A Cry in the Dark

Death comes swiftly. It's that moment you dread for your entire life. You spend minutes a day thinking of how you will go, worrying about the pain. Asking the universe how much time you have left. But when it comes, you aren't prepared. It's that breath you take before the car crashes into the light pole. It's that laugh you share with a loved one before your heart stops, and they dance holding their drink for another five minutes before they realize you aren't there anymore. It's that natural disaster that stops you from finishing the dishes. Like a heavy snowfall. 

I thought about death that freezing, white day. I wore my favorite boots for stomping through the slush, and my only knit hat. Sunglasses were a must, With my blue eyes, becoming snow-blind was a given without proper protection. I felt empty. I had to get moving. When you're broken, and you're still...well, I had to get moving. 

At 34, I was hardly "old." But the news from the obstetrician left no room for hope. After that last heavy period, the one that blossomed red during my second trimester, my chances went down to zero. And my husband left. I wanted to hate him. But, deep down, I understood. We wanted a family. And though I could not provide him with one, he was able to live his life and feel the bouncing on his knee that I would never experience. Death comes swiftly. Even love has an expiration date. 

It's funny where your mind travels. Looking back, you search for some sort of stability to tether you to reality. I remember asking myself as I ambled down that street sidewalk what the gender was. Mothers are supposed to know. I guess I wasn't a mother after all.

The falling snow, which had been light as I walked along the sidewalk, began to fall heavier. The strands of my straight, black hair began sticking to my face and around my eyes, and my gloved fingers could barely brush them away before another tuft would adhere to my skin. The wind started to hiss and howl, and the cars driving toward and away from me suddenly began to be harder to see through the gale. I realized how utterly quiet it had been, in comparison to the chaos that was unfolding around me. Up ahead, somewhere on the roadway, I heard a loud, CRASH, then the ongoing horn of a vehicle. Wind was picking up to the extent that to hear anything else would be a miracle. In the commotion, I lost my sunglasses. The whiteout would have been blinding in itself, but the preciptation from endless snowfall in my eyes caused me to lose all sense of where I was. I could have wandered into the road, for all I knew, with visibility impossible for oncoming cars. I started to panic.

I knew that I was on the sidewalk of a downtown street. The speed limit was posted at 35 miles per hour, and quaint mom-and-pops, a music store, and a family grocery was up ahead from where I stood, normally already in view. I turned in the direction I believed a store to be, and I inched forward gingerly, one hand out ahead of me and one attempting to shield my eyes from the falling flakes. I felt dizzy from fear, but I knew that I had to get out of the elements, and do it fast. The winds were deafening, but the sound of a falling tree making impact somewhere shocked me to my core. It was only later, after the storm and when the sky cleared, that I learned that this tree had crunched through the roof of the little music store. 

Despite my warm clothing, I was beginning to feel chilled to the bone. Blizzards often cause hypothermia and/or frostbite in those who cannot get inside, and I was suffering. Fast. But I was not going to allow myself to run in the midst of the naturally-caused hysteria. That, too, can get you killed. And probably much faster. 

My hand touched glass. I stopped, attempting to peer through my fingers at which business I had just come up on. It was impossible. Sliding my gloved hand around gently, I was able to make a grip on the handle to the door. I tried to pull it open, but the wind was working against me. I lowered the hand that shielded my eyes, and squeezing them tightly, used both arms to wrench the door back. I was diving in as soon as I could get through the space the opening door created.

The family grocery store. 

I looked around. The lights were off, and it was eerily quiet. The kind of quiet that rings loudly in your ears, and you feel unsettled and very aware of yourself. There was not a soul in sight. 

It was dark inside, but as I turned to the door I had just entered through, I had to squint from the brightness of the white world on the other side of the glass. I trudged deeper into the store. It wasn't a large one, being the corner family grocery that would supply little things you would need to pick up for dinner after a long day at work. There were just a few aisles, and in this sleepy town, quite a few were dedicated to booze. I had been a frequent flier through this aisle in recent months. It was a comfort and a curse.

My ears felt hot, even under my knit beanie, so I removed it and warmed them with my gloved hands. I needed to take a breath. I walked on to the closest wall and then slid down to a seat on the floor. I allowed my legs to flop out lazily in front of me, and I pulled off my scarf from one end. I took a deep breath in, leaning my head back against the wall and closing my eyes. The panic was pulling away, and I could think clearly for the first time since the start of the blizzard. I felt drained. And the longer I sat in the dark, empty market the longer I realized I didn't want to be in here. The silence was too much. You have to be happy with yourself to enjoy stillness. And I wasn't done running away from me. Not yet.

After a moment, I stood. Brushing myself off, I peered at the front of the store. The windows were still bleached from the snowfall, and the sound of something crashing into the side of the building reminded me that the storm was in full swing. But a part of me wanted to face the weather. Maybe I could dash to one of the convenience stores up the street just a little ways. A place less chaotic in its own way than this. 

