A sigh from his end. “Why the hell would I do that ?”
“Because I just saw them on the goddamn kitchen table ! Fresh ! Still cool ! Still fucking wet ! You’re telling me you didn’t put them there ?”
Another sigh. She could’ve cheerfully reached through the screen and squeezed his neck until her fingers tore into his throat.
“Carrie,” he said, then stopped for a beat. “Carrie, I haven’t been home all day. You know this is my late day. Three classes and two advisor times ? Plus mentoring ? My schedule’s been the same for five years, hon.”
She blinked. The phone casing creaked a little more. “Then. What. Did. I. See. Danny.”
He said nothing. It was answer enough.
“Goddammit !” She yanked the screen door open and stomped back into the house. “Stop fucking around, Danny. It’s your handwriting on the goddam note and—”
She entered the kitchen and, for the first time consciously, the there-then-gone frame at work popped into her head.
The daffodils were gone. No water spillage on the table from when she’d jostled the vase. Just the mail she’d dropped.
“And ? And what, Carrie ? It is physically impossible for me to have done what you said. Shall I produce witnesses ? Security video ?” A pause. “Or is it you who’s fucking around ?” His voice dropped. “Are you ? Because, don’t. Let’s not do this like this, Carrie. Not like this. You and I—”
“Shut up, Danny.” Her voice was a whisper. Her eyes were locked on where the daffodils weren’t.
“What ? I couldn’t hear—”
“Come home,” she said, louder this time. “Come home right now.”
“I’m gone,” he said, and the line was dead.
She let her arm fall, then slumped against the archway, staring.
When hallucination and nervous breakdown entered her head this time, she didn’t shake them off.
And the sound of the heartbeat was gone again.
***
They sat at opposite sides of the kitchen table, the center open and bare and dry—of course—between them. Outside the window, night had fallen.
“You need to talk to someone,” Danny said.
Carrie rubbed her face with her hands. “That’s ironic.”
“I’m serious.” He ducked his head so he could meet her eyes. “I don’t like any of this.”
“And I’m having the time of my life ?” She closed her eyes, took a breath. “I’m sorry. I feel like I’m losing my mind.” She dropped a hand to the spot where the vase had been. “I held that note, Dan. I held that frame. I could feel them. There was water right here—”
“But there wasn’t,” Danny reached out and took her hand, held on when her knee-jerk reaction was to pull away. “I have not been helpful. Neither of us have been. The past months have been the worst in my life, and yours.” He squeezed her hand. “But, y’know, maybe this is good. The right scare to get us back on track.”
She pulled away, slumped in her chair. “I don’t know. Who would I even speak to about this ?”
Danny aped her movements, then crossed his arms. “I can speak to some people ; frame it as research for a paper, or something. Some won’t buy that, but enough will.”
“It’s just . . . ” She shook her head. “They were right there, y’know ? The flowers, the frame . . . ” She stopped, looked at Danny. “The DVD ?”
He blinked at her. “The DVD ?”
“‘Baby’s First DVD’. Remember ?”
Slowly, his eyes lightened. “Holy shit, I do. We got it after the sonogram appointment . . . ” He trailed off, forehead scrunching. “Was that what you were talking about . . . ” He gestured vaguely. “ . . . before ?”
“You didn’t pull it out of the trash ?”
“I didn’t even remember it until just now. Too much had happened.” His face darkened. “You threw it away ?”
“When I first found it in my purse, after the miscarriage. Then I found it under papers on the desk.” She let out a deep breath. “What the fuck, Danny.” She studied him. “And nothing’s off with you ?”
“Beyond cataclysmic depression ?” He shook his head. “Nothing like what you’ve experienced.” Danny leaned forward. “Listen, I’m going to talk to some people. Get some good names. I’ll take care of it, okay ?”
She nodded. “Okay, Danny. Okay.”
This time, when he took her hand, she didn’t pull away.
