Day 37
Have you ever heard the primordial screaming of a mother losing her child? The way it shatters the sky and blends your thoughts? I started hearing it sometimes in my head, I try to drive my thoughts away from it and to Naomi. Maybe she has colic, or a cow’s milk protein allergy, or typhus. It’ll get better. It will get better. Mom reminds me. I would do disgusting things for some sleep.
Day 41
I start calling Naomi Nemo, I think her left arm is the tiniest bit shorter. I write the lengths in her baby book.
Day 42
I dress Nemo in her red bow Christmas outfit. I have her take a picture with Mom. Nemo starts crying. The screaming is quiet today. I know I should talk to someone. Mom says a priest. I scribble FIND THERAPIST on a blue sticky note in Sharpie and stick it to the humming fridge.
Day 50
My laptop on the kitchen counter, stained with bits of sauce, Nemo wrapped to me like a koala, I pace as I wait for Dr.Nelson. He metabolizes onto my screen, salt-and-pepper, slew of accolades collaging the wall. He has eyes like a friend, and his hands never seem to shake. I tell him how I hear the screaming, and how my mom says I should baptize Nemo. Little Nemo starts crying. He smiles gently.
Day 51
Jingling toys like bells, Nemo wails, the pharmacy line crawls like time. She’ll sleep one day soon. The bag crinkles, the heft of the pills is comforting—a weighted blanket for my synapses. I try to remember if I was meant to take them in the morning or at night. Fishing a bottle from under the seat, I swallow the medication with water, and I know I am doing the right thing.
Day 65
The screaming is less frequent, but I have to go back to work, and the knot in my stomach loops around itself once more. Naomi still isn’t sleeping. Today, there was a package waiting. Curling grey letters, N-E-M-O, made of wired rope, poke out of the flimsy box. I hang it above her crib. I smile into the mirror across from us, my whole face splinters.
Day 68
I don’t eat lunch today, my check is late, my fingers vibrate. I didn’t eat lunch yesterday. Nemo would only sleep on my chest. Cherub cheeks suctioned to the rhythm of my blood. My mom reminds me to make time for Church. By communing with God, you will get support from Him as well as community. The loneliness crept in like a wolf, and the church seemed like the house of bricks.
Day 70
Trinity Hope Church is all windows and points and is filled with open hands and cheesy grins. They seem too good. Nemo cries, and they all bare their teeth, and I feel like the worst mother in the world, and they patronize me with their kind eyes, and I can never come back.
Day 95
My hair smells of milk, curdled under a heat lamp, and I can’t remember the last time I got lucky enough to step into the shower. My boss comes in, she drones, surrounded by three flies, asking if I talked to someone named Tim or Tom.
“Last Tuesday”
She watches me with an arched eyebrow. I swat a fly from my face, and her eyebrow tips into a hill of a rollercoaster.
“I only asked you this Monday?”
I need to shower.
Day 124
My mom and I go back and forth. The screaming has come back, and Naomi cries for what seems like eons. She’s convinced baptizing Nemo will bring me some peace. I tell her that’s what Dr.Nelson is for.
Day 138
I missed my appointment this morning. I couldn’t leave work. I write a note to reschedule.
Day 160
Nemo cries, and the women’s screaming in my head turns to hymns. The pharmacy says they need the doctor to order the refill. It’s already 6. I’ll call tomorrow.
Day 197
Daycare calls, and I can hear Nemo crying, and she has a fever, and it might be hand, foot, and mouth. I have to leave early, and my boss sneers, and I hope I have a job tomorrow. My car is slugging on E, but I pick up Naomi first. I take her home and cuddle her close. The screaming turns to shimmers.
Day 253
I am not supposed to miss any more work, I know this like I know my name. I know Nemo is sick again. I stay home anyway.
Day 254
I collect my extra-curricular life into a box and exit my ex-office. At least no more daycare illnesses.
Day 260
Nemo is crying.
Mom reminds me to schedule the baptism.
Day 270
Nemo is crying.
The women in my head scream louder.
Day 277
Nemo Cries.
Women Yell.
Day 280
Nemo.
Women.
Baptism.
Day 284
Nemo is crying. I hear my mother say this will go away after the baptism. And Nemo is crying. And the voices are screaming again. And Nemo is crying. I run the bath. Nemo is crying. The women are screaming. Do it! Return to the Lord! And Nemo is crying. I dunk her in the bath, and the crying stops. I dunk her in the bath, and the screaming stops. I breathe. I breathe. I breathe. I yank Nemo to my chest, water pooling beneath us like mercury. In the reflection, I see her little arm dropping limp fish to her side. I sleepwalk to the bedroom, lay my sweet Nemo down next to the blue urn reading Mom. The screaming starts.
Your best piece of all time IMO
This piece is bone deep writing I tell you. Damn.