Leap of Faith

by Jamie Blair

  “Okay, let’s go for a walk, Addster.”

  I leave her in the center of the bed, kicking and trying to find her mouth with her fist, while I pick up the folded stroller propped in the corner. In the open space by the door, I attempt to unfold it. It doesn’t budge. I tug harder. Nothing.

  I stomp my foot onto the bar attaching the wheels together to steady the stroller before yanking and pulling with all my might. It still doesn’t budge, but a piece of the plastic handle breaks off in my hand. I toss the broken bit onto the table and kick the stroller.

  “Damn it.” I wipe my forehead across my shoulder and plop onto the bed. Addy’s tummy is warm under my hand. “Add, I don’t even know how to open your stroller.” I shake my head. “I suck at this. We have to find someone who can take care of you.”

  But the thought of parting with her is like tearing off one of my limbs. I pick her up and press my face into her neck. I love her baby smell, the soft new skin, the milky breath. The weight of her, a little bag of flour in my arms, is comfort and home to me—just like that. It’s been one day, and I can’t live without her. She’s my baby.

  I peer at my nemesis, the stroller, resting staunch and resolute against the door. A silver latch gleams at me, mocking.

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  I slump over to the stroller, entirely defeated, and slide the latch. The stroller falls open and clicks into place. When I wrap my hands around the handles, the sharp, broken edge presses against my left palm.

  The next fifteen minutes are spent finding something to cover the broken handle with so I can push the stroller. Finally, after I figure out that a sock makes the most sense, I take another five minutes to pack a diaper bag and stash it in the net basket under the stroller.

  I groan as my eyes run over Addy. Legs kicking in the air, her yellow romper is darker in color around the rear. My suspicion’s confirmed when I feel the soft cotton—it’s wet. Another fifteen minutes go by while I change her, wipe her, and dress her for the second time today.

  It seems like half the day has passed when at last I’m buckling her into the stroller—and she starts crying. First it’s a small whine, but soon it’s a full-out scream fest. I look at the clock. It’s been two hours since her last bottle.

  My head drops into my hands with the realization that my world now revolves in two-hour increments. Two hours used to seem like such a long time, but that was before the clock was always on my back counting down.

  Addy’s earsplitting shrieks pierce through my skull as I carry her toward the dresser on the back wall, where I organized her bottles, powdered formula, and distilled water. I bounce her in one arm while making a bottle with the other. I’m getting better at one-handed bottle making. After it’s been in the microwave for ten seconds, I shake the bottle fiercely to make sure there are no hot spots, then stuff the nipple in her mouth.

  She sucks and snuffles air through her nose, trying to eat and catch her breath at the same time. Her arm is out to the side, up in the air. Her hand opens and closes, opens and closes.

  I settle into a chair at the small table by the door and watch her finish the bottle. When she’s done, I take it from her mouth and put it on the table. Just like always, her lips still form their little O and make their sucking motion. Her eyes are closed, and she sighs.

  A knock on the door startles her, and her eyes pop open. For a second I think she’ll go back to sleep, but then her mouth opens wide and she starts wailing as I dart toward the door and look out.

  The old man who checked us in is visible through the peephole. I open the door and smile. “Hello,” I shout over Addy’s cries.

  He’s frowning. “We have a problem,” he says.

  chapter

  six

  Every muscle in my body stiffens, and my skin tingles with anxiety. I hold Addy closer, tighter.

  “What’s the problem?” My voice is too high. I’m going to give us away if I don’t play it cool.

  My eyes dart to the parking lot behind him, fully expecting to see a whole parade of cop cars pulling in any second, sirens blaring, light bars flashing blue and red.

  “I’m getting complaints about your baby crying.”

  “My baby?” I look down at Addy. “She doesn’t cry that much, only when she’s hungry. I make her bottles as fast as I can.”

  Addy starts squirming and hiccupping between her blasts of cries. I forgot to burp her. If I burp her, she’ll puke everywhere. My nerve endings climb up and seethe just under my skin, threatening to burst through. My breathing turns to ragged gasps that I hold back, willing myself to stay calm until he’s gone.

