The Baby Package

by Sarah J. Brooks

  Her dagger-like gaze spoke volumes, “Of course he is. It’s a control issue, the dog hates me. He loves Cal, but hates me, he shits in MY bedroom, every time.”

  And there was the problem, the dog probably did hate her.

  “Oops, did Mommy just use a .25 cent word?” I gave her a sweetly reproachful glare.

  “I have a few hundred-dollar words, I’d rather use,” she all but threatened.

  I blew her off with a big smile.

  “Sorry about Buddy, Ms. Delgado, I’ll see what we can do to help you… And how are you today, Calvin? I’ve missed you.” I switched gears in whip-like fashion, refocusing my attention to Calvin who was sitting quietly rocking back and forth in his chair, disassociating.

  We had prescribed the dog for him because dogs were the only thing we could get him to respond to. He had little to no interest in anything else. When he talked it was about dogs, when he drew, it was a dog. His mother wasn’t a Momster exactly, but I think she didn’t want to deal with Calvin’s issues and that was normal for parents, especially right after their kid had been diagnosed.

  I’d seen it a lot in my profession, parents who had waited to have kids and wanted the perfect child. Calvin’s parents only wanted one kid and she said over and over how happy she and her husband were that Calvin had been a boy. When he was six he was diagnosed with autism, their world collapsed. I didn’t see autism as an Apocalypse, I saw it as an opportunity to rethink how we looked at education and parenting.

  Calvin’s mom struggled with the concept and was always looking for me to fix him, but what she didn’t understand was, Calvin wasn’t broken.

  I crouched down to Calvin’s level and looked him in the eyes, “You wanna go and see what Buster is doing?”

  His eyes lit up and a broad toothless smiled widened across his face, “I love Buster,” he blurted out with joy.

  I think I felt Mrs. Delgado’s eyes roll. I felt her pain; I was more of a cat person myself.

  “I can get a trainer out to your house for Buddy. We have some great therapy dog trainers who will probably be able to teach him to tell you when he needs to do his thing.”

  I smiled and winked, again regretting it, but I was trying to keep the mood light. Mrs. Delgado was an intense woman.

  “Sure, send a trainer over, I’m sure it’ll just be a waste of time,” she said with a marked disdain in her voice.

  “You betcha. I’ll make sure to send you guys one of our best,” I was so inappropriately goofy when I felt intimidated.

  Intense people made me nervous.

  I walked with Calvin into my office where Buddy the Chihuahua half-breed sat waiting patiently for his patient. The dog was a death row salvation by another therapist. He was half Chihuahua and half something ugly, mottled, and scruffy. We were able to get him certified pretty easily because, despite his messy, unattractive appearance, he was a great dog.

  Calvin immediately sat next to him and Buddy crawled into his lap. We’d been working on reading, something Calvin struggled with and was unlikely to master anytime soon. However, that day was sort of a miracle, because somehow, Calvin did it. A tiny lever clicked over in his brain and he was able to read his first string of three simple words. It was monumental.

  I wasn’t going to rush out and tell Mrs. Delgado just yet, but I wanted to. I just had to bite my tongue, sit on my hands, and pray it wasn’t a fluke for forty minutes until I could tell her and thus validate my purpose on this planet. When I did show her what Calvin was able to read, I think the dark and stormy clouds that had been raining on her life finally let a bit of sun through.

  With tears in her eyes she scooped Calvin into her arms and he didn’t protest. We were making progress, slow but gradual progress and in that moment, with a tense mother and her sweet son, I was reminded why I did this work. We said our goodbyes, scheduled our next appointment and I sent a text to get Maggie, the dog guru, to go to the Delgado house as soon as possible. Calvin needed his dog.

  I didn’t have another appointment until noon and it was a Friday. I’d scheduled a visit to see my crotchety old grandpa and his lovely live-in nurse. I made a point of visiting them at least once a month, considering my dad never bothered. My dad was in his early sixties, he had a young wife and two very young children. He didn’t need a cantankerous father-in-law or a busy twenty-four-year-old daughter cramping his new, do-it-over lifestyle.

