Companions in Ruin

by Mark Allan Gunnells

  Peter belched softly in my ear, and I put him back in the crib. He smiled up at the mobile that hung from the ceiling, reaching up as if to grab the little stars and moons that revolved above him. “You know that isn’t true.”

  “Do I? Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed that even when you’re here, he’s only truly content when you’re near him. If you so much as step out of the room, he starts crying and fussing and he’ll take no comfort from me.”

  I gently poked Peter in the stomach with my finger a few times, making him smile and wriggle around then I turned my full attention to Wanda. “Babies are unpredictable, you know that. One minute they can be perfectly happy then the next start bawling their eyes out for no discernable reason. It’s not like it’s personal.”

  Wanda got up and walked over to me, peeking into the crib with what seemed to be trepidation. “It feels personal. Like he prefers you over me or something.”

  I put my arms around her and kissed her. “Don’t be silly. Peter loves you, you’re his Mommy. It’s impossible to know you and not love you, even for a three month old.”

  She buried her face in my chest, her hands clutching my back. “God, I feel like I’m cracking up. This isn’t what I thought being a mother was going to be like at all.”

  “Tell you what, why don’t you go lie down and I’ll make us some dinner.”

  When Wanda looked up at me, I could see some of the old fire and sarcasm in her eyes that I’d first fallen in love with so many years ago. “You’re going to make dinner? Are you trying to make me feel better…or worse?”

  “Touché. I’ll order delivery, how’s that sound.”

  “Like a little bit of heaven.”

  ***

  The next couple of months were really rough. Rarely did I come home from work that I didn’t find both Wanda and Peter crying. And when I was home, she never wanted to be alone with the baby. If she changed him or fed him, she insisted I be within Peter’s line of sight. She claimed it was the only way she could do anything with him without him pitching a fit.

  And I had to admit, I did start to notice how the baby seemed to cry nonstop when I wasn’t in the room with him. Anytime I left mother and son alone together—if I went to take a shower, to grade papers in the spare bedroom we used as my office, outside to lawn work—the entire time I could hear the baby crying and eventually Wanda’s frustrated pleas for me to come back. It began to get tiring and I started to look forward to going to work. Of course, Peter had both of us up several times every night—I was lucky to get four or five hours of sporadic sleep—but he did seem to go back down faster when I got up with him than when Wanda did.

  But did I think this meant that the baby loved me more than he loved her? Not at all. Granted, I was just a middle school teacher and not a trained psychologist, but I figured the baby was picking up on all of Wanda’s tension and aggravation and was merely responding to it. I truly believed that children could sense the emotions of their parents, and an unhappy parent could often result in an unhappy child. If only Wanda could relax around the baby, I just knew she’d find Peter to be much more compliant and joyful.

  At one point we even took the baby to see his pediatrician, Dr. Stanfield, who assured us that Peter was fine and healthy. He also told us that it was normal for newborns to spend so much of the day fussing and that there were a myriad of reasons for this, none of which were bad parenting. Wanda nodded and thanked the doctor when we left, but I could see she was unconvinced.

  On a Tuesday afternoon, while I was trying to get a bunch of 13 year olds interested in A Separate Peace, Mrs. Jenkins, Principal Moncrief’s secretary, stuck her head in the door of my classroom and said, “Sorry to interrupt, but you have an emergency phone call from your wife.”

  The whole world seemed to lose focus at that moment, and my skin felt tight, as if my skeleton were growing and about to burst forth as if from a cocoon. All I could think was, Something’s happened to the baby, something’s happened to Peter. I left Mrs. Jenkins to watch the class and I rushed down to her office. The button for line 1 was flashing, but I hesitated to push it, afraid of what might be waiting on the other end of that line.

  Finally I swallowed my fear, picked up the phone, and punched the button. Even before I spoke, I could hear Peter crying in the background and I let out the breath I hadn’t even been aware I was holding. No matter what it was, Peter wasn’t dead. I had been trying to deny it, but that had been the root of my fear.