  “I’m getting complaints, and it’s not even night yet. I don’t want to think about what’s going to happen when she wakes up at three in the morning screaming.” His eyes roll skyward, like he’s praying, or contemplating going home sick and not dealing with the irate customers bitching about the ballistic baby screaming in 210.

  “Um. Okay.” I don’t know what to tell him. Where am I supposed to go?

  “ ‘Okay,’ what?” His eyes snap back to my face.

  “I don’t know. Are you kicking us out? Should we find a parking lot and sleep in the car?” I gesture to Addy, hoping no sane person would ask me to sleep in a car with a newborn.

  He clenches his hands into fists. “No. Of course not.” He looks down and shakes his head. “If the motel wasn’t full, I could put you on an end, by yourselves. How long are you planning on staying?”

  I shrug. “Until I find us a more permanent place. We just moved here.”

  He picks up a newspaper at his feet on the sidewalk and shoves it into my free hand. “Well, take a look in the paper. There’s bound to be some place for rent in there. In the meantime, try to keep the kid quiet.”

  Without waiting for a response, he shuffles down the sidewalk, and I shut the door.

  As predicted, two pats on Addy’s back, and I’m covered in puke. I lay her back on the bed, change my shirt, and wad it up with more of our disgusting, crusty, puked-on clothes. After stuffing them into her diaper bag, I buckle her in the stroller and we head out, in search of a Laundromat.

  The sun’s hot, and it hazes off the blacktop. I squint and toss a lightweight blanket over the stroller to shield Addy’s eyes. I push her slowly, enjoying the heat, letting it pulse through my body, into my muscles.

  At the end of the parking lot, semis rush past on the busy road, throwing up cinders and dirt. There’s no sidewalk. I visualize pushing the stroller down the side of the road, over the sand and cinders and broken bottles and God only knows what else. Another semi flies past, making it clear that I’m not taking the stroller anywhere beyond this parking lot.

  Addy and I head back across the lot to the car. I open the door to fasten her in her seat before I stash the stroller in the trunk, but a gust of air too hot to breathe rushes out at us from inside the car. Having a baby is insanely complicated. Even the most mundane tasks, like getting in the car, take ten steps to accomplish.

  After hauling her back inside the room and situating her in the center of the bed, I run out and start the car, blasting the air conditioner. I toss the newspaper onto the passenger seat and can’t pull my eyes from it.

  Our future is in there somewhere. It has to be. Those pages hold the key to us making it together, Addy and me, against the world. My fingers run over the smooth, black-and-white front page.

  The paper back home probably has an article about the delinquent teen who stole a baby from the hospital. I grip the steering wheel. I have to ditch this car somehow. The Ohio plates are a flashing beacon: Here she is! Come arrest her and take the baby.

  Cool air begins to blow from the vents, so I hop out of the car to get Addy. Once we’re finally buckled in and pulling out of the motel lot, I feel much better. We’re back on track.

  A half mile down the road, there’s a sign with a green-skinned cartoon witch on it. Green Witch Soap and Suds. It’s a small building with curtained win
dows around the front and sides. Gravel crunches under my tires as I find a spot and park. I gather the newspaper, diaper bag, and Addy and cross the parking lot to the door. Through the glass, I see tables, and a bar with stools. Beyond that, there’s another glass door. Coin-operated washing machines stand on the opposite side. Soap and Suds. I get it. Suds is for the beer. Soap is for the laundry.

  I shove the door open, and the bell attached to the top tinkles. There’s a middle-aged man at the bar drinking a bottle of beer and talking with a waitress old enough to be his mother. They’re the only two in the place.

  “Hello, dear!” the waitress calls, and digs in her pocket, a moment later producing an order pad. “What can I get you?” When she realizes the little ball in my arms isn’t just dirty laundry, she practically jumps the counter to get over to the table where I’m sitting with the diaper bag and newspaper. She’s pretty fast for an old lady.

  “Oh my! How old is she? She’s just precious. I haven’t been around one this tiny in a long time.”