Week 35, Third Trimester—Day 3
Carrie’s phone dinged with a text as she came out of the shower.
Two weeks, Danny wrote. Afternoon appt. Dr Morley. Ok ?
During the thirty-seventh week, the fetus is considered “full-term” and will begin to turn, dropping lower in the womb in preparation of birth. Body fat has increased to the point that the movements are more noticeable because the space is more confining. All the organs are ready to function on their own.
Her fingers hesitated over the screen keyboard. It was okay, but . . .
The DVD.
The photo.
The flowers.
She’d held those things. Studied them. Heard the heartbeat of the daughter that never would be while they were in her hands.
(but they weren’t there)
Go for it, she typed. Thank you. Love you.
The reply was immediate : Love you too.
The sudden feeling of relief was as real as the things she’d imagined holding.
“We’ll get through this,” she muttered, setting the phone down and resuming drying. “We’re not alone.”
***
Later, she passed the guest bedroom on the way to the stairs and, for just an instant out of the corner of her eye, saw the crib instead of the single bed, all set up.
Her head whipped around.
Just the guest bedroom. Bed, small dresser, fiberboard desk and computer.
She left the doorway slowly, as if turning away would make the crib appear.
“This is so stupid,” she said, and continued on towards the stairs.
Week 36, Third Trimester—Day 6
Simon, the news editor, slouched against the receptionist’s desk, talking over the partition while Julia sorted through the overnight e-mails. He looked up when Carrie came in. “What are you doing here ? You pop already ?”
Carrie stopped in the doorway, the pneumatic arm bringing the door back to bump her in the ass, sloshing coffee onto her wrist. She didn’t immediately feel the burn. “What ?”
Now both Julia and Simon were looking at her. “It can’t be that boring at home.” His eyes dropped to her stomach. “I mean, you did pop, right ? Last I saw you were as big as goddamn house.” Julia reached up and smacked his arm. “Why didn’t you alert us ? We would’ve sent something.”
Something in her head ground to a halt. “What ?”
Julia stood up behind the desk and Simon straightened. Their gaze was sharper, their mouths mutually turning down into moues of concern. “Are you all right ?” Julia asked, coming around.
The reception area of the Register-Mail was small, and Julia would be next to her in an instant.
(don’t touch me don’t touch me don’t touch me)
As if thinking it would help, the nerves on her wrist became aware of the fact that scalding Starbucks coated it. She jerked, splashing more coffee from the lid’s opening.
But it was enough to get Julia to stop, although her and Simon’s moues were deeper now.
(get me outta here get me outta here get me)
“Excuse me,” she said, heading directly to the hall. She didn’t run, but it was close.
Although the ladies restroom was enough for two people, she bolted the door, then threw her Starbucks cup into the sink, where the lid came off and it splashed all over. She went to the first stall and sat down on the toilet.
She held up her hands and watched them shake. Her heart thwacked, making her breath shallow.
“This is not happening. This is not happening.”
She held her head in her hands because she couldn’t stand to watch them shake any longer. She focused on breathing. She focused on the darkness behind her lids.
(simon and julia are not a frame a flower a DVD)
(then what are they ?)
And the soundtrack to it all was the damned memory of Evelyn’s heartbeat, forty-five seconds long, endlessly repeating.
She squeezed her eyes closed tighter, until neon lights burst behind the lids.
During the thirty-sixth week, the vernix—the soft proto-skin that allows real skin to develop—is thicker.
Her skin didn’t feel very thick at all.
(julia’s going to come knocking i looked like a psychopath out there)
She tensed, waiting, counting the seconds until the inevitable knock-and-knob-shake occurred.
It didn’t.
(we are alone)
After a while, it felt vaguely absurd to be in here. The sound of the heartbeat faded, like losing a radio signal. Slowly, she stood, as if that would start Julia’s inevitable knocking.
It didn’t.
She picked up her shoulder bag and moved to the door. Unlocked it.
