The baby was near enough now for me to touch. We made eye contact as it passed, it was maybe three months old, squishy and milk-drunk.
In a second or two, the stroller was gone. I watched the retreating mommy in her Birkenstocks, wondering what it was like to be her, with her healthy baby. Did she know how incredibly blessed she was? For a moment I thought I was imagining it but she was deliberately squeezing her buttocks with every step she took. I guessed that that accounted for the jauntiness of her walk. Not happiness, as I’d first thought, but an attempt to ‘snap back to her pre-baby body’。
My own body was a far sight from its pre-baby-ness. Maybe the woman would lend me her baby so I could walk and clench my buttocks … Out of nowhere I was gripped with fear that the baby in the stroller would die because of having been close to me. That I was, in some way, toxic.
In the playground, the man and his baby were still on the swing. What if that child died too? And that one over there, being breastfed on the grass? And it was all traced back to me? Because it could happen. I’d already been responsible for one death.
I knew I was crazy. With so much sleep deprivation, it was no surprise. But part of me actually believed it and that part was terrified.
This couldn’t go on.
I stood up and went straight to the drugstore, where I bought a packet of Unisom. I was in dangerous territory here, buying tablets, but I was desperate. Unisom was basically horrible, an antihistamine which would give me a dry mouth and no happy feels, but it might knock me out.
But I couldn’t tell Luke. I couldn’t tell anyone.
I took it at 10.50 p.m., nodded off – and woke two hours and thirteen minutes later, my mouth like cotton wool. That was it for the night.
Lying in the dark, I was quietly frantic. Where would this end? Seriously?
My mind began tracking back over my day, landing on the baby in the stroller. What if, at home in its apartment, it had developed a high temperature? Or had trouble breathing?
A thrill of terror seized me. Maybe it was already at the hospital, its mom and dad sick with worry?
This was nonsense, I knew it was, just down to lack of sleep.
But what if it wasn’t?
My mind jumped from the anonymous baby in the stroller to my friend Olga Mae’s little boy, Carter. Thirteen months old and cute as a button. What if he died?
Panic spiralled and I had to leave the bedroom and turn on the TV. That calmed me. But the fear began to stack up again until I was convinced that Carter was in danger.
I should call Olga Mae.
But there was no need – Carter was fine and I just needed some sleep.
But what if morning came and the news arrived that Carter was dead? As soon as I had that thought, I reached for my phone.
‘Rachel …？’
‘Can you check Carter? See if he’s okay?’
‘… It’s five a.m. What’s going on?’
‘Just check him. Please.’
‘… Sure.’ Then, ‘All good. He’s sleeping. He’s good.’
‘Breathing normally? No temperature?’
‘His skin feels normal. Rachel, what is it?’
‘Nothing. Thank you for checking. Go back to sleep.’
The spike of relief at learning that Carter was safe lasted no time – because suddenly I was worried about Luke. I tiptoed back into the bedroom and to my disbelief I couldn’t hear his breathing. I crept closer. He was lying unnaturally still, no rise and fall to his chest.
I put my hand on his stomach, sick with fear that he’d be cold. He was warm to the touch but if he had just died, then he wouldn’t be cool just yet … Suddenly he jolted awake and when he saw me looming over him, looked terrified. ‘Rachel! What the –’
‘Are you alive?’
‘Yes! What’s going on?’
‘Luke, did I kill her?’
‘What? Babe, no!’ He pulled me down into bed with him. ‘Of course you didn’t. We’ll talk about it in the morning. Let’s just go to sleep.’
Within moments he’d tumbled back into dreamland.
Our bodies were clammy and stuck to each other and he was snoring softly into my ear, every exhale lifting a lock of my hair. I tried to not hate him but it was hard.
When he woke at 7 a.m., I’d extracted myself from his embrace and was back watching telly. He wandered into the living room, looking at his phone, at the text he’d got from Olga Mae.
‘Babe, what’s going on?’ he asked.
So I told him about my fear that I was dangerous.
‘This is … so sad. None of this is your fault. But this can’t go on. You need to go back to Carlotta.’