  “Wanda?” I said, my voice quavering.

  “Oh Jason, thank God. You’ve got to come home right away.”

  “Why, what’s wrong? Is Peter sick, did he get hurt?”

  “No, he just won’t stop crying.”

  I felt my grip tighten on the receiver, and my voice was shaking for a different reason when I said, “You pulled me out of class because the baby is crying?”

  “He won’t quit! I’ve done everything, and he just won’t quit!”

  “Wanda, do you realize you scared me half to death? I was convinced that something terrible had happened.”

  “But Jason, can’t you hear him?”

  “Dr. Stanfield told you this was normal.”

  “Then why doesn’t he act this way around you?” she shrieked so loudly I held the phone away from my ear. “It’s only with me that he acts like this.”

  “If you’d just calm down and—”

  “And don’t try to feed me anymore of that psychobabble bullshit about how he’s just reacting to my frustration. I’m telling you, he’s doing this on purpose.”

  “Wanda, that’s ridiculous.”

  “Easy for you to say. Now just get your ass home and get him to shut the fuck up so I can think straight again. I swear, his cries are drilling into my brain like a goddamn ice pick.”

  I was still angry, but I was growing increasingly concerned as well. Wanda had never been much of a curser, but she was now dropping them like a character in a Quentin Tarrantino movie. Something was obviously wrong—not with Peter, but with my wife—and I figured it would be best for me to see if Moncrief could find a sub for the rest of the afternoon so I could get home.

  ***

  “Wanda, this has got to end.”

  I was sitting in the recliner, cradling Peter in my arms. I’d fed and changed him shortly after getting home, and now he was gurgling up at me while he played with the buttons of my shirt.

  “Don’t tell me,” Wanda said, pacing back and forth in front of me, “talk to your son.”

  “I’d do that except he’s only five months old and can’t speak.”

  “Five months old or not, he knows exactly what he’s doing.”

  “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

  Wanda glanced at Peter then lowered her voice, as if afraid he’d hear her. “He hates me.”

  I blinked at my wife, thinking at first that she must be joking, but her expression was dead serious. “You think the baby hates you?”

  “Oh, I know he hates me. It’s rather obvious, not like he tries to hide it or anything.”

  “Honey, do you have any idea how that sounds?”

  “Sounds like the truth to me. I mean, just look at him. Before you got here he was raising almighty hell, but now that you’re home he’s all sweetness and light. How do you explain that?”

  I didn’t respond right away, looking up at my wife as if at a stranger. Since the baby had been born, she’d become another person, one I didn’t recognize. She even looked different, large dark bags under her eyes, hair unkempt and often unwashed, some days not even getting out of her nightgown. She’d developed the habit of biting her nails, which she’d never done before, sometimes gnawing on them until her fingertips were ragged and bloody.

  “Wanda,” I said slowly, trying to keep my voice neutral and non-confrontational, “I think maybe you need to talk to someone.”

  She laughed, the sound hard and sharp. “What, you mean a shrink? I knew you thought I was crazy.”

&nbs
p; “I don’t think you’re crazy, but there’s obviously something wrong here.”

  “You’re right about that, and that something’s name is Peter. He hates me, and he’s trying to drive me insane.”

  I got up from the recliner and put the baby in his bassinet. He fussed a little but then quieted when he saw I wasn’t leaving him. Couldn’t say I blamed him; the way Wanda was acting right now, I wouldn’t want to be left alone with her either. “Look,” I said, turning back to Wanda, “I’m not saying this is your fault. There’s something that happens to some women after they give birth, something chemical. I’ve been reading up on post-partum depression, and there are treatments, medications, that can help.”

  “So you want to just drug me up to shut me up, is that it?”

  “No, it’s not like that. I just want to help.”

  “There’s nothing you can do to help,” she said, deflated. “I’m just going to have to learn to live with this, I guess. This is my life now.”

  She covered her face with her hands and started to cry, and the sound pierced my heart. No matter what she was going through, she was still my wife and I loved her; I didn’t want to see her suffer. I went to her, put my arms around her, and whispered assurances in her ear.

