You could always smell my wife before you could see her, her umbilical cord leaving the smell of iron upon our couches it had stained, the rotting fleshy rope sour with decay, her feverish body stale with the sweat from constant hysteria.
They called it a medical abnormality. When our son Vincent was born and the umbilical cord cut, it grew out of her bellybutton like a pinkish beanstalk, always twisting, looking for a fencepost to cling on. According to my wife, it did find something to hang on. Our second child we never had.
The nights that I spent lullabying Vince and tucking him in were the nights that she would stay awake, feeding it. Madness took my wife Cherelle, and I lived with it. A maternal hiccup, I would say, nothing more.
My wife and I had been twisting and turning under our duvet on one humid summer evening.
“Darling,” She sat up upon the headboard. “I know I’ve gone off the rails a bit lately.”
I turned to look at her, catching the moonlight that beamed through our window and reflected upon sweaty shoulders and the strands of hair that stuck to her forehead.
“How so?” I asked, careful with my words.
The couch springs hurt your back, Michael. Let’s not get sent there again tonight. I thought.
She giggled. “You know what I mean.” Two raised eyebrows met her stomach.
Cherelle took my hand and placed it on her belly. The worm from her navel wriggled revoltingly under the thin fabric of her nightie. The umbilical was cold and mushy like the reanimated tail from seeping roadkill.
“It’s strange, but don’t you love it honey? I thank God for giving us this blessing to feed our twin boys.” Her eyes were bright yet vacant.
I pulled my hand away slowly as to not upset her. I caught a waft of air from my fingertips that had touched it, a smell of rotting vegetables and mulch.
“Y- Yes sweetheart, it’s wonderful.” I gave a smile before a concealed gag.
Breastfeeding is for babies; that rotten appendage was not. Spooning my wife wasn’t an option anymore – I couldn’t bear to get close to it anymore, let alone let our skin touch. Nights were colder in bed than on the sofa.
For most of the following week, I wore a warm smile on my face around the office. Freeing my head from the peculiar life at home was good for me.
“How’s the wife doing?” They would ask.
I kept my head up and smiled back: “You know how it is. Little bit clingy around the new one. She’s a great mom, though.”
On Thursday when I was back home, I swiftly plummeted back down to paternal reality. Vince was already screaming in his crib and Cherelle must have dozed off - God knows how. Though, ‘how’ probably were her sleeping pills and a cup of wine. She deserved the rest.
Unbuttoning and stashing my suit away didn’t take long. Down the hall I went, cries echoing and getting louder as I approached his room. A diaper change or maybe a lullaby ought to put him to sleep.
“Vince?” I whispered.
My hands curled around the edge of his crib; nothing sounded but that of quiet breathing. He was fast asleep.
I sighed and pushed my hair back. Should really start getting some proper sleep, maybe a cup of red was the way to go. I thought.
Turning and smiling at my son, I flipped the switch.
That’s when my stomach sunk. A baby was crying.
My ears pricked and heart thumped in my chest.
Without knowing why, I flipped the lights back on, and curiously the screaming abruptly stopped.
I slowly brought myself to shuffle towards the spare unrenovated room at the end of the hall one step at a time. Inside, I noticed the light had been left on and, in the center, another black wooden crib.
Cherelle must have purchased it when I was at work. The very sight of it sent shivers up my spine.
Lights: off.
And the crying started again.
When the lights were on again, I felt dizzy and like I was going to throw up. Yet, I couldn’t look away.
I made it dark for the last time. Every step closer to the crib made my stomach throw acidic tickles at my throat. Staring into the void of the baby’s crib, it grabbed my finger with its tiny, frigid hand.
Screaming and screaming, I bolted out of the room, leaving the switch on like it was before I had come home. I slunk into bed and for the longest time stared unblinkingly at the silhouette of trees that wavered against my ceiling. Sleep didn’t come cheap that night.
The morning set a cold, tense atmosphere upon our small home. Before work, it was usually my turn to feed and tend to Vince as I usually let my wife sleep in. Though, things weren’t usual. Cherelle wasn’t in bed.
From the hall, I caught the back of her messy black hair as she stood by the front door’s mail slot.
“Good-early morning, honey.” I said, before groggily heading off to Vince’s room.
My breathing turned sharp - his crib was empty. Horror had followed me from the night before and come for me just like I knew it would. I darted out of the room and braced against a wall to turn at the unfinished room to the left to see another empty crib.
“Honey?” I called.
Cherelle didn’t turn, nor speak. She stared unblinkingly forward and downward by the front door, crying.
“Where’s Vincent?”
No reply.
I almost didn’t want to get closer. At that moment, I didn’t want to know where he was. I kept walking on.
She was a trembling, sobbing mess - I was close enough to see over her shoulder.
Between her hands shuffled bereavement flyers, letters of support from friends and family. Tears flowed down her cheeks and stained paper with dark blotchy circles.
Remembering why the cribs were empty, I cried, too.
I wrapped my arms around her and hugged her tightly from behind. Her stomach beneath my hand was smooth, and the horrifying umbilical worm had gone away.
Comments