  I can’t say I blamed him. After mom died, he went into a social coma for ten years. He barely ate. I was happy to see him finding life again because he was all I had. I didn’t have any siblings, his own parents died young, and my maternal grandmother died last year. My family consisted of my father, my stepmother, who was five years older than me, her two kids, who could have been my two kids, and my mean ol’ grandpa.

  Despite his unpleasant disposition, I always visited. I decided to give them a call, to remind Gramps I was coming and to ensure Lydia planned for a few hours of downtime while I was on Gramps duty. Hopefully, she’d do something fun like get her hair done or go to the movies.

  Lydia answered the phone and I heard Gramps in the background being an asshole, “Tell whoever is calling we aren’t buying any of their crap,” I heard him shout before she even had a chance to say hello. “Grant residence,” Ugh she was always so formal.

  “Hey Lydia, it’s me, Jeni. I’m calling to remind you that I’m coming up tonight.”

  “Oh Jeni, yes, what a nice surprise. I’m sure your grandfather would be delighted to see you this weekend.” Her voice was sugary and fabricated, she knew very well he wasn’t going to be happy to see me.

  He liked to offend, it was his thing.

  “Who is it, Ms. Green? Tell them to shove whatever they’re selling up their ass,” was his delightful remark.

  I heard her back away from the phone as she let him know it was me calling.

  “Tell her to stay and work, god knows the girl needs money, she ain’t getting a penny out of me. Tell the mooch I’m not here.” Cantankerous ol’ fart. I’ve never requested a dime from him, but I still get Christmas cards and birthday cards with a dollar in them, just like I did when I was four; that must be the money he was referring to.

  “Lydia,” I whispered into the phone. “Tell him I’ll bring him some DeMet’s Turtle chocolates and a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup if he lets me come.” I knew I was being bad, his doctor had forbidden him sweets, but a few now and then wouldn’t hurt.

  “I’m sure Dr. Shellbourne won’t be too happy about that, but since your grandfather’s not doing so great right now, a little pick me up might be just the medicine he needs.” I could hear the smile in her voice.

  Lydia had been my grandpa’s caregiver for fifteen years. She’d rarely taken a day off by choice and had stayed by the old man’s side through thick and thin. Her own family didn’t visit much, and she liked the quiet life they shared at the mountain cottage near the lake. It was secluded, but only about 15 minutes from Grand Marais, and John McNaughton, the local sheriff, often stopped in to check on them and get a plate of Lydia’s famous cooking.

  Before she chose to be a caregiver, Lydia was a chef at a small local restaurant which she closed when she started working for Gramps. I think she was ready for a quieter, simpler life, not that living with Gramps was simple. He was manageable, he always did what you told him to do, even if he did it while throwing expletives at you.

  “Liam,” she called out over the phone, “Jeni’s bringing candy for ya.” She knew that would perk him up.

  “Well, tell her to get her ass over here, what’s she waiting on.” That was more like it.

  “We’ll see you soon, dear. Drive safely,” Lydia said as she rushed me off the phone, most likely to start cooking something grand.

  My Grandma Jan had died just last year and while Lydia wanted nothing to do with my grandpa romantically, she was like a grandmother to me. I visited them to see her just as much as I did him. I was actually excited to see them; they always made me
smile in a weird, dysfunctional family kind of way.

  Chapter 3

  Dash

  I stared at Michelle’s picture for a while that morning. There was no real need to be up at seven every day, I just wanted some sort of routine, otherwise, I’d never get out of bed. I combed my hands through my hair; it was so long now, too long. I didn’t bother cutting it or shaving my beard anymore, who was I ever going to see? The last time I’d talked to an actual human being face-to-face was just over a year ago when I kissed my sister goodbye and left my life forever.

