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Sam Taradash
Author: Sam Taradash
  Sam’s random song playlist:

O: Tengo la Voz - Nortec Collective
P: 300 Pounds Of Joy - Howling Wolf
E: Arco Arena, Cake - Comfort Eagle
N: Lupin The 3rd '78 - Tokyo Ska Paradise Orchestra
2: You Go To My Head - Bud Powell
0: Get Out My Life, Woman - Joe Williams
1: Andy's Chest  - Lou Reed
0: Go Go Gadget Gospel - Gnarls Barkley
Submission Date:
16 Jul 2010 Category:   Short story In Chap-book

Baby Monitor

The baby monitor squeals and my hand jerks to it, pulling my mind out of a dreamless, unsteady sleep. Before I know where or who I am, I've pressed the receiver to my chest to muffle it and I'm counting off the steps from the bed to the source of my alarm. My baby daughter, May, is crying in the dark. Her voice rings in my head and down my stiff, aching back.  It makes my stomach cramp and my veins clench. Something's wrong with my baby. Straight to her crib, then, and pick her up before you even turn on the light. From the shadows, my mind is in spasms, rattling and asking, "What's wrong?" again and again. I'm a good daddy, so it's my job, my duty, to make sure she's cared for right.

There, the first hints of pink light start to glimmer in the room. I picked out that lamp special. It comes on kind of rosy first, then gets brighter and whiter, so it's more gentle on May's eyes. As the light comes on I can make out shapes in the room: the crib, the songbirds of North America mobile, the other monitor, and that stupid clown mural Mommy asked her deadbeat brother to paint. I hate those clowns, and I wonder again why they're in May's room. But she shrieks again and the tearing sound from the baby monitor, which I'm still clutching, shreds every other thought in my head. I quickly turn the volume low before focusing on her again.

First she needs a diaper check; my baby shouldn't be spending the night wet. But it's dry. Of course, she usually doesn't need changing until her 5 a.m. feed. Is she thirsty? Give her a drink. No, not that either. Look at her struggling. She's still working on her coordination, but when my mighty May turns her head back and away, then puts up her hands and start swinging, she's saying, 'No, don't want it!'

But what does she want?

Maybe she's too hot. Check her temperature, forehead to forehead. God only knows why Mommy put her in the thick pajamas this time of year. But Mommy knows best, doesn't she? So May gets all bundled up, just in case. See what Mommy knows now?

Waiting and watching her like this, I want to scream too. Why can't I make this right? I mean, she's my little miracle, but she's just a baby. People have been raising babies since forever. So what's wrong with me that I can't take care of my daughter? Then May screams, and that sick, guilty feeling pulls the bottom out of my stomach one more time. She's hurting; nothing else matters. So I lower my binoculars, roll down the driver's side window, and re-focus on the bedroom from across the street. The night breeze is cool against my face, but doesn't seem to cut through the heavy, stale air in the car.

There, I can see Mommy checking your temperature with her hand this time. But it's not a fever, is it, May? Look at her kicking away, she’s too fussy to have a fever. And even while I'm cored out from the sound of her crying, I see that kick and I have to smile. She's like a little Michelle Yeoh doing Supercop: pull the left leg up, then the right, then throw out a quick one-two, wa-tchow!

I remember feeling her doing that exact same kick before she was even born, thumping my hands from inside Mommy's tummy. All that time I wondered what she was doing in there. I used to put my face right up to that belly, to the wall of her room, and I’d ask her, ‘Are you asleep in there? Are you comfy? Are you happy, curled up there in the dark?’ But she's out there, kicking and crying now, and I still don't know why.

Then Mommy turns away, and I see the hall lights come on through the window of my old room. The stairway lights come on next, shining through the front window, and finally the light in the kitchen. I focus again, and can see my poor May, all red from crying. Mommy keeps walking between the fridge and the sink, rocking May and saying, "Oo-loo-loo-loo", as if that's going to help. I told her a thousand times, what May likes is when I hold her next to my heart while I buzz like a giant bumblebee, making low, slow buzz-uzz-uzz-es. She likes the vibrations, rumbling through my chest to her.

But Mommy always says, "Oo-loo-loo-loo" because her mommy always said, "Oo-loo-loo-loo". And Mommy always knows best, because Mommy's mommy always knew best. They've got all the answers, don't they? Except for how to help my little girl, who's still crying.

And it's been at least five minutes now of full-bore, wide-open screeching. May never cries this long when I've got her. I can see her, inside, hurting.  I can feel her, out here, across the street, and it's cutting me in half. For the hundredth time tonight I want to rush inside, get my daughter and take her somewhere else, somewhere clean and warm and quiet and safe. I want to take care of my May; that's what a good daddy is supposed to do.

But then I realize that I've got my hand on the car door and I'm about to open it. The inside lights in my car are always shut off, but opening the door might activate the motion lights outside. And even though I'm outside of the 100-yard limit, Mommy knows she can just call the cops and get Daddy sent to jail anyway. And if Daddy's in jail, he can't work, he can’t send money, and he can’t help May.

So I take a deep breath and put the binoculars down on the seat. Even while my insides burn, I close my eyes and go over the possibilities again. Not hungry, not wet, not fever. I roll my neck, hear it click and grind, and think again. Maybe teething. Or a rash. Or a spider bite or an allergy or even a nightmare. It could be anything. Anything. And Mommy’s not helping.

But when I'm telling myself one more time why I can't go inside.  When I’m trying again to block out that vision of me walking into the house to rescue May, I hear it: quiet.

I grab the binoculars and look through the window again. Mommy's holding May in one arm, and jiggling something in front of her. I refocus, and see a yellow dish scrubber, one of the useless kind with the hollow handle for soap that Mommy insists on buying. But the bristles are curled back like a flower and it's caught May's eye. She's waving at it and her cheeks are fading from angry red back to pink.

That’s it.

My baby's okay.

That sick, hollow feeling starts to fade, and I realize I'm hungry. I’ve been here since one am, and there's nothing left to eat in the car. The last McDonald's cup doesn't even have any of that waxy water left in the bottom. I start to wish for a donut, or even a coffee, but my throat's already raw with indigestion. So I look back to the kitchen and see my mighty May almost catch that stupid, flowery-looking scrubber with a two-handed grab, and I know my lovely little girl is going to get it in the next pass or two, just watch.

But then Mommy turns away from the window and I can't see any more. She hits the switch on her way out and the kitchen goes dark. Then the lights go out in the stairwell, next in the hallway. I turn up the baby monitor and press it to my ear, and I can hear Mommy humming something, and a little rustling before— nothing, except for the blood rushing in my ears. Then slowly, slowly, the light from May's special lamp fades to pink. That soft rosy color gets dimmer and dimmer, just like it's supposed to. But I've been staring so hard I'm seeing flickers, and from out here I can't tell when that warm light glowing over my baby has finally, completely gone out.


Video:  Lupin The 3rd '78 - Tokyo Ska Paradise Orchestra



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