Suddenly, a cry. A baby's cry.

And just like that, my legs allowed me to run from myself. Away from my thoughts. And to the aisle where, amazingly, in a pink carseat, there buckled in and stirring from sleep, sat a small child. An infant.

I gaped. It was dark, but the baby was close enough to the light of the windows that I could make out her little pouty lip and squeezed tears. Her small face was colored, and her tiny wails were growing louder and more demanding. Two teeny fists were balled up and held by her little ears. I moved closer. I knelt down and pulled off the polka-dotted blanket that she was covered by. Her name was monogrammed in the corner. "Rebecca."

I could smell that she had soiled herself, but there was no bag close by stocked with diapers or wipes. There was no formula for her either. The sound of her screaming was alarming, but it sprang me into action. I moved as quickly as I could in the dark toward the aisle marked, "Baby Needs." I was painfully aware of the aisle's location. At the beginning of my pregnancy, the aisle had been a source of joy. I was in no mood to argue with ghosts over the price of these items, so I slapped down a twenty as I scooped up a pack of diapers, one small pack of wipes, a can of formula, and a baby's bottle. 

As I inched back to the infant, my mind began to race with all kinds of thoughts. Where was Rebecca's family? Why was she alone in this grocery store, and how in the hell do you change diapers? I had never had much experience with babies. And I had had no reason to believe I would. 

Rebecca was howling, much like the wind whipping around our shelter. But she was full of life, which led me to believe that she had been fed within just a few hours. I decided that changing her should take priority. I knelt down.

"There, there," I whispered, attempting to calm her as I figured out the buckle on her carseat, "It's going to be fine, sweetie."

She was sniffling, but the sound of my voice quieted her. I was afraid to pick her up - she was so small and fragile. I guessed that she was anywhere from 3 to 5 months old. I glanced at the package of diapers I had chosen. Size 2. I figured that would work, but I wasn't sure.

"Ugh, girl, you are ripe." I took a breath to steady myself. First time changing a baby, and...go.

When she was clean, and the diaper was on her to the best of my ability, I set her on the floor and mixed a bottle up as well as I could. I read the package directions. 4 scoops of formula, fill with water, shake. I wasn't sure if I would need to hold her or if she would be able to hold the bottle herself. As small as she looked, I guessed that I would need to hold her. I picked her up gently, cradling her as I sat cross-legged on the tiled floor. She was wrapped in the blanket bearing her name to keep her warm, and she greedily accepted the bottle into her mouth. 

I took the time to study her face. She was so small. Her miniature fist escaped the attempt at a swaddle that I had wrapped her in, rubbing at her eyes. It was hard to make out her exact coloring, but I guessed that her eyes were just as blue as mine. She had little hair, but her tiny head was wrapped with a bow. I didn't see a coat or a warmer means of dressing her. I couldn't leave with her, but I couldn't leave her here. 

She was asleep. And while the tempest outside whipped branches and toppled telephone poles, I realized the silence of this empty cover was okay, after all. Leaning back, the baby asleep in my arms, I let myself rest. I faded to black.

-

The police later told me, as Rebecca was given over to their care, that her parents had died in their car as they rushed back for supplies. Diaper bag in hand, and preparing to zip back to safety and their child, another vehicle had careened off of the road and into the small lot of the store. 

For the next six months, I took classes. I baby-proofed my home. I set up nanny cameras, plugged all of the outlets, and installed gates to my stairway. I stocked up on baby foods. And I began to fill my guest bedroom with tiny clothes. 

It was summer when Rebecca became my legal daughter. She was crawling, and her beautiful blonde hair was beginning to grow. I was right. Her eyes were blue. At night, we would have bath time, and read a story. She liked to try and turn the pages before I was finished reading. It became a little game, and she would giggle and smile up at me. I kept her crib in my bedroom. And during the night, I would sometimes catch myself looking up, peering over, and checking to make sure that those tiny lungs were still causing her chest to rise and fall. 

We were a family. I dreaded having to tell her how she came to me. I still would pause in the shower, and I would sob for the one minute I was allowed. I did not want to tell her why she would never have a sibling. I was anxious at the prospect of explaining to her that the grandparents she looked like and spent every other weekend with were not my parents. Maybe we had been cracked. But together, we were not broken. She helped me put the pieces back together. She helped me feel whole again. 

Death comes swiftly. It's the moment you're afraid of but must face. It's that sound of laughter that you never thought you would hear from yourself again. It's the moment you can think of your pain, but know there is more happiness than sadness. It's when you're surrounded by love, and realize that you deserve it. Yes, death comes swiftly. Even despair, even heartbreak, has an expiration date.