  I didn’t rationalize a need for personal grooming other than what was necessary for healthy hygiene. DJ would’ve called me a Sasquatch; he was obsessed with the mythical creature. He’d be nine now. He had his mother’s smile, almost an exact replica. I wonder if he still thought about Bigfoot or me? Did he terrorize Allesandra with tales of the half man mountain creature? Did they ever talk about me? Did they know I’d become that half man half monster DJ was so fascinated by? It was ironic, I’d become more Sasquatch than man these days. They had to believe I died, it was the only way to keep them safe, but it left them without a father. We all had gaping wounds.

  I tried not to dwell on it and had to remind myself it was for the best. What I’d done was keeping them alive. To the world, Michelle and I both went up in flames. There wasn’t much left of the car or anything else after the explosion turned our lives to dust; it was the perfect getaway.

  I don’t know how I got out of the car before it exploded. When we crashed into the guardrail, it hit her side the hardest… The fuel tank was on her side, it ignited and the car blew up. I wanted to go back for her, but she wasn’t there, nothing that could be recognized of her, at least. I could feel warm wet liquid dripping over my eyes and then a rush of heat that knocked me out. When I woke up in the hospital, I had twenty-one stitches on my chin, another reason for the beard, ten stitches on my forehead and whiplash, but other than those few injuries, I made it out untouched. Michelle was scraped up into a body bag; it didn’t seem fair.

  Mark and the drug cartel were still looking for me. I’m pretty sure Mark didn’t believe I was dead. Not long after the crash, he tried to buy my company. My sister refused to sell it to him and took over in my place. Without any medical or scientific training, most thought it was a risky move for her. She was ten years my junior and at twenty-two years old, had just graduated from NYU in marketing and graphic design. Most people knew she had to be getting help from someone. All I wanted to do was keep Rainseed alive so that our work could continue.

  My sister gave up her life to raise the two kids we left behind, Dashell Jr., who was nine years old and his little sister Allesandra, six. They were almost too young to remember us, but not young enough. They still had a lot of questions, and it broke my heart. My sister was doing an excellent job raising them and running the company, but she was living a life she felt obligated to live and didn’t really want. She was young and deserved a chance to chase her own dreams.

  All of what we’d sacrificed weighed heavy on me, but I tried not to let it destroy what little I had left. I was still doing good for the world. I had built this house to be our mountain hideaway, a place Michelle, the kids, and I could go to escape the city. Now, it was a fortress, trussed up to protect me from the monsters outside. I never opened the door to the upstairs attic space which had a set of bunk beds and decaying toys on dust-covered shelves. I couldn’t bear to throw them away, so they stood as relics of a life long gone. The lower part of the house had been converted from a cozy living room, kitchen, small office, and master bedroom, into a high-tech security stronghold against the world.

  The media mourned my “death” for almost a year and had just started to taper off with my name mentioned less and less in the press. It was quite morbid for me to watch, but heartwarming as well; so many people expressed their love and sadness over the loss of both Shelly and I. I guess the only upside to all of it was, I knew we were loved.

  When I was in the witness protection program, law enforcement got word that the drug cartel speculated I might have survived based on the fact my company was still in business and there were no photographs of my burned body on the dark web, where such things could be found.

  The men pursuing me that day, simply vanished. Their car was left in pieces on the road. Police officers found the unattended wreckage and said it belonged to an elderly couple who had reported it stolen. There were no detectable prints in the car and no way to connect it to anyone. Most of the witnesses were either injured or dealing with their own damages and didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. Surveillance footage did show two men dressed in black from top to bottom, but no faces could be made out from the footage. The car beside us must have also slipped away.

  There were conspiracy theories that speculated I was still alive. Most were recreational internet groups, but the cartel and Mark had their eyes everywhere. I wasn’t ever going to be truly safe. This was as good a hiding place as any. The police knew where I was, but with no one to prosecute and no reason to hold me hostage, they let me live here without forcing me back into the witness protection program. It’s dangerous but had become less so to the point that my life was just monotonous and boring.

  The cabin was well camouflaged by trees in the heavily wooded remote area. The only thing I had to worry about were the glass windows. In the light of breaking dawn, they’d reflect across the valley. Anyone would’ve known it wasn’t a reflection which could naturally occur in a forest as dense as Eagle Mountain’s.

