While They Watch

by Sosie Frost

  Not something an amateur should have assembled.

  I had the instructions and loaded a how-to YouTube video, but I wasn’t feeling particularly lucky these days, even if the furniture, clothing, and apartment had all been donated for me.

  I had the good sense to test out the baby swing with a teddy bear before plunking the kid into the seat. This wasn’t mother’s intuition. Just common sense after two bruises, a scrape, and a screw to the eye just taking the damn thing out of the box.

  “It’s up to you now Teddy Von Fuzzybritches.” I clutched the stuffed animal close. “One small step for parenthood…one giant leap towards naptime.”

  I lowered the plush martyr into the Fizzy Wizzy Puffy Glider—a contraption complete with magical merry mobile, programed with fifteen lullabies. The teddy bear didn’t complain, and the swing didn’t whine. So far so good. I stepped back and admired my achievement.

  At least I retained a bit of coordination, dexterity, and handiness after the accident.

  Or maybe all I had left was a grand sense of delusion.

  The teddy bear snuggled into the swing’s egg-shaped seat. Not comfortably. The material stretched a little too taut.

  Was it supposed to do that?

  I had no idea. Those instructions seemed awfully blurry with only an hour and a half of sleep. Fortunately, my first afternoon outside of the hospital gave me one hell of a terror-induced adrenaline rush.

  I was only alone with a newborn baby, depending on me for food, clothing, shelter, general newborn shenanigans, and furniture assembly even though I didn’t have a clue as to what I was supposed to do. How bad could it be?

  Bad.

  I must have installed the seat incorrectly. The cover pulled tight, and the entire basket strained under the pressure.

  It creaked with a warning shudder, leaving me little time to seek cover with a pillow from the couch.

  The contraption was a swing, but it wasn’t gliding like the advertised gentle, cloud-like hammock. It jerked, squealed, shuddered, and grinded. Not exactly restful, but Clue had bounced out of me after the truck accident. She was no stranger to a rough ride.

  Moment of truth. I poised myself behind the couch and turned the swing on with the electronic keypad.

  Mistake.

  The rocker whined.

  Groaned.

  Then, with a chastising pop, the equipment exploded.

  The seat snapped first—the buttons flinging away from the cushions like a pin ripping from a grenade. I hit the deck, cowering under couch cushions as the material cracked from the glider and sling-shotted Teddy Von Fuzzybritches across the room.

  “Teddy, no!”

  The bear rocketed to the ceiling, catching in the ceiling fan, and barraged—bearaged?—the light bulb. It shattered, tearing through Teddy’s arm as he got trapped within the fan’s blades. The fan’s motor hissed, and it hurtled Teddy deeper into the apartment. The bear spiraled into a vase of flowers sent by the hospital’s nurses. The vase crashed against the wall. Rose petals fluttered across the living room. The baby woke up, entirely inconvenienced.

  Teddy tap-tap-tapped to a stop on the hardwood floor, his plastic nose clipping the boards.

  The disrupted flowers scattered pollen over the apartment.

  Clue sneezed. She disapproved of this newfound bodily function, sucked in a breath, and wailed. This too was interrupted by a sneeze. It surprised her, and I cautiously approached the stroller, glad I kept the cover up during my experiment.

  “And that…” I gestured to the chaos, kicking Teddy’s ceiling-fan amputated arm under the coffee table. “Is why you will wear a seat belt while enjoying the Fuzzy Wuzzer Puffy Pretty…” I read the box. “Momma-rific Rocker. At least we won’t need a step-stool if we ever have to change a light bulb.”

  Clue ceased her crying and curled her lips into a snarl. At first, I’d believed that particular expression was a declaration of my poor maternal instincts. Now that she was five days old, I realized that face was something else. She expressed her displeasure through her diaper.

  Frown and furrowed brow—anger. Add a grunt, and she was pooping.

  At least I knew this baby thing wouldn’t be that hard. As long as I had sufficient warning, I could handle most of what she tossed at me.

