“Oh, now you believe in wishes?” She sat down on the couch and tugged on her fluffy boots.
No, I wanted to tell her. I don’t, because I learned a long time ago that wishes and prayers and hopes don’t mean anything. No one is listening. But I didn’t tell her that, not only because she was looking up at me with my favorite expression of hers, the one daring me to fight back, but because at that very moment, I heard a noise in the hall.
A strange and oddly terrifying noise.
I looked over my shoulder toward the door, thinking I must have imagined the sound.
Then I heard it again—the unmistakable, ball-shrinking, cringe-inducing sound of a baby’s wail.
I looked at Emme, who had paused mid-task, one foot off the ground. “Did you hear that?” I asked her.
“Yeah,” she said, pulling the boot on and dropping her foot. “Was that a baby?”
“It couldn’t be. Who’s baby would it be?” Emme and I had the only two apartments at the end of this hall.
“Maybe someone’s watching a movie really loud,” she suggested.
But then we heard it again, and this time it wasn’t an isolated cry but a plaintive howling that didn’t stop.
Emme stood up. “We better go look.”
I knew she was right, but I had a horrible, sick feeling in my stomach. That unease from earlier had grown into a bowling ball-sized bucket of dread.
Emme went to the door and opened it. Then she gasped. “Oh my God.”
Paralyzed with fear, I didn’t move. “What is it?”
“Come here.”
Reluctantly, I walked to the door and peered over her shoulder at the screaming baby that had apparently been abandoned at my doorstep. “Oh my God. What the fuck?”
“Shh. It can hear you.” Emme moved into the hall and stared down at the baby, which was red-faced and furious, its tiny fists waving in the air, a pink fleece hat slipping down over its eyes. It was covered with blankets and lying in some sort of contraption with a plastic base, a reclining seat, and a handlebar across the top. Next to it was a bag overflowing with items I didn’t recognize. White things and pink things and fluffy things and plastic things.
I thought I might vomit.
“My God.” Emme knelt down next to it and made shushing noises, removing the hat and smoothing its crazy tufts of dark hair back from its face. “It’s a baby.”
“I can see that.” I braced myself in the doorway with a hand on either side of the frame. “But what’s it doing here?”
“I don’t know.” On her knees, Emme looked up and down the hallway, but there was no one around. Getting to her feet again, she picked up the contraption by the handle, groaning as if it were heavy, although the baby didn’t look as if it could weigh more than a bottle of whiskey. She set it down again, frowning as she studied the handle. Then she clicked some sort of lever or button, and the seat detached from the base. “Aha. Okay, grab the bag and the base to the car seat and bring it in.”
“Why?” I stayed exactly where I was, with my hands bracketed on either side of the doorjamb, as if I wanted to block her entrance. Which, of course, I did. This baby was a harbinger of evil. I could feel it.
Emme gaped at me, struggling to get a better grip on the car seat using two hands. The baby continued to yowl, a shrill, ear-piercing sound. “What do you mean why? Because there is a baby in the hallway outside your apartment that appears to have been left on purpose. We can’t just leave it here.”
“Maybe it was left outside of your apartment. Why can’t we take it there?”
Emme rolled her eyes. “Give me a break, Nate. It’s not going to bite you or give you cooties or whatever it is you’re afraid of.”
“How do we even know it’s a real baby? It could be a bomb. Is it ticking?”
Emme stared at me. “Are you insane? It’s not a bomb; it’s a baby. Now get out of my way so I can come in. This thing is heavy.”
She came at me and I had no choice but to step aside. Once she was in, I stepped out into the hall and walked all the way to one end. Opening the stairwell door, I went into it and looked up and down. “Hello?” I called, my voice echoing into the dark. I saw no one and heard nothing. I came out of the stairwell and walked toward the elevators, again seeing no one and hearing nothing. Scratching my head, I went back to my door and stared down at the overstuffed canvas bag and plastic car seat base. My heart was hammering in my chest, and not in a good way.
Stop being ridiculous, Pearson. It’s just a baby. And it’s probably a complete coincidence that it was left at your door. Maybe even a mistake. But I still felt nervous as I picked up the bag and the base and brought them inside.
Emme had taken the baby from the seat and was cradling it in her arms as she paced back and forth in front of the couch, bouncing it gently and shushing it with soft, soothing sounds.
“We should call the police,” I said, trying to sound authoritative as I set the bag and base on the floor. “We need to find out who this baby belongs to.”
Emme stopped moving and looked up at me. “Brace yourself, Nate. I think she might belong to you.”
“Me? That’s impossible!”
Emme started the pace-and-bounce routine again, focusing her attention on the baby’s face. “There’s a letter in the car seat with your name on it.”