  When she had regained control of herself again, I said, “I think maybe we should hire someone.”

  “Hire someone?”

  “You know, to help out with the baby.”

  “Like a nanny?”

  “I’m not saying we’ll get Fran Drescher in here or anything, but I think you need some help during the day while I’m at work.”

  At first Wanda looked like she was going to protest, but then she sagged against me and said, “Yes, please, I’d like that. But can we afford it?”

  “I’ll work it out.”

  ***

  Her name was Grace Cochram. There were no cliché fantasies of engaging in an illicit affair with this nanny. Grace was 68 and looked even older. Still, she was energetic for her age and proved more than capable of keeping up with Peter.

  The baby seemed to take to her almost immediately. A Grandmotherly figure, Grace would often sing Peter little songs she made up herself, and he would smile and even clap his hands as if applauding her performance. In the beginning Wanda grumbled a bit about how her own child preferred a stranger over her, but soon enough she just seemed grateful to have someone to share the load.

  Although, in all honesty Grace did more than simply share the load. Instead of Grace merely helping Wanda with the baby, it began to seem more that Wanda was helping Grace with the baby, a subtle distinction but one that put Grace more in the mothering role. I’d be lying if I didn’t say it was a bit troubling, but there were no more instances of Wanda calling me at work and I always came home to a peaceful house. In fact, Wanda began to seem like her old self again, the woman I knew before Peter came, so I didn’t complain too much, chose instead to just be thankful.

  Grace wasn’t a live-in or anything, worked Monday through Friday from about 9 a.m. until 5 p.m., but within no time she seemed like a full-fledged member of the family. She often stayed after her shift ended and had dinner with us; on my birthday, which fell on a Saturday, she showed up to surprise me with a gift of cologne that I knew did not come cheap, especially not in the size bottle she gave me. She even spent part of Christmas with us. With both Wanda’s and my parents being deceased, Grace was a great source of advice and guidance for two new parents trying to learn as they went.

  After she had been with us for two months, Grace pulled me aside one evening shortly after I’d returned home from work. Wanda was in the bedroom napping, and Peter was in his bouncy chair in the living room, staring around as if it were a magical land that held nothing but mystery and beauty. Grace seemed a bit ill at ease, which surprised me. She normally seemed so comfortable around me.

  “I hate to even bring this up,” she said, wringing her liver-spotted hands. “I mean, it isn’t really my place, I realize.”

  “Grace, you can say anything to me. Just spit it out.”

  “Well, sir, I know you pay me to look after the little one during the day, and I’m happy to do so. He’s a real pleasure, an almost ideal child. But…”

  “But what?” I prompted when she seemed hesitant to continue.

  “It’s your Mrs., sir.”

  “Wanda? What about her?”

  “When it’s just the two of us in the house with the baby, she doesn’t want anything to do with Peter. She won’t even hold him. If he starts to cry, she doesn’t make a move to go comfort him. As I said, I realize it is my job to tend to the boy’s needs, but it just seems strange to me that a mother would not react instinctively when her baby cries, that a mother would not want to hold her child in her arms as much as possible.”

  I didn’t at first respond. This was what I had feared but not wanted to face directly. During the day, Grace took care of the baby, and after I returned home and on the weekends, I took care of the baby. I was always the one who got up with Peter in the night, which meant I dragged through work the next day. It was as if Wanda had removed herself entirely from our child’s care, and that was more than just strange. It was disturbing.

  “I appreciate your concern, Grace,” I said, my voice a bit distant, staring off toward Peter.

  “But I shouldn’t be sticking my nose in where it doesn’t belong. I do apologize.”

  “Oh no, not at all. I’m glad you came to me with this.”

  I noticed a blush creeping into her sallow cheeks. “It’s just that these are important times for the bonding of mother and child. I’d hate to see her miss out on the experience.”

  “Thank you, Grace.”

  She nodded, kissed her fingertips then touched them to my cheek, and left.