  Until she learned to throw her diaper, of course. This apartment was too nice to turn into a zoo or college frat house, even if teddy bear stuffing floated in the air, glass sprinkled from the ceiling fan, and the pretty flower arrangement hacked into a layer of thorns on the carpet.

  “This isn’t even our place, Clue.” I leaned over the stroller. “You can’t keep making messes.”

  She gave me a fussy mumble that crossed wily disapproval with a timid burp.

  “Fair enough. I won’t blame you this time. But I might need you to take the fall one of these days. You’re gonna have to help me out.”

  I left Clue to do her business as I cleaned up the mess. Of course, that meant I had to find the cleaning supplies. At least I couldn’t complain about the ample space where my broom might have been hidden.

  Clue was cute enough—or I was damaged enough—to afford us a bit of temporary charity while I recovered. The apartment was only part of the Rivets’ generosity. The beautiful, two-bedroom penthouse came with a working fireplace and sprawling balcony. It felt like a castle, and it was probably more than I deserved.

  First, I was lucky to be alive. Now I was fortunate enough to earn the kindness of others. If I could just get my memories back, we’d be set.

  Teddy had survived the slingshot save for a grotesquely severed arm which leaked stuffing. It was fixable. I didn’t know my name, but, for whatever reason, I could imagine a running-stitch.

  Pieces of swing littered the living room floor. I attempted to rebuild the oversized mouse trap, but I didn’t get a chance to reseat Teddy for a final test. The swing’s arm creaked and popped off the base. I leapt back as the seat collapsed onto the coffee table. The arm crashed over the side, dragging the glider with it.

  Forget this.

  “Clue, what do you think about sleeping in a box?” I kicked the glider’s pieces towards the box. “We can put blankets inside…or we can go full-rabbit hutch and layer it with saw dust.”

  Clue whimpered.

  I leaned over the stroller to soothe her. “Okay. I can bargain. Cedar chips.”

  She gave a whine.

  “We’ll pad it with newspaper,” I promised. “I’ll even get you a water bottle and one of those metal wheels that will let you crawl in place all you want.”

  She still wasn’t impressed. And I knew why. She needed to be changed and snuggled. The ache in my chest was a not-so-subtle reminder that it was time to chubby her up.

  I could do this. One of us had to be brave. But the nerves returned as I reached into the hand-me-down stroller and wrapped my hands around her.

  No. This wasn’t a good angle.

  She was too tiny, and I was too big, and I didn’t want to hurt the poor thing.

  I stood and leaned a little closer. No. Her head didn’t seem like it’d get enough support that way.

  Clue clucked. The little Houdini had a remarkable ability to escape her swaddle. The blanket kicked away, and the donated onesie had come unsnapped. The kid was a one-girl wrecking crew. And her own actions had pissed her off. All she needed was a cuddle.

  And I was too terrified to lift my own child.

  At this point, I didn’t care if I ever remembered my name or figured out where her daddy was. All I wanted was to regain just an ounce of instinct. A little confidence might have made this a lot easier.

  I didn’t trust myself to lift her out. Screw it. I’d dismantle the damn stroller.

  I pushed back the stroller’s screen and knelt on the floor beside the base. The front panel could swing open like a door. This way, I was on her level. I slid a hand under her butt and wrapped the other behind her head.

  She tensed. I tensed.

  “
I swear, Clue.” I sighed. “I’ll get used to this.”

  Hopefully.

  I lifted her close, holding her against my shoulder and wrapping her into a tight, can’t-drop-the-baby hold. I grimaced as I pushed myself up.

  “Oh, that tugs on the stitches...”

  Those had surprised me more than the kiddo…as did the need for the little squirt bottle the nurses sent home with me.

  I steadied myself with a breath and kept the baby on my shoulder. Her little swirl of dark hair was close enough to kiss. I gave her one. She seemed to like that.

  “I suppose you’re hungry.” I patted her back. “This should be…interesting.”

