Siulee Olivera

Maternal Instinct

I stood at my kitchen sink, the water running into the empty basin. My apartment was quiet, for the most part. The occasional beep of the smoke detector was part of my daily song, accompanied by the sound of engines and the lull of conversation just outside my windows. The water kept running, certainly running up my water bill, but I had no desire to shut it off. I had been having the dreams again. 

Since I could remember, I’d have bouts of dreams, dreams about babies.  My mother and grandmother had them as well. Their dreams were almost that of prophecy; foretelling a happy future full of love. Whenever they would dream of babies, joy would follow. When I too began to have these dreams, all I felt was excitement. To be a harbinger of children felt like a blessing, a privilege I could bestow upon whomever would appear to me in my visions. As I grew older, the dreams started to scare me. None of the babies I’d dreamt of had yet to be born and they had taken a turn towards the personal. I wasn’t particularly fond of children, nor did I dislike them, but the dreams always left me feeling a bit off kilter. It wasn’t that I’d wanted a child of my own, but the connections built within the dreams themselves left me gutted once I’d wake. Months, years, decades would pass overnight. Tiny hands outstretched, clawing towards me for comfort. Night became a place of fear, as I tensed myself for who I would lose next once the morning came. 

It had been a while since the last time I’d dreamt of a baby, so when I heard the familiar cries, all I could feel was dread. 

The water began to run cold. I shut it off and turned to start my day, the echoes of those tiny whimpers still rattling in my head.

3:19 a.m. I’d woken up in a panic, hot flashes plaguing my body. The bedroom was dark, a sickly yellow light peeking in through the blinds, illuminating the pillows that had been cast aside, now strewn on the floor. On my left, my alarm clock, reprimanding me in its red text, as if it knew that I should not be awake. I reached over to grab my water bottle from my nightstand, the motion only serving to drag me back to my place of terror. This night’s dream was more akin to a nightmare.

I’m in my apartment, but its walls are distorted. Light shines in, but from where? I’m unsure. I hear it again. The crying. This time, the sound bounces off my walls, amplified by the room’s sudden emptiness. I look around for the source, whipping my head back and forth. I turn around and that is when I see it. The baby. Its face is red with exertion, its tiny hand reaching towards me but I know I can’t give it what it needs. Blue eyes and the smallest brown curls. A pink bow clipped into what little hair it has. It cries, eyes locked on mine. I make my way towards it, hoping to put an end to its despair but every step I take only pushes it further from me. It sits on the floor, its head too big for its little body, its arms waving, hoping to get my attention. It has it, but I am just as helpless as it is. I run towards it, the bedroom’s walls falling away and we fall with it.

I drank my water, the cool liquid grounding me once more. I knew that it would be a while before I would be able to sleep again, my lack of sleep being more of a testament of my courage rather than a statement of my exhaustion. Exiting my bedroom, I scanned my apartment, running my hand along its cold walls, ensuring its security. As I made my way towards my living room, the echoes of the baby’s cries began again. I felt I was going crazy, was I really awake? But the sound grew louder and louder, convincing me of its truth. My stomach sank as I whipped my head around hoping to find the source of the sound, my subconscious making a mockery of my fear. This time, however, the sound pulled me towards my front door. My hand poised over the door handle, I hesitated. I must be crazy, I thought to myself. This is how women die. Lured in by the cries of helpless babies, only to have their kindness turned against them. But the wails radiating just outside my reach were too piercing to ignore. I turned the handle, bracing myself for the worst. The door swung open and as my eyes traveled down, my heart rate did the opposite; my gaze was met by blue eyes, framed by a head of curly brown hair and a pink bow.

I panicked.