The hallway was empty. Open offices up and down let out a steady incomprehensible stream of conversations and keyboard clickings and printer hummings.
She moved down the hall, waiting for someone to jump out and ask if she was all right. No one did, of course.
Simon and Julia were still in the reception area, in the same positions they’d been when Carrie had entered the building.
Simon looked up. “Hey ! When did you get in ?” Julia glanced up from her computer screen, offered a quick smile.
Carrie’s mouth was shot full of Novocaine. “Um . . . ”
Simon straightened and, goddamn, the moue was back. “You okay ? You look a little flushed.” This time Julia looked up for a little longer and, yes, she had a moue, too.
(you guys could be fucking twins)
She put her hands to her stomach, which felt like the undulating waves of a choppy sea. “Yeah, no, I think I’m gonna work from home. Stomach bug’s giving me some issues.”
Simon winced at the word stomach
(get me the hell outta here)
but recovered quickly with a full-on frown. “Yeah, okay. You do that. You look like hell, kiddo.”
Carrie ran out, thinking, This isn’t an object this isn’t an object those were people those were people.
***
She didn’t tell Danny what happened.
Week 37, Third Trimester—Day 1
Hon, Danny said. Honey. She’s kicking the hell outta my back.
What ? she said, sounding like she did when she was more than halfway asleep, although her lips weren’t moving.
(this is a dream)
The voices weren’t in her head.
The creak of bedsprings as Danny turned over. A phantom touch against her stomach and the weight there. She remembered that weight. She remembered it well.
The little bug’s an insomniac, he said.
Don’t remind me, she replied. I was just about to drop off.
Only a few more weeks, he said. Just shine it on a little longer.
Then we both won’t be able to sleep ?
The phantom touch left and Danny chuckled. It sounded like windchimes.
Drowsing, she put her own hands to her stomach and it was full and heavy and good. She felt, faintly, the tiny heartbeat. She felt Evelyn move, adjusting for a better position. She’d gained weight all around during the second trimester, but it had moved to the kiddo during the end and now—
—Carrie shot up in bed, hands on her smooth stomach, Evelyn’s heartbeat still in her head, but now with the sssssh-pop of the ultrasound sensor moving, a reminder that it was just a memory.
(not live, just Memorex)
She bit her lip to stifle the scream.
Danny turned over slowly in bed, blearily looking at her. “Hon ? You okay ?”
Carrie ignored him. The room didn’t have enough air and all she could do was pant. Morning was beginning to break through the window, turning their bedroom into shades of gray.
Danny sat up, put a hand on her arm. “Carrie ? What is it ?”
She drew her knees up under the sheet and rested her forehead, still holding her stomach. She closed her eyes.
And I laid back down, feeling Evelyn get comfortable, and I was exhausted and I knew I wasn’t going to sleep deeply, but that was okay because Evelyn was there and safe and sound—
“Bad dream,” she said and her voice was thick. “A bad dream.”
Week 37, 3rd Trimester—Day 2
Carrie passed by the guest bedroom and the crib was back.
She stopped, knowing it was a hallucination, knowing that all this would be gone by tomorrow night after talking with Dr. Morley, but knowing she couldn’t not turn and look.
And it was still there when she did.
Her shoulder bag dropped to the floor with a bang she didn’t hear. It was early afternoon. Staff meeting day, and she had no overnight assignments. Danny was still at work.
“Holy shit,” she said, and approached the door.
The gender-neutral green paint seemed more vibrant, making the white crib gleam. Canvas squares of cartoon animals—lion, giraffe—were nailed, step-like, to the wall. In the corner was the changing table, with bags and bags of boxes and diapers spread out like the givings of some bizarre Christmas tree.
(the gifts from the shower Danny still hasn’t put away)
She closed her eyes. There hadn’t been a shower. There wasn’t any of this.