  At night I made sure to shutter the thick metal overlays which obliterated any light generated in the cabin. After sunrise, I could open the metal shutters and enjoy the incredible view of the mountains and valley below. This place would’ve been heaven if it wasn’t also a prison.

  That morning had started like any other morning. I got out of bed wearing my favorite pair of flannel pajama bottoms and went to the small media room to check security footage from the night before. I’d outfitted the house with several cameras, both around the periphery and in the nearby woods. I also had infrared scanners which could detect human movement and activity from at least a mile away.

  Since the cabin was so remote, having only one dirt road and no signposts or lights, the only people who ever traveled this way were the delivery service I used to deliver my necessities each month and the occasional lost traveler. Since interactions with anyone were dangerous, I simply watched what was happening around me without engaging with anyone.

  The lost travelers would go up the hill to discover a dead end and make their way back down again. My cabin couldn’t be seen from the road, or from the air; it was almost as invisible as was I. The previous night’s surveillance had shown me the antics of a family of raccoons who’d darted up and around my porch looking for food, with the younger male raccoons scuffling for dominance.

  My friend the black bear and her cubs had come by sometime in the early morning probably looking for their last meal before hibernating and there was a constant buzz of woodland rodents scurrying this way and that. Just a normal day on my mountain, nothing scary or nefarious to worry about, so I decided to raise the blinds and let the sun in.

  This was the best part of my morning, opening up to the natural world around me. I would never get tired of the view. Crystal blue skies, graced by pillowy white clouds, with evergreen trees towering above to the sky, perfuming the air with intoxicating aromas of cedar and pine. I’d open the window and let the scents waft in to chase out the stuffy musk of seclusion.

  Next on my morning agenda was always coffee, the rich espresso was imported from Italy. I craved tastes, smells and textures more than ever as they made my isolation more bearable. Breakfast was a fresh fruit, yogurt, and juice smoothie, and then a hike in the mountains behind the cabin before I started work. Every day it was the same routine, it kept me sane and made me feel like my life had a purpose.

  Looking down from the mountain, I could only see a
hint of the solar panels on the cabin, but I knew what I was looking for. To the untrained eye, the large black glass panels looked like a small body of dark murky water. The tiny house with its bullet-proof shutters and intentional lack of human presence seemed even more lonely when seen from the mountaintop.

  I decided to take a hike to the tiny house I had at the top of the nearby mountain and at about ten o’clock when I returned from my hike, I fired up my Mac Book Pro and got to work analyzing data and diving into my research. For company, I listened to the CB radio and chatter from truckers and workmen on local construction sites. I found their banter comforting and it informed me about happenings on the mountain. I also listened to the police scanner at the same time. It made for a bit of noise pollution, but after hours of deafening silence, a little auditory chaos was welcome and helped me think.

  I liked the comfortable underscore of white noise and information. Apparently, the biggest storm of the season was expected to hit that night. I hated those kinds of storms. They were dark and foreboding and often snowed in the roads and pathways making me feel even more isolated and trapped in this place.

  My heart raced just thinking of what the night was going to be like. The metal shutters on the house could be warmed to melt the snow around the house, but in order to open and close the front door properly, I’d have to shovel away the layers that piled on the porch. I did have a snow blower, but I hated lugging it around.

  These storms were dark and miserable and often brought the demons in my psyche to the forefront. I hated grief, it robbed my soul, but on dark stormy nights, grief was often my only companion.

  “Charlie, Charlie,” the CB radio cracked.

  “Charlie, over,” A jovial man’s deep and rasping voice responded.

  “What’s your ETA? Over?” The first man, maybe a younger man, asked.

  “Gonna be in before that black cloud is, over,” he said offering assurance to the younger man.

  “Ma’s cooking a goose, she wants everyone home tonight, she’s tellin’ me to tell you to get home now. You won’t answer your cell, over,” the younger man scolded.