Baby Help

by Marilyn Reynolds

  “What network might that be?” the operator asks.

  “Network?”

  “ABC, CBS, NBC?”

  “I don’t know!”

  “I’m sorry . . .”

  I get a glimpse of the Sunday picture again and drop the phone.

  “Found dead early this morning in her neatly maintained house in Fontana. Her son, age three, was sitting beside her, trying to feed her a banana.”

  It is as if there is no air in the room. I can’t breathe. My mind is stuck. Daphne dead, Daphne dead, Daphne dead, is all that’s in it.

  “Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!” slowly breaks through. At first I think it must be Kevin, trying to wake his mother, but it is Cheyenne, standing precariously on her high chair tray. I rush to her and swoop her into my arms. I take her to the bathroom where I strip her and run a tub of warm water. I lift her into the bathtub.

  “Baby help!” she says.

  “I forgot,” I tell her.

  I hold her hand while she climbs out of the tub, then climbs back in by herself. She gets her yellow ducky and swishes it around in the water, making quacking noises. I think of the time she and Kevin played with the duckies, and how Daphne and I sat in the bathroom with them and laughed our heads off. I turn my face from Cheyenne and lean against the cabinet. Sobs erupt from a place so deep inside me I didn’t even know it was there. Shaking, shivering—life is so hard. Poor Daphne. Poor Kevin. Why did she go back? Kevin with his banana. I cry so hard I throw up.

  “Mommy sick,” Cheyenne says, making her sad face.

  I swear, if it weren’t for Cheyenne I’d just give up, here and now. But there she is, skin all wrinkly from too much time in the tub.

  “Come on, Chey-Chey,” I say, holding out my hand.

  “Baby help!” she reminds me.

  “I know,” I tell her.

  I wrap her in a towel, wash my face, brush my teeth, and take her into the bedroom to get her ready for bed. It is eight-thirty. Three-and-a-half hours before Rudy gets off work. Irma won’t come out of her bedroom until morning, unless there’s an earth­quake. The TV is still blaring away.

  “Can you turn the TV off for Mommy?” I ask Cheyenne.

  She runs from the room, still naked. The noise stops, and then she’s back. I diaper her, then hand her her best pajamas. She struggles, trying to get her feet in after she’s already put her arms in.

  “Feet first, silly,” I say.

  “Silly,” she echoes.

  I help her get her arms out of her pajamas so she can start over again. I put an extra pair of pajamas, four T-shirts, jeans, shorts, a dress, and as many diapers as will fit into her back­pack. From the kitchen I get juice, crackers, and some jars of baby food. I hardly ever give her baby food anymore, but some­times it comes in handy.

  “Going?” she says.

  “Maybe after a while,” I tell her. “Here, climb into your crib with Baby Mary.”

  “Story,” she says, frowning.

  “I don’t have time now, Chey-Chey. How about if I just sing to you while I get some things together?”

  “Bushel,” she says.

  I open my drawer and reach in the back, under a sweatshirt, and get out the papers—birth certificates, social security cards, medical records, my journal from the shelter.

  “I love you, a bushel and a peck, a bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck,” I sing to her while I stuff things into my backpack. I don’t even know where I learned the song. It’s just something I’ve always known.

  My books and notebook take up so much room I hardly have room for clothes. What else? Bactine and Tylenol. My mom’s address and phone number in my pocket. Leticia’s address and phone number.

  A backpack over each shoulder and Cheyenne in my arms, I turn off the bedroom light and walk on tiptoe out the back door. Slowly, avoiding well-lit streets and stepping into the shadows whenever I hear a car coming, we make our way toward Leticia’s.

  “Going?” Cheyenne asks from time to time.

  “To visit a friend,” I tell her.

  I keep thinking I’ll stop at a pay phone and call Leticia, see if she can come get us. But the only places I know where there are phone booths are on bright comers or in stores. I don’t want to take a chance of anyone seeing us.

  It is after eleven when we finally come to Leticia’s house. I check the address to be sure it’s the right place. There are no lights on. I tap lightly on the door, then wait. I hope her mom won’t be mad. When no one comes I ring the doorbell.

