Dorothy

I wake up. I am cold. Very cold. I appear to be lying on the floor, staring at a ceiling of a-a what? A warehouse? It looks industrial. There are those large rectangular lights and metal bars criss-crossing. My head hurts. Am I hungover? No, I can’t be hungover. I did not drink last night. Oh shit. Have I been kidnapped? I panic and sit up. I look around. I see shelves packed with cans of baked beans and chopped tomatoes. Further down is some cans of chickpeas, kidney beans, butter beans. I appear to be down the canned food aisle in the local supermarket. But why? And how?

I stand up. I am in my nightdress. Did I sleepwalk? Was I drunk? Or drugged? I look around. The place is deserted. Nobody else in sight. Not even a member of staff. I walk to the exit. The doors are bolted shut. Outside the door is pure whiteness. Snow is cascading down to the ground in a fury. I can hear the winds roaring madly. I recall scenes from horror movies. This is reminiscent of something straight out of a Stephen King novel. But why just me? And then, I hear a whimper. Is there someone else here? Or is this one of the phantoms from the King novel? I hear the noise again, louder, and then, it breaks into a cry. I run towards the noise. It leads me towards the aisle that is half women’s toiletries and half baby products. In the centre of the aisle, wrapped up in a pale blue blanket, is a baby.

I stand over the baby. It is still crying but the noise has receded. It seems glad to have been found and is relaxing slightly now that it realises it is not alone. A baby. Who would leave a baby on the floor of a shopping aisle? I want to pick up, but I am scared to. What if I drop it? What If the mother is someone near and notices me and gets defensive when she sees me with it? The baby makes a loud cry and stretches its arms out, so I pick it up. On the blanket is etched a name, “Dorothy”.

“Hi Dorothy”, I say, feebly. I am no good with children. I am socially awkward enough with my people my own age but, children bring out the worst in me. Should I talk to it or just say nothing and rock it a little bit. It is not like it will understand what I am saying or be able to communicate back. She is pretty. She has enticingly bright blue eyes which she uses to pierce right in to my own, dull grey-coloured ones. She has plump, rosy cheeks and curly brown hair. She reminds of a photo that my Mother had shown me of herself when she was a child. Dorothy smiles up at me and curls her little hand around two of my fingers. I look around, helplessly. I do not know how to look after a baby but, there is no way we can get out of here with the blizzard outside.

I scan the baby food aisle and, after inspecting some of the labels on the some the cartons, I pick what I think is the most appropriate for Dorothy. I use my finger to spoon some of the bright orange mush into her mouth. She eats it with relish and gives a little giggle. I wrap her in an extra blanket and then walk with her to the staff room. Inside, there is a sofa standing in the centre of the room. I lay her down on one of them. I look for a phone but there does not appear to be one. In fact, there is nothing else in this room other than the sofa. It is just white. White walls, white floor, white ceiling. I start to walk back to the shop; I need a drink. As I begin to leave the room, Dorothy starts to cry. I am making a hushing noise and try to reassure her I will be back soon. I am not sure this is necessary. The place appears to be devoid of any other people. And, even if someone did her the crying baby being ignored by me, it’s not like she is my responsibility.

I head over to the booze aisle. I uncap a bottle of the most expensive Whiskey I can find and begin to drink. The heat on my throat is welcome in this cold. Maybe I can just get drunk, pass out, and, when I wake up, the blizzard will have receded and people will be back in the shop. I imagine the workers will be curious as to why and how I am in the shop alone. Oh no., I think. Not just alone, with a strange child. What if the parents have reported the child missing and I am found alone with it? Well, no worries, I’m sure the shop has CTV. Then I will be able to find out how I got here.

I get tired of drinking neat whiskey, so I go find some plastic, disposable cups and some coke and start to mix it. After a couple of these, I swap to vodka and coke and then vodka and lemonade. I open myself some Doritos and salsa dip and pick out myself a magazine. At this point, I’m a little bit too drunk to focus on the magazine and I get bored and throw it down the aisle. It collides with some of the DVD’s on the opposite shelf and knocks several to the floor. That’s what I need, A DVD player. Or some music. Just as I think this, music starts playing. It’s music I like. These are songs I have on my playlist. I stand up with my drink and start to dance along with the music. This is more like it. As I dance along, I drink a bit more, then I dance and then, I hear a noise over the music. I’m sure that’s not part of this song. I ignore it and carry on dancing. And then, the noise gets louder. It is a cry. The baby. I ignore it again. It will calm down eventually. “Turn the music up” I yell. The music does get louder. But then, the baby’s cry does too. It sounds like it is screaming now. I shut my eyes and crouch down on the floor. “MUSIC” I scream. “Turn it up!”. Again, the volume of the music increases. In retaliation, the baby screams louder. The blizzard gets louder, the wind is in my ears. The music begins to fade, obliterated by the screaming and the wind. I can feel the cold on my face. It is biting my skin. The baby is louder and louder. I can discern one word amongst the cries. “Mummy.” It repeats this over and over. Getting louder and louder.

And then, it all stops. I look at the supermarket. No noise. The baby has stopped.

“Dorothy”, I whisper. I begin to run towards the staff room where I had left the baby. It is not there anymore. I start to panic. Someone else was here. Someone had taken Dorothy. “Dorothy!” I yell. “Dorothy, where are you?” “Dorothy! Dorothy! Dorothy!”

I open my eyes; I’m sweating and breathing heavily. My husband is crouching over me with a look of the concern on his face I have grown accustomed to now. There are tears running down my face.

“You ok Liv”. He asks me.

“Yeah, bad dream.” I respond. I’m not looking at him. I’m playing segments of the dream over in my mind. Looking at her beautiful face.

“I know you miss her Liv, but it’s been six years.”

“I’m gonna get some water.” I jump out of bed. I walk down the hallway and to the unused bedroom. A pale blue crib stands in the corner of the room that has a deserted pale blue blanket resting inside. On the head the crib are seven pink letters that spell out, “D-O-R-O-T-H-Y”. I close my eyes. I want to go back the dream. I want to go back and see Dorothy again.