  I confronted Wanda about it later that night as we sat at the dinner table. She shoved her plate away, crossed her arms, and threw daggers at me with her eyes. “I don’t see what the problem is.”

  “Honey, it’s like you’re isolating yourself from the baby.”

  She snorted a dry laugh. “Trust me, it’s not like he wants me around.”

  “Oh Wanda, I thought we were past this, I really did.”

  “The truth is, he’s happier in someone else’s care, and I’m happier not having to feel his hatred for me. Hiring Grace was the best thing we ever did.”

  I was more than a bit horrified by what I was hearing. Wanda spoke as if she’d washed her hands of the baby, given up her role as his mother. I also noticed how she never called Peter by his name. It all left me with an empty, hollowed-out feeling in my gut.

  “I still think you should consider talking to someone; I just don’t think this is healthy.”

  “What the fuck would you know about it?” she said, pushing away from the table. “You’re not the one with a kid who can’t stand to be around you.”

  She stormed out of the room, leaving me alone with my confusion and worry.

  ***

  I was at a complete loss as to what to do, so I chose to do nothing. That may sound cowardly or weak, but I felt helpless to change the situation.

  Things continued on pretty much as they were, Wanda retreating from Peter while Grace and I shared the responsibility of caring for him, until about four months after Grace had started in our employ. I woke up from a nightmare in which Peter was sinking in quicksand, crying and holding his hands out toward Wanda, who simply stood there and watched dispassionately as our son was sucked under. I lay panting against the pillow, my eyes finding the glow of the digital clock. It was 3:24 a.m.; Peter would probably be up for a feeding in the next half hour. I became aware of a soft sound nearby, but it took me a moment to realize it was my wife weeping into her pillow.

  “Wanda,” I said, placing a hand on her back. “What’s wrong?”

  At first it seemed she wasn’t going to respond, but then she turned her face toward me. With no light but the moon filtering in through the windows, I could make out only the
faintest impression of her profile, but I could feel her desperation and pain buffeting me like a wind. “That’s what I’d like to know,” she said. “What’s wrong, what exactly is wrong with me? I’m some kind of monster.”

  “Honey, no.”

  “Yes, I am. I have nothing to do with my own son, let a stranger be more of a mother to him than I am. You’re right, it isn’t healthy. More than that, it’s unforgivable.”

  “You’re just having a rough time, this isn’t uncommon among new mothers.”

  She sat up, leaning her back against the headboard. “It’s been more than five months, and not only have I abandoned my child, I’ve actually grown to resent him. It’s like I view him as some kind of enemy, out to get me. If that isn’t madness I don’t know what is.”

  I reached out into the darkness and took her hand, feeling her squeeze my fingers. While it broke my heart to see her suffering, I had to admit I was happy to hear her saying these things. Finally Wanda seemed to be seeing reason, recognizing the irrationality of her recent behavior. “What do you want to do?” I asked, hoping she was finally willing to see a therapist.

  “I want to let Grace go.”

  I was so stunned by this response that I think I actually recoiled as if slapped. “What? But Grace is wonderful with Peter.”

  “She really is. She’s a lovely woman and has been a blessing, but she’s doing the job that I should be doing. I’ve been using her as a crutch, as an excuse to withdraw more and more from my duties as a parent. I need to start taking care of Peter myself, and I’m afraid I’ll never do that as long as Grace is around. Do you understand?”

  “I do.” And I did. It would pain me to have to relieve Grace of her duties, but I wanted to see my wife take her rightful place in our child’s life, I wanted to see her get over her recent problems and become the mother I knew she could be.

  ***

  Grace took it better than I expected. In fact, she actually seemed delighted that Wanda had finally taken an interest in raising Peter. She promised to keep in touch and we made plans to have dinner the following week. When she said her goodbyes to the baby, it was almost as if he could understand. Normally so calm in Grace’s arms, Peter cried a little and clung to her when I tried to take him back, as if he did not want to be parted from his nanny.