The Big Nap

by Ayelet Waldman

  “Thanks so much,” I said, gulping a little.

  “You’re welcome,” the girl answered, in a soft voice. She looked away from my blotchy tear-streaked face and knelt in front of the stroller. “Hello there. What’s your name?” she asked my three-year-old.

  “Ruby,” my daughter answered.

  “Ruby! What a coincidence! I have a ruby ring.” She showed Ruby the small gold band with a tiny sliver of a ruby she wore on her right hand.

  “Bootiful,” Ruby said, reaching out a finger to touch it. “My mama only has a stinky old plain ring.” My daughter, Paloma Picasso Wyeth.

  “That’s my wedding ring, Rubes. It’s supposed to be plain,” I said.

  “Her wedding ring has sparkling gems,” Ruby answered, derisively.

  “Oh, that’s not my wedding ring,” the girl said with a smile. “I’m not married. My daddy gave me this for my sixteenth birthday.”

  “It’s lovely,” I said.

  “Is this your little brother?” she asked Ruby.

  “His name is Isaac,” Ruby said. “He’s a very bad baby. He cries all night long.”

  “Oh no. How can you sleep? Do you have to cover your ears?”

  “No. He sleeps in Mama’s room so he doesn’t wake me up.”

  Suddenly, we were interrupted by a loud voice.

  “Darling, what’s wrong?”

  I turned around to see the shop owner leaning over her counter. She was a middle-aged baleboosteh with round cheeks, deep-set eyes that were about half an inch too close together, and a bright blond wig perched on the top of her head. She motioned me over.

  “Come here, darling. Wipe your eyes.” She held out a box of tissues. I walked over to the counter, took one, and blew my nose loudly.

  “I’m so sorry. This is so ridiculous. Bursting into tears like this.”

  “Don’t be silly. Why do you think I keep a box of Kleenex on the counter? What’s wrong, darling? Did something happen to you?”

  “No, nothing happened. I have no idea why I’m so emotional. It’s just that I’m so tired. Isaac, that’s the baby, he never sleeps. He’s up all night and all day. I haven’t slept more than an hour straight in four months.”

  “Exactly like my brother Baruch! My brother Baruch didn’t sleep until he was three years old,” she said, with a snort.

  “Oh, my G—Oh no,” I said. “Please tell me this won’t last three years.”

  “Darling, it was awful, I can tell you. And my mother, aleha ha-shalom, wasn’t like you, she didn’t have just one other little one. She had four older. And then she had two more before Baruch shut his eyes.”

  “Did she survive?”

  “I’m telling you, none of us thought she would. I remember she said to my father, alav ha-shalom, ‘One more day of this and Baruch and I, we go over a bridge together. Over a bridge.’ She wasn’t kidding, I’m telling you.”

  I felt my voice begin to quiver again. “I don’t think I can stand three years.”

  Things had been a lot easier at home when Ruby was a baby. There were two of us to deal with her back then. When I’d gone back to work, Peter had even been Ruby’s primary caretaker. This time, it was different. When Ruby was a baby, Peter had been writing movie scripts and had at least some control over his schedule. A few weeks after Isaac was born, Peter sold an idea for a television series to one of the networks and was currently involved in shooting the pilot. As soon as that happened, it was as though he’d disappeared off the face of the earth. He showed up just in time to go to sleep and then slept like one of the corpses in his series (better, actually), until the next morning when he woke up and rushed off. I knew I should be supportive—after all, he was supporting us, financially at least—but it was hard not to be ticked off. I had, for all intents and purposes, become a single mother, and I resented every second of it. I’d been happier when he was working hand to mouth.

  “Darling, it sounds to me like you need some help around the house,” the shopkeeper said, handing me another tissue. “Does your mother live nearby?”

  “No. In New Jersey.”

  “Ach. So far. What about your mother-in-law?”

  “Up near San Francisco.”

  “Sisters? Sisters-in-law?”

  “No. Nobody lives here. We’re all alone.” That set me off again and I buried my face in the tissue.

