Newborns
By Emily Daniels
“You won, you won! Congratulations, you’re our tenth caller!” I could hear a smile in the voice, envisioned lips curling and stretching around their teeth. They must have been overjoyed, glad to be rid of the quadruplets.
I breathed into the receiver, a tickle in my throat. I laughed, spittle assaulting the plastic. Saliva clogged my esophagus.
“Yay,” I managed.
“You can pick them up any time over the next week, just let us know. The deadline is strict. No show, no babies,” the person said.
“OK, OK, I understand. I’ll pick them up, um, tomorrow? Just come into the station?”
An exchange of logistics, then a click. It was done. I had won four newborns in pristine condition, round and tiny, rosy cheeks surrounding their yawning mouths. I saw a preview on the television, their glistening skin a display.
It was winter. I brought a shopping bag and a small fleece blanket dotted with ducks. I didn’t know what babies needed. My boots trudged along the snow-riddled sidewalks, cakes of mud sloughing out from under them, pieces of dead skin in the street. I bit my lip. I was nervous. How do you care for a living thing?
The glass door was locked. I had to be buzzed in.
“How can I help you?” came a sweet voice. I could hear the faint clack of a typewriter.
“Babies. Uh, I’m here to pick up the babies I won,” I said. I was hot in the January weather, could feel the sweat trickling down the back of my neck, halting at the top of my puffer coat.
“Oh, sure. Come right on in,” the voice said.
The lock whispered, “come in, come in,” unfolding.
The exchange was short, rushed. I could tell they wanted to be free of the babies as soon as possible. The newborns felt more minute in my hands than I imagined, like four oranges balanced along my sweaty palms and fingers. I gently placed them into the shopping bag, covered them with the fleece blanket, tucked them in. I cried a little on the way out, a proud parent.
I kept them in the bag all day, not wanting to wake them. I invited my mother over for tea, wanted to deliver the news in person.
“Oh my goodness! Four of them,” she squawked. “Oh dear, oh, this is fantastic. Can I see?”
The shopping bag rustled as I lifted it into my lap.
I really didn’t want to disturb them, cherubic in their rest. My mother’s excitement was palpable. She was their grandmother after all.
Their fuzzy coating was nearly translucent, vampiric. I had to squint to look at them nestled in my hands. They were soft as angel food cake. Two of them had hair, one was balding and the other’s head was slick. Janet, Iris, Penny and Clarice, that’s what I named them, assuming they all were girls. I didn’t know how to tell.
“Lord, are they filthy,” my mother said, gesturing at their cloth diapers. I hadn’t changed them all day. “Let’s get them into the bath.”
I slid my socks along the hardwood, a creeping animal, making my way to the clawfoot tub. I ran the water, orange-ish liquid spurting before becoming clear. I adjusted the temperature to lukewarm, wasn’t sure how hot they would be able to stand.
We took off their diapers. My mother was right: A light brown crust had formed on their outsides, staining them. I gingerly placed them one by one into the bath, but Iris fell, starting to drown in the water.
“Do something!” my mother shrieked.
“Oh,” I muttered, grimacing.
I rescued her, but there was something else. She had a chip near her left eye. I picked at it, cracking her skin like a hard-boiled egg. She bled a bit, crying without moving her perfect mouth.
“We’ll have to bury her,” my mother said decidedly. It was final.
I retrieved a shoebox from the hall closet, holding it limply in my hands, unsure what to do. It was too big. My mother was taking the remaining babies out of the bath. I went to get a kitchen towel to swaddle Iris, a pink womb for sleep. She was beautiful, she was. I coughed. Wanted to choke.
My mother cradled her, made sure she was nestled safely in the worn cotton. We taped the box shut, hid her below the sink until I was ready to put her in the ground.
I could tell the others were sobbing though their features remained still, mourning the loss of their sister, just a baby. I, too, needed to grieve.
“Mother, I need to be alone,” I croaked, a little bubble erupting from my lungs.
She left quickly and quietly, stiffly patting me on the back and longingly looking at the newborns.
I gathered them in my arms with the utmost care, terrified I would drop another with my clumsy, spindly fingers. I put them to bed, tucking them beneath the duck-spotted blanket. I wept without moving my mouth.
How do you care for a living thing?
Emily Daniels (she/her) is a former journalist who crawled out of the West Virginia woods. She now lives in rural Ohio with her three strange and perfect cats. Her work has appeared in Moss Puppy Magazine.
Twitter: @phantomdream_