  “She’s . . .” I pause, wondering if I should say she’s barely two days old. I decide against it—better to keep up with the lie. “She’s two months old.”

  “Really?” The woman peers down at Addy, who’s asleep in my arms. “She’s so small.”

  “She was premature.” I turn my body and sit so the woman can’t scrutinize Addy anymore. “Can I have some coffee, please?” My stomach grumbles at the smell of the greasy food I’m inhaling. It’s just past two o’clock, and I haven’t eaten in . . . I can’t remember how long. “And a cheeseburger with fries.”

  The woman marks her order pad. “Shouldn’t take too long. If you have clothes to put in”—she gestures through the glass door to the adjoining room—“go ahead. You can leave your diaper bag here. I’ll keep an eye on it.”

  She walks away while I shift Addy to my other arm, grab the diaper bag, which has our laundry in it, and head toward the connecting door.

  I juggle Addy, trying to unzip the bag without dropping her. I finally get it open and toss the laundry into a machine. Then I realize I need some change, not only for the machine but also for the detergent dispenser on the wall.

  Back through the door, I ask the waitress for quarters. She digs in her apron and produces a couple dollars’ worth, and I hand her two ones.

  “Can I hold her while you start up the washer? I’ll come back there with you.”

  “Yes, that would be great.” Relieved with her offer, I head back to my dirty clothes with her on my heels. “I can’t believe how much harder everything is with a baby.” Standing at the machine, I hand Addy over to the woman.

  “You don’t have to tell me.” She makes cooing baby noises at Addy. “I had five of my own. I moved here three years ago to help care for my mother. Now I never see them, or my grandkids.”

  I feel like a wart on the ass of humanity standing here with this woman who gave up so much to help her mom when I just screwed mine over so royally. She catches the expression on my face. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

  I nod and turn toward the detergent dispenser on the wall beside the door. I will not feel bad about giving my mother what she deserves, about giving her back some of the shit she’s dealt me my whole life.

  I dump in three quarters and jab the button for Tide. The waitress is over by the washing machine, shaking her head.

  “You can’t put whites in with jeans. Everything’s going to turn blue. Here.” She settles Addy into my arms, grabs the detergent out of my hands, digs the whites out, and tosses them into the next washer.

  “But, I don’t—” I don’t have the money to do two loads.

  She waves me off, digs in her apron, and pulls out more quarters. “I’m Ivy, by the way.”

  “Thanks. I’m . . .” I can’t tell her my name is Faith. What if she finds out I’m a babynapper and turns me in? “Leah. I’m Leah.” It’s my middle name.

  She smiles and runs a finger down Addy’s cheek. “What about this little one? What’s her name?”

  “Addy.”

  “Very pretty. And old-fashioned. My grandmother had a cousin named Addy.” She shakes the powdered soap into both washers and starts them. “Come on. Let’s see if your burger’s ready.”

  Sitting sideways back at the table, I prop my legs up on the chair next to me and lay a sleeping Addy in the divot between my knees.

  Ivy comes over and sets a plate piled high with fries on the table in front of me. The cheeseburger is barely visible under the crispy heap. Then she places a dish of coleslaw down beside it.

  “You need vegetables to keep up your strength. It’s not easy raising a little one.”

  I shrug. “Got fries. Potatoes are vegetables.”

  She smacks my shoulder with the dishtowel she used to carry the hot plate to my table. “Don’t be a smarty-pants.” Then she slides into the chair across from me.

  I make an empty spot on the side of my plate, twist the lid off the ketchup, and turn the bottle over. Ivy’s staring at Addy, who purses her mouth in a sucking motion, dreaming of her bottle.

  Ignoring them both, I snatch up the newspaper and flip to the Furnished Rooms for Rent section of the classifieds.

  Addy and I are like birds that flee to Florida in the winter, looking for a warm, safe spot to land. There has to be a place for us somewhere.

  “Looking for a place to live?”

  I tip the newspaper and peer over the top. “Yeah.” I eye her warily. What if she knows about us? It might be on the news. There could be an Amber Alert out for Addy.