  “Okay, okay, mamaleh. Enough with the crying. You need to hire a babysitter.”

  “I can’t do that. I don’t work. This is all I do all day. I shouldn’t need any help.” When I’d left work to be with Ruby, I’d fired the nanny who’d been coming in the morning to watch Ruby until Peter woke up. I was determined to do it all myself. After all, the world was full of women raising their children without professional help. Why should I be any different? But that was before I gave birth to the child who never slept.

  The shopkeeper rolled her eyes at me. “Look, darling, you’re clearly exhausted. All you need is a nice young girl to come spend a few hours with the baby every day so you can run some errands, maybe even take a nap. When’s the last time you had a nap?”

  I shook my head.

  “Nu?”

  I couldn’t pretend the idea didn’t appeal to me. I imagined myself handing Isaac to a baby sitter, just for an hour or so. Just so that I could sleep. “You know, you’re right. It’s not like I’m hiring a nanny. I just need someone to come in for a couple of hours so I can take a nap.”

  “Listen, Fraydle.” The shopkeeper turned to the teenager, who had, meanwhile, taken off Isaac’s sock and was tickling his toes. “You help this nice lady out. It slows down here around ten in the morning. You go over to this lady’s house and help her out a couple hours.”

  Fraydle looked up. “But Tante Nettie, my father said I could work for you here in the store. He didn’t say I could baby-sit for . . . for . . .”

  Tante Nettie put up a hand. “My brother won’t mind if his girl helps out a neighbor.” She turned to me. “You are Jewish?” she asked.

  “Oh, yes,” I said.

  “You see?” she said to Fraydle. “You’ll help out a nice Jewish neighbor lady and maybe you’ll show her how to light the Shabbos candles while you’re at it. Your father will love the idea. He’ll make you do it, I’m telling you.”

  “And I’ll pay you!” I said. “Just tell me how much.”

  “Of course you’ll pay her,” Tante Nettie said. “You’ll pay her six—no, seven dollars an hour. For two hours. From ten to noon. Every day but Friday. Friday I need her here. For the Shabbos rush, I need her. By the way, I’m Nettie Tannenbaum, and this is my niece, Fraydle Finkelstein.”

  “I’m Juliet Applebaum and I am so incredibly pleased to meet you both.” I turned to Fraydle. “You’ll do it?” I asked.

  “Yes,” the girl almost whispered.

  I scrawled my name and address on a piece of paper.

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow,” she replied, looking worried.

  “Okay, enough,” Nettie said. “Fraydle, run to your mama’s garage and get us another case of Kleenex. This nice young lady used them all up.” She cackled and poked me in the side. I laughed.

  “You need anything else from the storage area, Tante Nettie?” Fraydle asked.

  “Yeah, maybe another case of chocolate. I have a feeling some little girl might want some.”

  Ruby’s eyes lit up. On our way home Isaac fell asleep, and Ruby and I felt happier than either of us had in weeks. She, because she had piles of chocolate coins in her lap, and I, because I had a nap in my future.

  Three

  THAT night I informed Peter that I had hired a mother’s helper for a couple of hours a day. He opened his mouth, probably to remind me that every time he’d suggested the same thing, I’d insisted that since I was staying at home full time we didn’t need any help with child care. I shot him a look full of such murderous venom that he clamped his lips shut.

  The next morning, at precisely 9:59 A.M., my doorbell
rang. I’d showered and dressed early in the morning so that I wouldn’t treat Fraydle to the terrifying sight of my unwashed, morning persona. On my way downstairs I checked my shirt front quickly, to avoid a repetition of the FedEx incident. I opened the door to find my baby-sitter standing awkwardly on the front step. She was wearing the same outfit as the day before. Isaac, who was perched on my hip, reached out a hand to her and cooed.

  She smiled at him and held out her arms. “Come, motek.”

  “My grandmother used to call me that,” I told her. “It means sweet, right?”

