And yet, from time to time my mind retreats to the blood on the undershirt, hurled down the garbage shoot and now taking up residence in some landfill in Dolton. I wonder whether or not it truly belonged to Willow as she said it did, an effect of the cold spring air, or if perhaps... But I stop myself, refusing to consider other options. I see those blood splatters at the oddest of times: when taking a shower, when making dinner. Quiet moments when my thoughts wander away from me, away from the everyday busyness to blood.
I find myself thinking about the baby, about Ruby, all the time, when I’m not thinking about the blood. Holding Ruby and listening to her wail, it reminds me of all the imaginary children I once longed to have. The ones I was supposed to have. I find myself dreaming night after night about babies: living babies, dead babies, cherubic babies, cherubs, with their angelic wings. I dream of Juliet. I dream of embryos and fetuses, and baby bottles and baby shoes. I dream of giving birth to babies all night long, and I dream of blood, blood on the undershirt, blood oozing from between my legs, red and thick, coagulating inside my panties. Panties that were once a brilliant white, like the undershirt.
I wake in a panic, sweating, while Chris and Zoe never stir.
Zoe takes to Willow as she does most everything in life: with hostility. There are days she eyeballs the girl from across the room with something akin to loathing in her eyes. She grumbles about sharing her clothing with the girl, or not being allowed to watch some kitschy show on the TV. She refuses to hold Ruby for a split second when Willow is in the restroom, and I’m otherwise occupied. She refuses to give the baby a bottle, and when she cries, as she often does, pathetic, persistent crying, Zoe rolls her eyes and walks out of the room.
I take to making three-course meals, grateful that someone is there to lick her plate clean. I make salads and soups, lasagna, and chicken tetrazzini, watching as Willow devours the meals one by one, always grateful for seconds, while Zoe stares desolately at the food, asking questions like, “What even is this?” and, “I thought we were vegetarians,” in that way only a preteen can, the falsetto of her voice, whiny and shrill. I watch Zoe pick at the lettuce leaves of her salad like a rabbit, thankful that Willow, across the table, is completely ravenous, and will not let good food go to waste.
In the afternoon, when Zoe is at school, and I am home from work, I find myself staring at Willow. At Ruby. At the way Willow handles Ruby, heavy-handed and inept, until I lift the baby from her arms and say, “Here, let me,” sure to tack on, “You could use a break,” so as not to insult her. I don’t know what she makes of it, of the way I remove the baby from her arms. I’m not entirely sure I care. I press my lips to the baby’s forehead and whisper, “There now, sweet girl,” as I bobble her up and down ever so gently, trying hard to make her smile.
I settle into the new rocking chair, purchased online and delivered this morning via FedEx, a delivery which Chris has yet to see. I paid extra, nearly a hundred dollars, for expedited delivery, though this detail I won’t mention to Chris. I press my back into the lumbar support and the baby and I begin to sway. I hum Patsy Cline lullabies under my breath, songs that my mother one day hummed to me, which seems to get Willow’s attention, though she tries hard to pretend she doesn’t care.
I watch the girl out of the corner of my eye, wondering ominously if or when she will want the baby returned to her custody, when she will tire of staring at Muppets on the TV screen, and wish to retreat to the office with Anne of Green Gables and the baby. My arms tighten around the baby automatically, like a seat belt in an auto collision.
Willow has been with me for over forty-eight hours now, and all I know is her first name, if, as Chris points out, that is her real name.
And that she has a brother. Matthew.
She doesn’t offer a thing about herself, and I don’t ask, certain that any interrogation will scare her away, and she will leave, taking with her the baby. My mind makes up for the lack of information, inventing all sorts of narratives that brought her and her baby into our lives, tales of spring tornadoes sweeping through the Midwest and carrying her from her home, tales of her running away to escape the huntsman who’s to return to the castle with her heart. From time to time she starts to say something, only ever a single word, or sometimes just a syllable or two that sneak between her lips, but then she stops herself suddenly and claims oblivion.
She’s grave. She doesn’t smile. She might as well be an elderly lady, what with all the baggage she carries in her eyes and meek demeanor. She’s quiet, virtually silent, sitting on that sofa, staring blindly at the TV. She watches cartoons mostly, almost always Sesame Street, staring at the TV longingly, until Chris or Zoe or I break her reverie.