  The furnished apartment had come with everything I needed—a place to sleep, furniture, a kitchen loaded with healthy mommy snacks. The charity had also stacked it with the right amount of literature—lots and lots of breastfeeding pamphlets with so many illustrated tips and tricks that my coffee table looked like a Playboy centerfold spread.

  I wished I had a Nipples for Dummies book though.

  “Step one. Have breasts.” I tip-toed to the couch. “We’re good there. Thanks to you, Clue, I’m ninety percent boob.”

  She enjoyed this fact. And I had to agree—the lovelies were rather convenient so far. Unfortunately, a knock at the door interrupted me before I could tame the ta-tas.

  Maybe I was a far more optimistic person than I thought. The knock might have been my husband or family coming to get me.

  That hope gave me the courage to shuffle with the baby toward the door.

  But I wasn’t coordinated or confident enough to figure out how to hold her one handed. I leaned back, balancing her on my chest with a cautious and steadying arm under her butt.

  “Just a minute!” I called.

  Moment of truth.

  In a blazing rush, I unlocked the door and swung it wide, returning both hands to the baby with a squeal. Doctor Owens watched the circus from the hall. She frowned, shrugged, and offered her help.

  She’d exchanged her white coat for a diaper bag and box of onesies. Her smile grew as she got a good look at Clue.

  “Howdy, neighbor.” She glanced around the apartment. “Are you enjoying your new home?”

  I welcomed her inside, relieved that she shut the door for me. “Doctor Owens—”

  “Call me Rory.”

  “I can’t thank you enough, Rory.”

  Rory dropped the box of hand-me-down baby clothes on my dining room table and surveyed the apartment. “I hope you like this place. It was the best we could do on short notice.”

  “Only two bedrooms…” I teased her. “If I spontaneously birth another baby, we might be a little cramped.”

  “I’ll buy you a house just for the chance to publish that medical case,” Rory said. “Though believe me—your amnesia? That’s a career-maker there.”

  “I’m glad to be of service.”

  “That brain of yours will definitely score me a trip to the Hawaiian conference this year.” Rory grinned. “If you let me present it, I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you happy.”

  Clue hiccupped. I mentally set a timer. Ten minutes until she had a hunger meltdown.

  “Well, this apartment is amazing,” I said. “I…can’t even begin to express how grateful I am.”

  “You popped into the hospital at the right time. The Ironfield Rivets are pushing Lachlan Reed’s Family First charity. He founded it specifically to help single-parent families. When the team heard about you? Well, let’s just say…we were all invested.” She gave me a wink. “And since your doctor just happens to be married to a coach and sits on the foundation’s board…”

  “If it’s any help, I do think I was a Rivets’ fan before the accident.”

  “Really?”

  “Lots of good looking guys on the team.”

  “You have no idea.” She set the diaper bag down. “I just wanted to check in and make sure the charity got you settled. You and the baby should have everything you need. We signed you up for a cell phone, and you should be getting a prepaid debit card within a day or so. The charity will refill it every month with a stipend, plus we have an administrator who will help you set up some additional programs for you and the baby. We’ll have diapers delivered to you—”

  “Rory, this is too much—”

  She held a hand up. “I don’t want to hear it. You will have enough to worry about with the baby and your health and finding your family. Let us handle this part.”

  “I don’t know much about myself,” I said. “But I don’t like feeling helpless.”

  “You’re a new mother now—that’s how it feels all the time. Panicky and exhausting.” Rory smiled. “My daughter is six months old. Believe me. It’s hard, but there’s no love like it.”

  I had plenty of confusion, fear, and hesitance. I needed a little love.

  “At least the baby’s with you,” Rory said. “You won’t be alone through this.”

  “Yeah, she’s good company. A regular party animal. She said she’ll make sangria a little later while we assemble her bedroom furniture.”

  Rory groaned. “They didn’t build it for you?”

  The boxes were stacked on the far side of the living room. I hadn’t had time to look through it all.

  “I’m just glad to have it,” I said.

  Rory checked her phone. “My husband can help. He’ll be back from practice in an hour or so. I’ll have him bring some of the guys with him.”