  “Mmm.” She was busy making googly eyes at the baby.

  “Be careful; he can’t sit up by himself yet, so you have to sort of prop him up on your hip.”

  “He’s nice and big,” she said. “I have a sister his age and she’s much smaller.”

  “How many brothers and sisters do you have?” I asked.

  “We’re eight in all. Three girls and five boys. I’m the oldest.”

  “My God!” I exclaimed.

  She looked up, shocked at the expletive.

  “I mean, wow. Gosh. That’s a lot of kids.”

  “Not so many. There are many families with more. Ten. Sometimes even twelve.”

  I shuddered. “I’m barely managing with two. I can’t imagine dealing with eight. Your poor mother.”

  “She has me to help. And my younger sister, Sarah.”

  “But still. It must be exhausting. Do you think she’s finished having children?”

  “Oh no. She’s only thirty-five years old. I’m sure she’ll have more.”

  My mouth hung open. Thirty-five? The mother of eight was only two years older than I? Oy vay.

  I ushered Fraydle into the house and showed her around Isaac’s bedroom. It, like the rest of our apartment, was full of huge piles of brightly colored, molded plastic in various stages of disrepair. Our home had started to look like the “seconds” section of a toy store.

  “Do you mind if I take him out in the stroller?” Fraydle asked. “That way you can maybe sleep a little.”

  “Oh, that would be wonderful. He loves the stroller. Usually. Did you see it parked at the bottom of the stairs?”

  “I’ll find it,” she said.

  “He shouldn’t need to eat, but if he does, there’s a little bottle of expressed breast milk in the fridge. You can heat that up.”

  Fraydle nodded.

  “Don’t forget to bring extra diapers.”

  She nodded again.

  “So I guess I’ll go take a nap now.”

  She nodded once more.

  I walked slowly back to my bedroom. I perched on the edge of the bed, wondering exactly how I was ever going to fall asleep while I was so worried about my little boy off in the hands of a complete stranger. Two hours later I woke up with a start. I’d conked out, half-sitting, half-lying on the bed, and had rather elegantly drooled all over the quilt. Wiping my mouth, I got out of bed and staggered into the bathroom. I splashed some cold water in the general direction of my face and stared into the mirror. My right cheek was covered with angry red creases and my eye was puffy. My hair had flattened out on one side and was doing its best Eraserhead imitation on the other. I halfheartedly patted at it and, giving up, wandered out into the living room. It was silent. No baby. No baby-sitter. I opened the window overlooking the front of the house and leaned out. Below, I saw the stroller, carefully covered by a baby blanket. Presumably Isaac was inside. But could he really be sleeping?

  I leaned out a little farther, looking for Fraydle. She wasn’t on the stoop. Panicking a bit, I leaned out farther still. Suddenly, I caught a glimpse of her standing about thirty feet down the block. She was talking to a young man in a brown leather bomber jacket. Just then, she glanced back at the stroller and saw me leaning out the window. She gave a startled little jump and said something to the man, who hurried away. She ran back to the house and I started down the stairs to meet her.

  I opened the door to find her blushing furiously and apologizing.

  “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Applebaum. I only left Isaac for a minute. And he was sound asleep. I could hear him from where I was. I promise you I could.”

  “That’s fine, Fraydle. I trust that you wouldn’t leave him alone. You were close enough to hear him. It’s really fine. You can call me Juliet, by the way.”

  She seemed to calm down. “I really am sorry.”

  “It’s okay, Fraydle. I would do it, too, I’m sure. Except, I’ve never actually been in the position to. How the heck did you get him to go to sleep?”

  “I just walked with the stroller. That’s all.”

  “When did he go down?”

  “Right after we left. As soon as we started walking.”

  “You mean he’s been asleep for two hours?” I was utterly and completely shocked.

  Fraydle looked at her watch. “A little less, maybe. I’ve got to go back. My aunt is expecting me.”

  “No problem. Just wait a sec and I’ll get my purse.”

  “No, no. Pay me at the end of the week.”