It had to have been a coincidence, right? Its worries assuaged by my presence, the baby had stopped crying. It looked up at me curiously, its eyes scanning first my face, then my body, and finally, it grew bored of the sight in front of it, its gaze trailing elsewhere. Outside, light was yet to break through. The bugs chirped their nightly song, faint and consistent, harmonizing and building off of each other’s melodies. The song did little to quell my nerves. I looked around for any sign of human life, any clue as to whose baby this was and why it was sitting on my apartment’s porch. A sudden breeze blew through, sending a chill down my spine. With no other ideas, I picked the baby up and brought it inside. 

Morning came but my problems had not yet left. For all of my issues, at least the baby had been quiet. In my arms it fell asleep quickly, a skill I strongly envied. Unsure of what to do and unwilling to risk the baby’s safety by driving it to the nearest hospital, I spent all night calling local shelters and help centers, hoping to find answers and while the voices on the line had been supportive, their cheery voices gave me no reprieve. Why was this baby left on my porch? Eventually, I called 911 and as the paramedics transported the baby to the hospital, I felt fear where I thought I would be feeling relief. 

For the few days after the incident, my mind ran wild with ideas. Everywhere I looked it was as if the baby were following me; a glimpse of curly brown hair here and a baby’s laughter there, all serving to keep me on edge. This child skirted just past my realm of understanding, popping in and out of my daily life and I was helpless to stop it. At work, at the grocery store, in my car; I was met with those little hands, reaching out for me. Those blue eyes tracked my every move, every thought. Even my own apartment was unsafe, my walls only reminding me of their fallibility, as if even the slightest push would cause them to cave in. My bedroom was the closest place I could call home and even that title was precarious; the room did nothing to drown out the cries that echoed in my head. 

The dreams themselves hadn’t stopped but they’d taken on a new form. No longer was I dreaming of joyful infants, smiling and giggling in their parents arms. The blue-eyed baby remained a figure in my mind, the only figure in fact, as now the only dreams I had were about the baby. Every night, it infiltrated my apartment, deconstructing the walls with its screams, unplacated despite my attempts otherwise. Sleep had become dreadful.

I was doing laundry, a feeble attempt at normalcy, when I received a call. When the police had questioned me, I’d asked them to keep me updated on the state of the baby, a decision I now regretted. The voice on the end of the line droned, robotic as they explained to me the turning of events. 

The baby had passed.

My mind went blank while the voice continued with their explanation, going on about an unaddressed illness. However, the specifics faded away as a ringing took priority to my senses. A chill swept through my body and a wave of nausea shook me to my core. I came back to myself as the voice repeated their question of concern, Are you okay? With a swiftness I hadn’t known myself capable of, I hung up the phone, chucking it towards my couch. Once more, the bright, blue eyes flashed in my head, lodging guilt deep within me.

2:43 a.m. Any hope of sleeping was long gone, my heart continuing its marathon despite my body’s exhaustion. By this point, it had been 3 days of semi-consciousness, the past days feeling more like a fever dream than anything tied to reality. I floated through my apartment, haunting its walls with my presence, unable to do anything more than breathe. The small rooms closed in around me but the thought of exiting proved a more difficult challenge. This late into the night, all signs of life were extinct, the only way I could tell I was alive was through the sound of my own breathing. Gray walls sparsely decorated were my primary source of stimulation. The air was stale, damp in a way that clogged your lungs. The streetlight’s sickly hue shined in through the slats of the blinds, painting the room in a cautious light. 

I rose from my bed, unsure of what to do to achieve sleep but knowing that I needed to do something, needed to move. My joints creaked and my bones ached with the effort of standing, a position my body had long forgotten. Stalking my halls, I made my way towards the kitchen. The tap leaked, dripping water into the sink but its rhythm was erratic, the inconsistent drops alighting my nerves every time. As I reached towards the fridge to grab water, my movement was arrested. Faintly, my ears picked up noise coming from the front door. The noise grew louder and louder, my heartbeat followed in its footsteps. Slowly, I stalked towards the door. I knew what awaited me outside but with this door closed, I could choose to believe otherwise. Opening this door was an act of damnation, one that I was helpless to make. I opened the door.

Blue eyes, curly brown ringlets, and a pink bow.