  “Who is it?” a voice calls from behind the closed door. I think it’s Leticia. I hope.

  “Melissa,” I say.

  Leticia opens the door a crack.

  “I need help,” I tell her. “Just for tonight.”

  I’ll say this much for Leticia, she barely blinks before she opens the door wide.

  “Come in,” she says in a whisper.

  She ushers us down the hallway and into her bedroom. It’s filled with track trophies and class pictures, even a picture of her T-ball team from when she was five years old. There’s a prom picture and a big family picture. I recognize her Aunt Myrna.

  “See ’em?” Cheyenne says, pointing to picture after picture.

  “I saw the news tonight,” Leticia says. Then, tentatively, “Did you?”

  I nod.

  “That was your friend, wasn’t it?”

  “Daphne,” I tell her.

  “I was sure of it. I picked up the phone to call you, but then, I know how Rudy is about you getting phone calls, and I didn’t want to cause any trouble, but God . . .”

  “I just feel so awful,” I tell her. “And so sad for Kevin.”

  “Kevin?” Cheyenne repeats.

  “Yeah. Kevin,” I say, trying to sound cheerful. “Your friend. Remember?”

  “Miss ’em,” Cheyenne says.

  “Yeah, I guess there’s always someone to miss, huh?” I say, thinking how she’ll have to start missing Rudy and Irma again.

  Leticia holds her arms out to Cheyenne, but she turns her face away and clings to me. Some people get offended when Cheyenne does that but Leticia just laughs.

  “I don’t want to put you out,” I tell her. “If I could just stay here until morning . . .”

  “I’ve already figured it out,” Leticia says. “You and the baby can sleep here, and I’ll take the extra bed in my mom’s room.”

  “What’ll your mom say?”

  “She won’t even know the difference. She sleeps like the dead,” Leticia says.

  We both get real quiet. Tears well up in my eyes.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. What a stupid thing for me to say.”

  “No. It’s just . . . I’m so sad.”

  We sit on the bed, not talking. Cheyenne starts snoring her soft little snore.

  “Why don’t you two go to bed?” Leticia says. “Unless you want something to eat first?”

  “No, thanks,” I say.

  “See you in the morning, then . . . Here, you can sleep in this if you want to.”

  She takes an old track shirt from her top drawer and tosses it to me, then leaves, closing the door softly behind her.

  I lay Cheyenne on the side of the bed next to the wall and crawl in beside her. I fish around in my notebook for the pam­phlet we got in Peer Counseling before I ever even thought about going to the shelter. I read it again.

  YOU HAVE THE RIGHT TO: Be treated with respect; be heard; say no; come and go as you please; have a sup­port system; have friends and be social; have privacy and space of your own; maintain a separate identity.

  I’m not sure how to make those rights come true. But I’m going to try. I turn out the light. There is a heaviness within me, in my heart and in the pit of my stomach. My eyelids feel so heavy I doubt I could open them. I don’t even try. The sleep of the dead, I think. I wonder what that means—what it means for Daphne. I hope it’s one of those freedom times that she likes so much, and that came her way so seldom.

  CHAPTER
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  15

  At first, when I wake in the still dark morning, I don’t know where I am, or why there is such an ache within me. Then I remember Daphne and Kevin, and I feel the dull pain of my raw shin. I move closer to Cheyenne, to feel her regular, untroubled breathing.

  Before anyone else is stirring, I take my journal from my backpack and start writing. The first thing that comes to my head, and onto the paper, is how much I’ve missed writing in my journal. But even when no one was home, it didn’t feel safe enough, or private enough, to write any of my real feelings while I was at Rudy’s.

  Now I write a stream of bottled up thoughts and feelings, and then I try to focus on a plan. First I’ve got to find a place to stay, and I know it can’t be near Hamilton Heights, and Rudy.

  I’m dressed and getting Cheyenne ready for the day when there’s a light tap on the door.

  “Melissa?”

  I open the door.

  “I need to get my clothes,” Leticia says, yawning.

  She slides open the mirrored closet door and fumbles around for something to wear. I notice she has a lot of clothes. Right now, I’m wearing one of the three outfits that make up my whole wardrobe.

