by Sam Rafferty

A phoebe once lived outside my bedroom window. Each morning at 5, it would begin its endless calling, four syllables, two ascending like a question, two descending like a reluctant answer.

Phoebe?

Phoebe.

Would you like to get out of bed today?

No, I would not.

Do you want to hold your baby?

I would rather sleep.

Have you thought about therapy?

No, I’m just tired.

Phoebe?

Phoebe.

Then the bird would flit past the curtains, and I would be left waiting for the other sound that kept me awake. Unlike the phoebe’s call, his cries followed no discernible pattern. Sometimes he would sleep for five or six hours. Sometimes he would wail every ninety minutes. The experts all said he had to sleep on his back, in the bassinet, in our bedroom, but most nights he would only fall asleep glued to my chest, milk-pacified. I would watch my son, make sure he was breathing, wishing I could pass him over to my husband without causing him to wake, crying, once again. But that maneuver rarely succeeded.

In the dark, I felt my head spinning. I could almost glimpse the overwhelming love I had for this tiny child, but it was so shrouded by anxiety and exhaustion that I couldn’t quite make it out.

Morning would come, and not much would change. My husband would go to work, his dark eyes flashing a worried look as he told me, “Have a good day. Maybe you can take him out in the stroller today.”

I tried to look cheerful, purposeful, but I knew I would barely leave the bedroom before he got home at five. The baby would wake up. Then nursing. Diaper change. Pace around the room. Try to “play” with him, which consisted of laying him on a mat to stare at dangling farm animals while I scrolled through message boards labeled “Why won’t my baby sleep?” Nurse again. Hold him while he naps. Wonder when I last ate. And when did I last shower? Does it matter? The baby cries again. Repeat.

My husband tried to help, running in at five, taking the baby while I fell asleep sitting up, slack-mouthed and drooling on the couch. He cooked pasta, or chicken and rice, or heated up some casserole that friends and neighbors stocked in our freezer. Why wasn’t I more grateful? He brought me a plate, and we took turns eating on the couch while the other held the baby. I barely tasted it. I ate only from necessity.

***

At least I knew the birds were still outside, which meant there was hope that I could one day get back out to see them. The phoebe became a comfort, always there, chirping its questions at 5 am.

Until one morning, it wasn’t.

The baby woke up six times that night. 9:23 pm. 11:06 pm. 12:49 am. 1:56 am. 3:07 am. 4:32am. When I finally laid the baby down, it was after five in the morning. I expected the bird’s incessant questioning to begin, but I could only hear the whir of the white noise machine we’d purchased a few weeks ago in another desperate attempt at sleep.

I stayed in bed for a while, trying to coax myself to nod off again, but my thoughts kept racing, a constant stream of internal questions, much more insistent than the bird had been.

What if he vomits and chokes while you’re asleep?

What if you drop him walking down the stairs?

What if you take him for a walk and the stroller flies out of your hands, and he dashes his head on the concrete?

I got out of bed, tiptoeing past the bassinet and down the stairs. A gray light outside signaled the approaching dawn. How long since I had watched the sunrise? I stepped out on the front lawn, feeling the chill in the air through my stained bathrobe and the morning dew on my bare feet.

Scanning the yard, I saw a pair of eyes turn toward me, and I discerned the outline of a cat. Unthinking, I approached the animal. It hissed, causing me to stumble backward and trip over a root. Pride wounded, I looked around hoping none of the neighbors could see me, sprawled out in my high-rise underwear and robe on the uncut grass. But then I looked back over to the cat and saw something under its white paw. A plump little bird with a large flat head, grey brown above with a white breast. It was bleeding, unmoving, and my stomach sank.

Suddenly, I felt my heart pounding, adrenaline rushing through my body. I was filled with the months of vomiting and fatigue and swollen ankles. With waves of pain and stitches and mesh panties and witch-hazel-soaked maxi pads. With a million intrusive thoughts and compulsive google searches to reassure myself that I could keep this baby alive and well. With the weight of guilt for moments of wanting to run away from a child I had so desperately wanted, just to have a few hours of silence, a full night of sleep.

I screamed, roared, jumped to my feet and lunged at the cat. Tears streaming down my face, I watched it skitter away, then knelt next to the phoebe. I cupped its delicate body in my hands and cried, rivers of tears I had held back for months rushing out. Sunrise painted the sky in shades of pink and orange. Joggers ran past, gratefully oblivious to the woman sobbing over a dead bird in the grass.

“Honey, what’s going on? The baby’s up. I think he’s hungry. Are you okay?”

I saw my husband holding our son, bouncing back and forth to keep his fussing at bay. I placed the phoebe gingerly down on the ground, and gazing down at the lifeless creature, I finally answered.

“No, I don’t think I am.”

Photo by Patrice Bouchard on Unsplash