  “All right, if that’s really okay with you. Fraydle?”

  “Yes?”

  “Who’s the boy?”

  To her credit she didn’t say “which boy” or “nobody” or anything else teenager-like and evasive. She just got very quiet.

  “Please don’t tell my aunt Nettie or my parents, Mrs. Applebaum.”

  “Juliet. Of course I won’t tell your parents. Who is he?”

  She paused and then breathed, “Yossi.”

  “He’s not Hasidic.”

  “No.”

  “Why is his name Yossi? Is he Israeli?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is he your boyfriend?”

  “No!” She sounded almost terrified.

  “Really?”

  “We’re Verbover Hasidim. Even stricter than Lubovitch. I can’t have boyfriends. I’m not allowed to have boyfriends. The only thing I’m allowed to have is a husband. A husband my parents choose for me.” Her voice was low, rushed, and even a little bitter.

  “You’re a little young to be married, aren’t you?” I asked.

  “My mother was seventeen when she married my father, and I’m eighteen. I’ve already turned down two matches. I’m going to have to accept one soon.”

  “Your parents have already tried to marry you off? Are you serious?”

  “Twice. I said no to both, but there’s only so many times a girl can do that before she starts to get a reputation as a snob. Or worse.”

  Eighteen years old and already being forced into marriage and a life like her mother’s—baby after baby with menopause as the only end to it. I didn’t know what to say.

  “I’m sorry, Fraydle.”

  She looked up at me, paused a moment, and then seemed to close whatever window had been opened into her true feelings. She shrugged her shoulders and said, “My parents will make a good match for me.”

  “Okay.”

  “Aunt Nettie’s waiting. I gotta go.”

  “Okay. See you tomorrow.”

  “Bye bye.” And with that, she ran down the path and up the block. I sat down on the stoop and enjoyed the quiet for a moment. But only for a moment. Sensing, no doubt, that he was in danger of ruining his reputation as the most obnoxious baby in Los Angeles, Isaac woke himself up and let out a howl.

  Four

  THAT night Isaac actually slept for three hours in a row, between the hours of 2:00 and 5:00 A.M. When I woke to the early-morning grunting that generally preceded his early-morning shrieking, I positively leapt out of bed. It’s remarkable how fabulous three hours of uninterrupted sleep can feel when you’re used to none at all. I scooped the baby out of his bassinet and hustled out of the bedroom so that he wouldn’t wake Peter. I went into the living room, snapped on the radio, and settled in for our morning feeding and session of Morning Edition on National Public Radio. Isaac had gotten used to nursing to the comforting voice of Bob Edwards. Since I never got th
e opportunity to read the paper, my half-hour or so of listening to the radio in the early morning hours was all that stood between me and complete ignorance of world affairs.

  After Isaac had sated his appetite I put him into the Johnny-Jump-Up clamped in the kitchen doorway. He began happily leaping up and down, and I, in a sudden and rather inexplicable bit of Martha Stewart–like ambition, decided to prepare a homemade breakfast. Soon I had a pile of lovely, golden, misshapen banana pancakes warming in the oven, the table was set for three with the juice poured and the syrup heated, and the coffee was hot in the French press. I went to wake up the other members of my family.

  Ruby woke, groggy and grumpy, but cheered up when I told her that pancakes were in the offing. Her father needed a little more encouragement.

  “Honey! Wake up!”

  Grunt.

  “Sweetie. Sweetie. SWEETIE.” I grabbed the pillow off his head. “Wake up! I made coffee. And pancakes!”

  “Five more minutes,” he mumbled, burying his head under the covers.

  “Oh, c’mon, Peter. The pancakes are getting soggy.”

  I leaned over him and started nuzzling his neck. “Please, wake up,” I whispered. Then, I plunged my tongue into his ear.

  “Eeew!” he screamed, leaping about six feet in the air. “For crying out loud, Juliet, what’s your problem?” He sat on the edge of the bed, digging his finger into his ear. “That is just so disgusting.”