  “Hey, Cheyenne,” Leticia says, flashing a big smile.

  Cheyenne smiles back.

  “That’s Leticia,” I tell her.

  “Lisha,” she says.

  Leticia laughs and hands Cheyenne a stuffed elephant from the dresser.

  “Mine!” Cheyenne says.

  “Well, it’s on loan to you for now,” Leticia says.

  “Mine!” Cheyenne insists.

  Leticia laughs, then turns back to me.

  “Mom says I can take the car today. What time do you need to take Cheyenne to the Infant Center?”

  “Seven-thirty, but I can’t take her there today.”

  Leticia looks puzzled, then says, “Oh. Because of Rudy’s mom?”

  “Daddy!” Cheyenne says when she hears Rudy’s name. “Work?”

  “Yes, Daddy’s at work,” I tell her.

  “I guess she understands everything we say, huh?” Leticia says.

  “Seems to . . . I just know they’ll come looking for us,” I say, avoiding using any names.

  “I talked to my mom. She said you could stay here for a while if you need to.”

  “That’s so nice . . . ”

  “We could be like sisters—I’ve always wanted a sister,” Leticia says, looking at our contrasting side-by-side images in the closet door mirror and laughing.

  “I’ve got to get farther away,” I say, liking the idea of sisters, knowing it’s sort of a joke.

  “No way would anyone believe we’re sisters, anyway,” Leticia says. “Not only are you Miss White Girl to my glowing ebony, you’re about half my size.”

  Leticia stands tall, displaying at least six inches more height than I can come up with, even on tiptoes. Cheyenne stands be­side me, jumping to show how big she is.

  “Scrambled eggs for everybody?” Leticia’s brother yells down the hall.

  “Yes!” Leticia yells. “But not all dried up like you cooked them yesterday!”

  “Maybe you just ought to get your butt out here and show me how,” he yells back.

  “Arthur!”

  “Sorry, Mom . . .” then to Leticia he yells, “Maybe you just ought to get your behind out here and show me how.”

  Leticia laughs and I hear her mom laughing, too, from some other part of the house.

  I repack our stuff, checking to be sure we have enough dia­pers for the day.

  “Where will you go if you don’t stay here?”

  “My mom’s got a place in Echo Park. I’m pretty sure we can stay there for a while.”

  “I thought your mom wasn’t even around?”

  “Well, in and out. Mostly out, but she’s not mean or any­thing. I think she’ll let me stay.”

  “Maybe you should call her first,” Leticia says, looking wor­ried.

  “No. I think it would be easier for her to say no on the phone. I’ll just go over there. I’ve already checked bus schedules. The 341 goes near where she lives.”

  “I’ll take you,” Leticia says.

  “You’ll be late for school.”

  “I haven’t been late all year long, I guess this one day won’t hurt. You don’t want to be sitting at a bus stop up on Main, where everybody’ll see you, including you know who and his mother.”

  “Well . . .”

  “No problem,” Leticia says.

  We all sit at the table together, Leticia’s mom, her brother, Leticia, me, and Cheyenne. Mrs. DeLoach puts two thick phone books on top of a chair and sets Cheyenne on top.

  “Now you can reach,” she says.

  Arthur, who’s on the football team and looks it, plays peek-a-boo with Cheyenne until she forgets all about breakfast.

  “Let her eat, Arthur,” Mrs. DeLoach says.

  “I’m going to take Melissa and Cheyenne to her mom’s place this morning,” Leticia says.

  “Where’s that, Baby?”

  “Echo Park,” Leticia answers.

  “What about school?” Mrs. DeLoach says.

  “It’s okay this once,” Leticia says.

  Mrs. DeLoach looks from Leticia to me, and then watches Cheyenne for a bit.

  “Well, okay,” she says. “But be careful. That’s kind of a rough neighborhood over there.”

  “I could go with them, for protection,” Arthur says, flexing his muscles in a body builder pose.

  “You’re going to school, young man,” Mrs. DeLoach says.