But the hope was there, oh yes. Beneath the confusion and the sorrow and the rage, but hope was there. Hope that this life was the hallucination, a stress-induced bad dream as she neared the end of her pregnancy.
(i have been wishing . . . that’s all i ever wanted)
Wasn’t that what Danny had said ?
Why couldn’t it be true for her ?
“But it isn’t,” she said and popped her eyes open, like a kid playing red-light-green-light.
And Evelyn’s room was still set up. Carrie’s mouth dropped open.
(don’t believe this don’t believe this the frame dvd flowers felt real too)
But that voice sounded a million miles away.
She felt Evelyn’s heartbeat within the tremors of her own skin.
Carrie reached the doorway, hand on the frame, and the room immediately shimmered, like an old movie seguing into a flashback, and she reached into the room, as if she could grab the air itself and make it stop, and that only made the change faster, until she was just reaching through the doorway of the guest bedroom, with nice but definitely-not-baby green walls and the Danny-version of a made single bed.
Carrie’s arm dropped and she just looked for a moment.
(look upon my works ye mighty and despair who said that danny would know)
She couldn’t even find the energy to cry, although her eyes felt sandy and red. She hung her head and started to turn away when a flicker of movement caught the corner of her eye. She raised her head, feeling stupid for the upsurge of hope in her gut, and saw it was just the computer’s geometric screensaver.
She started to turn away again when it occurred to her that the computer had been off the last she saw. Since she’d deleted the audio file, Danny was rarely on the desktop, and she had her own laptop plugged into the wifi. She used the desktop for banking. Rarely.
Brow furrowed, she walked into the guest bedroom—the first step hesitant because Evelyn’s room might come back and she called herself stupid for the thought. She batted the mouse and the triangles disappeared, revealing the download folder, which had four files in it.
“The hell ?” she whispered, sitting down and wheeling the chair close.
She recognized the top file immediately : “Ultrasound—Week 8”.
<
br /> Evelyn’s heartbeat.
Carrie’s breath caught in her throat, but only long enough to see the other file names.
The next was another mp4 file, with a date falling during the nineteenth week. The size was larger than the first.
The next was an mpeg file, entitled “Sonogram 1—Week 16”.
The final file, also an mpeg : “Evie’s face !”.
It had been saved last week.
Carrie forced herself to breathe, but the air was too thick, impossible to take in. Her eyes fell to the scattered papers on the desktop, and saw a note in Danny’s handwriting : Can play the audio with the second sonogram—show Carrie.
She squeezed her eyes, counted to ten.
(not there not there this isn’t happening and tomorrow i’ll be able to stop it oh god please let me stop it)
She opened her eyes, cautiously this time. The files were still there.
Her hand reached for the mouse, hesitated, then rested lightly. She paused the cursor over the top one.
(might not be the same it won’t be the same)
(oh please)
She clicked on it and Windows Media Player opened and there was Evelyn’s heartbeat, in all of its ghost-like glory. The steady thump-thump, the sssshhh-POP as the sensor had moved and the recording had reached its end.
“Oh shit.”
(i just deleted it i never emptied out the recycling bin danny could’ve)
( ? ? ?BUT WHAT ABOUT THE OTHERS ? ? ?)
She X’ed out of the Player and moved to the second file. Clicked it.
Media Player again, another heartbeat, but it sounded . . . stronger. More regular. Like something that’s had a chance to get some practice in and really had the whole thing down.
Evelyn’s heartbeat. More of her heartbeat.
(none of this is real none real NONE REAL)
(why couldn’t it ?)
But that was a thought Carrie didn’t want to pursue, not out of an avoidance towards hope—hope that this was the hallucination, that she really was still pregnant—but out of the possibility, the probability, that she was tilting further and further into mental places no one, not even the lauded but-still-unknown Dr. Morley, could pull her from.
She X’ed out of the second file and opened the third file : “Sonogram—Week 16”.
Lost Signals Page 38