  “No, really. I don’t need an entire offensive line to put together some furniture. Besides…” I would have shown her my shaking hands, but they were clutching the baby. “I can’t just sit around waiting to be healed. I have to do something.”

  “Sleep.”

  “Where’s the fun in that?”

  Rory laughed—a maniacal, maternal, knowing laugh. “Suit yourself. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “I just got hit by a truck. How hard can a baby be?”

  “I put my number in your phone already. Call me the instant you regret that statement.” She checked her watch. “I expect to hear from you in two hours.”

  “That soon?”

  She merely chuckled. “And I want you to call me if you develop any complications from the concussion. Dizziness or nausea or headaches.”

  “Thanks, Doc.”

  “Now feed that baby. She’s rooting.”

  “Rooting for who?”

  “Better be the Rivets.”

  Rory wished me luck—a supportive sort of encouragement that seemed to double as a warning. She sounded just like the nurses at the hospital. Oddly enough, they hadn’t worried about a woman with no memory taking her baby home. They sympathized with the single mother raising the child alone.

  Good thing it’d only be a matter of days—maybe hours—before we found my family.

  Rory promised to check in on me, and I locked the door behind her.

  The next stage of my master amnesia plan: Feeding the baby so I could settle her butt down just so I could build her a place to set said butt.

  I had just managed to untangle my bra from my shirt when another knock rattled the door.

  Clue whined.

  Me too.

  This knock was more forceful than before. Or confident? Either way, Clue was now hungry, wet, and in no mood for entertaining more strangers.

  Or maybe I was projecting my own displeasure.

  I patted her bottom. “Give me another minute, kiddo. Then you can toss a bell around my neck and call me Bessie.”

  I peeked through the peep hole.

  My stomach dropped.

  “Might be longer than a minute, Clue.”

  Sirens again.

  I turned in the bed, pitching the pillow over my head. It didn’t block the noise. People shouting in the street. The squeal of tires.

  Gunshots.

  The flashing lights dazzled my room with reds and blues. I knew better than to go to the window, but I checked the time. Three in the m
orning.

  I rolled over and plugged my fingers in my ears. No matter how many sirens and arrests, the neighborhood never seemed to get any safer.

  Just a lot more tired.

  Of everything.

  The twist in my gut wasn’t a good reaction to the flash of the badge. The officer dressed in civilian clothes, but he pushed aside his suit jacket to keep the badge clear.

  Like that would convince me to open the door.

  My first forgotten instinct wasn’t how to hold my baby or soothe her cries.

  It was a hesitance.

  “Who is it?”

  The rumbling, melting caramel voice answered with a confident warmth.

  “Ironfield police. May I come in?”

  The last thing I needed was for the neighbors in the fancy-pants penthouse to resent the lady with the screaming newborn and cops banging her door down. That’d make them circle the welcome wagons.

  Besides—the flutter of hope returned.

  Maybe he had good news? Maybe they figured out who I was.

  Maybe they found Clue’s father?

  I opened the door. My breath hitched.

  If only amnesia struck twice so I could again fall in love at first sight.

  The moment rushed past us too quickly, and I regretted the single heartbeat that stole the perfect infinity from me.

  The police officer stood tall, proud, and with such confidence it was as if he bore the world on his broad shoulders and balanced it all with poise and strength. The crisp, immaculate suit stretched taut over his muscles. The button-down shirt and pressed slacks weren’t a patrolman’s uniform, but it still radiated authority.

  He stared at me—his eyes a brighter blue than any uniform. They weren’t soft or inquisitive, but intelligent. He got all the answers he needed with a single glance, but the arch of his eyebrow could spill anyone’s secrets.

  I swallowed hard, staring at this beautiful man. He wore his hair longer than I expected for an officer, just a tease of blonde he could run through his fingertips. He didn’t smile, but his lips naturally upturned. Far too friendly for a cop. He wore a thin beard—neatly trimmed and close to his jaw. The rough, dust color framed his fair complexion but strengthened an already strong jaw and angled cheekbones.