  There’s some talk about who’s doing what today, a family barbecue coming up Sunday, lots of normal, TV sitcom stuff. Everyone rinses their own dishes and puts them in the dish­washer. Leticia washes the skillet and I wipe the table. Maybe this is how it is on Sesame Street, or in Mr. Rogers’ neighbor­hood.

  Before we leave, I call Bergie to say I won’t be there today.

  “Your boyfriend and his mother showed up early, demanding to know where you and Cheyenne were.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I told them the truth, that I had no idea where you were. But they were very rude, yelling about how you’d run away. They barged into the crib room looking for Cheyenne—woke Ethan from a sound sleep.

  “I left last night. I should never have gone back,” I say.

  “I can’t have people carrying on like that in here. My first concern is for the safety of these children. I’ve filed a police report and I’m getting a restraining order on both of them. If either of them shows up around here, or any school property in the whole district, they’ll be arrested.”

  “I don’t want to miss school.”

  “No, but you’re probably smart to stay away at least for a few days. A restraining order is good in theory, but it’s not al­ways effective in practice.”

  “I’m so close to graduation, and the job interview, but . . .”

  “Call me back around four today, when I’ll have more time to talk. Maybe I can help you work some things out.”

  “Thanks,” I say, hoping Bergie doesn’t hear the catch in my throat.

  I hope there’ll be a time in my life when I don’t feel like cry­ing so much. When people do something nice for me, like Leticia telling me I could stay here, or Bergie wanting to help, I get weepy. And then there’s that other stuff I feel like crying about, Daphne, and Kevin with his banana, and the way Rudy’s treated me, and Irma, too. And not really having a home, not living a Sesame Street life, where everyone respects one another.

  We check the map and figure out how to get to my mom’s. It looks pretty simple, the 10 Freeway to the Hollywood Free­way, then off at Glendale Boulevard to my mom’s street. Ex­cept we miss the turnoff to the Hollywood Freeway, and when we try to get back to it we get hopelessly lost.

  “Look, there’s City Hall,” I say, pointing to a building in the next block.

  “We shouldn’t be anywhere near City Hall,” Letic
ia says. “I hate this place.”

  “We should be going the opposite way.”

  She frowns and changes lanes abruptly, causing the guy be­hind us to slam on his brakes and lean on his horn.

  “Oh, God, I hope he’s not one of those freeway shooters,” Leticia groans.

  It is nearly eleven by the time we find my mom’s address, but there is no place to park.

  “Just pull over by that red curb and I’ll get out.”

  “What if she’s not there? Or what if it’s not the right place?”

  “If you can wait here just a minute, I’ll go check and come back and wave to you.”

  “Okay. If a cop comes, I’ll circle the block and come back.”

  I unstrap Cheyenne and get our stuff, then run inside the apart­ment building and find number twelve.

  “Who’s there?” my mom yells through the closed door.

  “It’s me, Melissa,” I yell back.

  She opens the door and stands aside.

  “You’re a little early, aren’t you? Like three days?”

  “I’ll explain in a minute. I’ve got to go tell my friend you’re here, so she can leave.”

  I dump the backpacks on the floor, just inside the door, and hurry with Cheyenne back outside.

  “It’s okay,” I wave to Leticia.

  She gets out of the car to wave back.

  “Call me,” she says, then she’s back in the car and gone.

  I’m all nervous. My mom didn’t light up with joy when she saw me at her door.

  “We’re going to see Gramma,” I tell Cheyenne.

  The door is left partly open for us and we go inside. Mom is sitting on the couch with a cup of coffee, checking out the rac­ing section of the newspaper.

  “Look, here’s your Gramma, Cheyenne,” I say.

  Cheyenne hides her face in my shoulder.

  “I wouldn’t have recognized her, she’s so big,” Mom says, standing to get a better look.

  “Want Gramma,” Cheyenne says.

  “Look, Baby. Here’s Gramma,” I tell her, turning so she’ll face my mother.

  “Not Gramma!” she screams. “Want Gramma!”

  Mom sits back down on the couch.

  Of all the times for Cheyenne to be unfriendly, this is the worst.

  “Listen, Cheyenne, this is Gramma, too. You have a Gramma Irma, and a Gramma June. This is your Gramma June.”