She hated him; from her soul a loathing for Luke’s selfish little body arose. Her disgust shot through her like a current. She could feel the rage in the metal taste of her mouth; she could spit her fury at him. She wanted to bash sense into him. “You have to go to sleep,” she said, leaning into his face.
Luke blinked and pushed into her breast for protection from her looming head.
Luke’s neck, creased by rings of baby fat, attracted her attention. Maybe he was damaged. Maybe the traumatic birth had done something. The doctors might even know that was the explanation of Luke’s behavior but not want to tell her yet.
Maybe there’s something wrong with him.
Luke pulled off her breast, yelping. His legs retracted to his stomach, his face went red, and he shrieked.
“Okay, baby,” she said, and put him to her shoulder, patting his back (so small, and his bony spine was spineless), patting hard to force out a burp. Luke squawked, squealed, complained. No burp. He never burped. Almost never. Sometimes she thought that was his problem: three weeks of gas trapped inside. He’s got a Jewish stomach (Eric burped as often as he breathed) with a Wasp throat (Nina’s mother had made her feel burping was as bad as murder).
Luke’s stomach convulsed and she felt gooey liquid on her shoulder. “Oh, God!” she moaned, and glanced to see what she already knew was there — white and sticky spitup.
Vomited on, she thought — this is my life. Her mind spun through the days and nights. Up at 4:00 A.M., unable to send Eric in with a bottle since formula might make the colic worse, her head nodding into sleep while Luke chewed, then punching Eric (sometimes quite hard) to rouse him so he could walk Luke around, lying in the dark desperate for sleep but constantly wakened by the noise of the carriage in the hall or Luke’s squeals whenever Eric would try to stop or had to change Luke’s diaper. And finally out of bed at 8:00, again to be gnawed on, then showering unhappily with an ear listening to the moans and squeals that soon would be her problem, showering with hot water even in this heat, to soothe the sore breasts, burning eyes, dented back, and puffy, swollen feet. To have the luxury of a quiet bath, not a bath with distant sounds of screeching and complaint, but a restful stay in a warm pool and a silent apartment, seemed like a distant memory of youth. So she showered hopelessly, with eight hours ahead, eight hours of fighting the urge to kill herself or Luke or both, eight hours of facing her inadequacy, her son’s misery, the apartment’s mess, and a world filled with smiling faces that assumed she was an ecstatic mother blessed with a glorious child, and not being able to tell, to say: this is hell, this is prison, and I may die from it. Or kill to escape.
She had tried to maintain a semblance of competence for the first few days. She made the bed, pushing the carriage until he quieted, tucking in one side (by then Luke was screaming), and then pushing the carriage to gain more calm, only to lose it while tucking in the other side. She learned to load the dishwasher with him in the Snugli, one hand covering his head, the other rinsing plates and stacking them. She closed cabinets and doors with her feet and elbows; she got used to reading while jolting back and forth in the rocker, willing to accept the nausea that caused for the relief of information, distraction — anything that wasn’t about babies. Goddamn babies. Today, however, she had left the bed unmade, the food gelling on the plates, clothes impaled on chairs, and the Times sprawled on the kitchen table.
Whenever she took Luke out, he fell asleep while they moved, so that the neighbors, the doormen, the storekeepers, other mothers, all believed Luke was wonderful. Asleep, his fair skin (like hers), his tall brow (like Eric’s), his perfect little nose (like hers), his thick, arching eyebrows (like Eric’s), his jutting strong chin (like hers), all spoke of beauty, calm, assurance, lovableness. And the moment she got home, once the motion stopped, Luke was back to yelping and whining.
The joys of motherhood. Are they all one great lie?
Are the other mothers that much stronger than I am?
Are they all so much more giving?
Is there so little love in me and so much in them?
By the time Nina had cleaned her shoulder of the spitup and switched Luke to the other breast, her tears had stopped, but her eyes hurt, as usual, from the aftermath of her sorrow. They would swell up until the morning and she’d look ugly. The dark circles were bad enough; now, with her eyes puffy, she’d truly seem to have gone fifteen rounds and lost.
And she was losing this fight.
She put Luke in his crib after he was fed. He had fallen asleep and stayed that way, his beautiful face composed and saintly. Luke stirred when she laid him down, then sighed and relaxed again.
Maybe it was over. The doctor had said, contradicting the books which warned colic lasted for three months, that it could end any day.
She left Luke’s room. She sat outside in the hall, rigid with tension, and lit a cigarette.
Luke cried. A little cry at first. Then he cried big. And he cried loud.
Wait it out. She looked at her watch. He wailed. His voice went hoarse with desperation. He wailed. He choked.
“Goddammit!” She got to her feet. She stormed into the room, yelling. “Goddammit! What is the matter with you!”
Luke’s cries echoed hers, soaring with her rage, waning with her despair. “I can’t stand it! You have to stop!” She put on the Snugli, grabbed Luke roughly, and pushed him in, yanking his legs through. His head bobbed against her, his open mouth wet, his feet kicking as she fought to zip him up.
She wanted to smash his hard tiny head. She wanted quiet.
She carried him outside in the Snugli, frightened to remain alone with him. She went to the nearby church, not to find God but to find the peace and order of her childhood.
Grace Church was beautiful, quiet, the dark wood benches empty, but alive with the wear of generations, the marble cold and white, but soothing, the ceiling high and vast, but protective, the glass bright with color, but dark with age. Balance. Peace.
Against her chest, Luke was awake but still, chewing on the pacifier. He craned his neck to peer up at her, his perfect blue marbles querying her. Going someplace? he seemed to ask. Even there, in the house of God, he was shameless, concerned only with himself and her submission to his wants.
“You have to calm down,” she whispered to him. A prayer to Luke. “I love you, but you have to relax,” her voice hissed in the cool dark of the church. “Please,” she begged to Luke’s little face, his brow wrinkled by the effort to look up at her. “Calm down,” she prayed to the new demanding god of her life.
DIANE STOOD at her apartment door after finishing work, key in hand, ready to enter. She had arrived home in the same condition for years: her back ached; her neck was stiff; her legs were bloated; her head was dull, ready to throb with a headache. She was bloody but unbowed from the struggle of work, from the pressure of producing for the partners, a pressure made more intense by the recent absence of her maternity leave, ready to enter her home, her haven, to rest, to recollect herself, to catch up on unfinished paper work — but now she came home instead to more work, to a husband who expected food, to a four-month-old baby who had to be fed, changed, bathed, played with, and put to sleep. At the end of her ten hours at the office she had four more hours of labor at home.
She understood now why there were so many magazine covers about working mothers.
But she would not be beaten. Not by sexism, circumstance, or tradition. She held the key to her apartment and gave herself, her body, a moment to feel the fatigue completely, surrendering to it. She closed her eyes and rolled her head back. She let her leather briefcase drop. She listened for sounds from her apartment. It was quiet.