  “Well, this is perfect!” She slaps her palm on the speckled Formica tabletop. “My nephew’s got his upstairs for rent. I’ll give him a call. He lives over in Jasper. It’s a cute little town. You’ll love it.”

  I’m just about to argue, not wanting this woman to be able to pinpoint our exact whereabouts, when she adds, “It’s the perfect town for raising children—great schools and parks, nice neighborhoods.”

  I peer down at Addy as Ivy pushes herself to her feet. “Think you can make it out there today to take a look if my nephew will be around?”

  Addy’s face scrunches up and she yawns, letting out the smallest sigh. “Yeah,” I say. “I can make it out there today.”

  • • •

  I slow the car, searching house numbers for 356 Maple Street. The neighborhood is like something out of a movie: tree-lined streets, sidewalks, and picket fences. Nothing bad could ever happen here. It’s a place where wishes and prayers could actually come true. This is what Addy deserves.

  My eyes spot the address I’m searching for on a green plastic mailbox. “Here it is,” I whisper to Addy. “Cross your fingers.” The rear tires bump over the curb as I turn the car into the short driveway, which leads to a two-car garage. The house is a tidy, white cape cod with a black door and shutters. Dark green awnings shade the windows, making the house look like it has droopy, tired eyes.

  My hand grips the gearshift, and I put the car in park. I’m clenching my stomach so tightly, I feel like I might pass out. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, holding it for ten seconds, and then blow it out hard and fast. I do this a few more times and the dizziness subsides. “Okay, Add, let’s go.”

  The warm bundle of baby in my arms, pressed against my chest, is reality, security. She grounds me. She gives my feet purpose to stumble up the sidewalk and onto the front stoop without turning around and running back to the car.

  I open the screen door and knock.

  My heart beats so loudly, I can hear it pounding in my ears.

  I wait.

  There’s music inside, a faint strumming.

  I press the doorbell and listen to it chime.

  The strumming stops.

  Footsteps approach the door.

  I squeeze Addy closer. She whines.

  The door is tugged open.

  “Hey. Leah, right?” The boy standing in the doorway can’t be more than a few years older than me. He holds a guitar
in the hand that’s not gripping the doorknob.

  I nod. I can’t speak.

  He stands back and gestures me inside. “My dad’s not here, but Aunt Ivy talked to him. He called to let me know you’d be stopping by.”

  I follow him through the family room with its golden-tan carpet and beige couch and love seat. A can of Coke sits on a coaster on the coffee table.

  “Room’s upstairs,” he says, and I notice the staircase between the family room and the kitchen, which has sunny yellow walls.

  I climb the stairs behind him. His jeans are worn and hang low on his hips. His T-shirt’s gray—the cotton would be soft to touch.

  At the top, he opens a door and steps inside. It’s one massive room. “Go ahead and look around,” he says, and plops down on a blue couch against the wall between two deep-set dormer windows. He tugs a rubber band and a guitar pick from his front pocket and holds the pick between his front teeth as he pulls his chin-length dirty-blond hair back into a stubby ponytail.

  There isn’t anywhere to go. But I turn toward a row of oak cabinets with a laminate countertop lining the back wall. There’s a tiny, bar-size sink and a minifridge. A small table with two chairs sits in front of them.

  “Couch pulls out to a bed,” he says.

  I run my hand over the counter and feel gritty dust on my fingers.

  The boy strums his guitar.

  Sun shines through the window over the sink.

  Addy wriggles and pops her arm out from under her, holding it up in the air.

  “What’s your baby’s name?” the boy asks over his guitar.

  “Addy.”

  “I’m Chris.” His eyes are blue-green. They’d be bluer or greener depending on what he wore. His gray shirt keeps them the in-between shade. He plays a few more chords and sets his guitar beside him on the couch. “Well? What do you think?”

  I glance around. There’s not much to it, but it works. “How much?”

  He rubs his chin. It’s covered in stubble. I imagine how it would feel against my cheek, and my face gets hot.