroom when I hear a baby snuffling. Rob and I don’t have any children, though we have been trying for years, so the sound is not one that belongs in my life. I step into the hallway and realize the sound is coming from the spare bedroom. As I follow the soft mewling cry, the hallway seems to shimmer and sway. My fingertips reach out to the wall and trail across the rough texture of the panels and smooth round molding of the wainscoting; the carpet is soft under my bare feet. The baby’s quiet cry grows louder as I approach and step into the room. In the deep shadows, I can see a crib. My gaze wanders the room and I am amazed at the furnishings. There is a chest of drawers and changing table, a rocking chair by the window and cloth balloons on one wall. None of these things were here when I went to bed.

The baby seems to sense my presence and wails. Quickly, I cross to the crib and look over the side. The tiny baby flails its arms and legs, its face squeezed into an expression of frustration. Then it opens its eyes and looks at me. The crying stops and is replaced by a toothless drooling smile. I reach down and the baby reaches up to come into my arms. I’m sure I have never seen or touched this child before, but it feels natural to hold it. I snuggle the baby close to my chest and its little head settles comfortably into the crook of my neck. The baby is warm and vibrant. It smells subtly of powder and milk and the faint odor of urine. I close my eyes and sway, enjoying the sensation of holding the child.

I move to the changing table, give the baby a gentle squeeze and then lay it down. During the process of changing the baby, I discover that she’s a girl. I finish and carry her over to the rocking chair and, once again, snuggle the warm little body up against my chest and neck. “I’ll call you Emily,” I whisper and settle myself into the chair.

As Emily and I rock, I talk and sing to her. She starts to nuzzle my neck and I know what she wants. I lower the strap of my nightgown, sliding it down until my arm is free and my breast exposed. Emily fastens her lips around my nipple and sucks. It is a feeling that is strange and familiar at the same time. The gentle tugging is not erotic, but intensely sensual. I feel my body respond and nourishment flows from me into this little darling. Emily curls her tiny fist against the side of my breast. We rock and after awhile, I shift her to my other breast. Eventually, sleep takes over and Emily’s lips slide from my nipple. I watch her perfect little face, slack with sleep, and tell her how much I love her, how wonderful her life will be and how glad I am she has come to be with me. I must sleep too because a voice wakes me with soft words whispered into my ear.

“Janey, give her to me. You can’t keep her. It’s not your time yet.” Something tugs on the baby in my arms. I struggle and tighten my hold on her.

“No,” I cry. “You can’t take my baby. Please don’t take her.” The pressure increases and becomes pain as Emily is ripped from me.

“Please, please, give her back. Let her be mine.” I sob. But she is gone, torn from my body with searing, hot slices.

Rob finds me on the floor of the spare bedroom. I’m curled into a ball and have instinctively assumed the position that my fetus abandoned. He says he followed a trail of scarlet drops. There is blood on my nightgown, but it doesn’t seem like enough to warrant the huge loss. Rob starts to lift me, but I tell him I can walk. He helps me to the bathroom and I sit on the toilet while he gets me clean clothes. I can feel thick globules plop from my body into the water and a quick glance shows the red-black clots settling on the commode’s porcelain bottom. Rob returns and slides the clean nightgown over my head. “Do you want to go to emergency?”

I just want to go back to bed. We lay together, as we always have. Rob snuggles me against his chest and murmurs into my hair. He wants to know if I’m all right, am I in pain. How do I answer that? We’ve lost another child; the doctor will confirm it in the morning. A thick cocoon of sorrow and helplessness encases me and my tears flow. Rob rocks me as I did Emily and the pain recedes slightly. Images of her circle in my mind and I focus on her sweet face. I feel comforted by my brief glimpse of the child that will be mine. The voice said it wasn’t my time yet, but it will be soon. Somehow, I know this and tiny grains of hope trickle in and begin to fill the gaping hole of despair left in the baby’s wake. As I float over the barrier between wakefulness and sleep, I welcome the warm weight of the dream baby into my arms. My larger body curls around her tiny one and I hold her close and protected within my heart until the day I see her again.

First published in'Quality Womens' Fiction