I didn’t want to see it. God help me, I didn’t want to. If it were any other day, maybe I wouldn’t have been so scared. But all day long, my gut had been trying to warn me about something.
Swallowing hard, I went over to the car seat and saw the white envelope at the bottom of it. My name was written on the front in black ink. Cursive letters. A feminine slant. I reached down, picked it up, and pulled out the handwritten letter inside.
Dear Nate,
I’m sorry. I should have told you about her. Trust me when I say she was just as much of a surprise to me as I’m sure she is to you. I thought I would give her up, but found I couldn’t. I thought I could do it on my own, but find I can’t. I just need a break, okay? Some air. I’ll come back for her, I promise. She is healthy, has had all her shots, and eats well, about four ounces every three hours. Her formula and a couple bottles are in the diaper bag, along with some diapers, wipes, some clothes, and a couple toys. She can sleep in her car seat, although she is not a good sleeper.
She is eight weeks old.
Her name is Paisley.
Sincerely,
Rachel
I read the letter once, twice, five times, ten times, twenty. I wanted it to be lies. I wanted to deny I’d ever known a Rachel. I wanted to pretend I didn’t remember the boozy weekend we’d spent in her downtown hotel room after blowing off the boring tax law seminar we were supposed to attend.
But I couldn’t.
My vision clouded.
I have a daughter.
She’s eight weeks old.
Her name is Paisley.
I swayed forward.
Is Paisley even a name?
I thought it was a tie pattern.
I prefer stripes.
Something was wrong with my legs.
“Well?”
I looked up from the letter to find Emme staring at me intently. “Is it true? Is the baby yours?”
“Yes,” I said, my voice cracking, my world cracking. “I think she is.”
And then I fucking fainted.
Three
Emme
“Oh my God! Nate!”
His eyes had rolled back in his head, his knees had buckled, and he’d dropped forward in a heap, his upper body slumped over the car seat. I hurried over to him and knelt by his side.
“Nate. Hey, wake up.” Hitching the baby over to one arm, I slapped his face a few times, not too hard, but not too gently either.
He moaned and his eyes fluttered open.
“Nate, can you hear me?”
“Yeah.” He blinked a few times and sat back on his heels. “What happened?”
“You fainted.”
He looked distressed. “No, I didn’t.”
I bit my tongue—he had so fainted—and took his hand, helping him to his feet and then leading him over to the couch. “Here, sit down. Do you need some water?”
No, I wanted to tell her. I don’t, because I learned a long time ago that wishes and prayers and hopes don’t mean anything. No one is listening. But I didn’t tell her that, not only because she was looking up at me with my favorite expression of hers, the one daring me to fight back, but because at that very moment, I heard a noise in the hall.
A strange and oddly terrifying noise.
I looked over my shoulder toward the door, thinking I must have imagined the sound.
Then I heard it again—the unmistakable, ball-shrinking, cringe-inducing sound of a baby’s wail.
I looked at Emme, who had paused mid-task, one foot off the ground. “Did you hear that?” I asked her.
“Yeah,” she said, pulling the boot on and dropping her foot. “Was that a baby?”
“It couldn’t be. Who’s baby would it be?” Emme and I had the only two apartments at the end of this hall.
“Maybe someone’s watching a movie really loud,” she suggested.
But then we heard it again, and this time it wasn’t an isolated cry but a plaintive howling that didn’t stop.
Emme stood up. “We better go look.”
I knew she was right, but I had a horrible, sick feeling in my stomach. That unease from earlier had grown into a bowling ball-sized bucket of dread.
Emme went to the door and opened it. Then she gasped. “Oh my God.”
Paralyzed with fear, I didn’t move. “What is it?”
“Come here.”
Reluctantly, I walked to the door and peered over her shoulder at the screaming baby that had apparently been abandoned at my doorstep. “Oh my God. What the fuck?”
“Shh. It can hear you.” Emme moved into the hall and stared down at the baby, which was red-faced and furious, its tiny fists waving in the air, a pink fleece hat slipping down over its eyes. It was covered with blankets and lying in some sort of contraption with a plastic base, a reclining seat, and a handlebar across the top. Next to it was a bag overflowing with items I didn’t recognize. White things and pink things and fluffy things and plastic things.
I thought I might vomit.
“My God.” Emme knelt down next to it and made shushing noises, removing the hat and smoothing its crazy tufts of dark hair back from its face. “It’s a baby.”
“I can see that.” I braced myself in the doorway with a hand on either side of the frame. “But what’s it doing here?”
“I don’t know.” On her knees, Emme looked up and down the hallway, but there was no one around. Getting to her feet again, she picked up the contraption by the handle, groaning as if it were heavy, although the baby didn’t look as if it could weigh more than a bottle of whiskey. She set it down again, frowning as she studied the handle. Then she clicked some sort of lever or button, and the seat detached from the base. “Aha. Okay, grab the bag and the base to the car seat and bring it in.”
“Why?” I stayed exactly where I was, with my hands bracketed on either side of the doorjamb, as if I wanted to block her entrance. Which, of course, I did. This baby was a harbinger of evil. I could feel it.
Emme gaped at me, struggling to get a better grip on the car seat using two hands. The baby continued to yowl, a shrill, ear-piercing sound. “What do you mean why? Because there is a baby in the hallway outside your apartment that appears to have been left on purpose. We can’t just leave it here.”
“Maybe it was left outside of your apartment. Why can’t we take it there?”
Emme rolled her eyes. “Give me a break, Nate. It’s not going to bite you or give you cooties or whatever it is you’re afraid of.”
“How do we even know it’s a real baby? It could be a bomb. Is it ticking?”
Emme stared at me. “Are you insane? It’s not a bomb; it’s a baby. Now get out of my way so I can come in. This thing is heavy.”
She came at me and I had no choice but to step aside. Once she was in, I stepped out into the hall and walked all the way to one end. Opening the stairwell door, I went into it and looked up and down. “Hello?” I called, my voice echoing into the dark. I saw no one and heard nothing. I came out of the stairwell and walked toward the elevators, again seeing no one and hearing nothing. Scratching my head, I went back to my door and stared down at the overstuffed canvas bag and plastic car seat base. My heart was hammering in my chest, and not in a good way.
Stop being ridiculous, Pearson. It’s just a baby. And it’s probably a complete coincidence that it was left at your door. Maybe even a mistake. But I still felt nervous as I picked up the bag and the base and brought them inside.
Emme had taken the baby from the seat and was cradling it in her arms as she paced back and forth in front of the couch, bouncing it gently and shushing it with soft, soothing sounds.
“We should call the police,” I said, trying to sound authoritative as I set the bag and base on the floor. “We need to find out who this baby belongs to.”
Emme stopped moving and looked up at me. “Brace yourself, Nate. I think she might belong to you.”
“Me? That’s impossible!”
Emme started the pace-and-bounce routine again, focusing her attention on the baby’s face. “There’s a letter in the car seat with your name on it.”
I didn’t want to see it. God help me, I didn’t want to. If it were any other day, maybe I wouldn’t have been so scared. But all day long, my gut had been trying to warn me about something.
Swallowing hard, I went over to the car seat and saw the white envelope at the bottom of it. My name was written on the front in black ink. Cursive letters. A feminine slant. I reached down, picked it up, and pulled out the handwritten letter inside.
Dear Nate,
I’m sorry. I should have told you about her. Trust me when I say she was just as much of a surprise to me as I’m sure she is to you. I thought I would give her up, but found I couldn’t. I thought I could do it on my own, but find I can’t. I just need a break, okay? Some air. I’ll come back for her, I promise. She is healthy, has had all her shots, and eats well, about four ounces every three hours. Her formula and a couple bottles are in the diaper bag, along with some diapers, wipes, some clothes, and a couple toys. She can sleep in her car seat, although she is not a good sleeper.
She is eight weeks old.
Her name is Paisley.
Sincerely,
Rachel
I read the letter once, twice, five times, ten times, twenty. I wanted it to be lies. I wanted to deny I’d ever known a Rachel. I wanted to pretend I didn’t remember the boozy weekend we’d spent in her downtown hotel room after blowing off the boring tax law seminar we were supposed to attend.
But I couldn’t.
My vision clouded.
I have a daughter.
She’s eight weeks old.
Her name is Paisley.
I swayed forward.
Is Paisley even a name?
I thought it was a tie pattern.
I prefer stripes.
Something was wrong with my legs.
“Well?”
I looked up from the letter to find Emme staring at me intently. “Is it true? Is the baby yours?”
“Yes,” I said, my voice cracking, my world cracking. “I think she is.”
And then I fucking fainted.
Three
Emme
“Oh my God! Nate!”
His eyes had rolled back in his head, his knees had buckled, and he’d dropped forward in a heap, his upper body slumped over the car seat. I hurried over to him and knelt by his side.
“Nate. Hey, wake up.” Hitching the baby over to one arm, I slapped his face a few times, not too hard, but not too gently either.
He moaned and his eyes fluttered open.
“Nate, can you hear me?”
“Yeah.” He blinked a few times and sat back on his heels. “What happened?”
“You fainted.”
He looked distressed. “No, I didn’t.”
I bit my tongue—he had so fainted—and took his hand, helping him to his feet and then leading him over to the couch. “Here, sit down. Do you need some water?”
