If I Tell - By Janet Gurtler Page 0,65

faster and harder.

I tiptoed to the crib and peered inside. The baby’s face was scrunched up and angry, his tiny mouth wide open, his eyes shut tight like my mom’s. The wails coming out of his little body were loud, annoying, and broke my heart.

I looked into his pissed-off little face. “Shh, baby, shhh,” I whispered, looking back at my mom for encouragement.

She kept rocking.

With sweaty palms, I reached in and poked the baby’s still too skinny belly. I touched his soft yellow sleeper and he cried. I tentatively reached down and placed a hand under his little body. I remembered about making sure to support his head with the other hand and then lifted him. The crying continued.

His tiny body weighed almost nothing, but he thrust his body back and stiffened, pushing against my hands with surprising strength. Instinctively I cuddled him closer to calm him, and I started to rock back and forth.

“There, there,” I whispered. “It’s okay, baby.”

His face relaxed for a moment as if he were searching his memory banks for my voice. As the wailing subsided, I blew out a breath and glanced over at my mom. She didn’t look at me but kept rocking. Back and forth, back and forth.

The baby seemed to understand something was wrong. His mouth opened again, and the siren started up.

“You hungry?” I asked him.

He shuddered and hiccuped. I shushed and cooed, and for a moment, his screeching stopped. I pulled him closer, and his tiny body warmed my arm like a little furnace. My heart melted a little more despite his racket.

“Mom?”

I glanced at her. Her eyes remained unfocused, gazing at the floor. She’d wrapped her arms around herself.

Her mouth moved a little. She shook her head back and forth mouthing, “No. No.”

I crept closer, cradling the baby. With one hand I grabbed my mom’s shoulder and shook. She shrank back as if my hand had scalded her. Her head snapped back and forth, faster and more violently. A wail emanated from deep in her soul. It started softly but intensified, reminding me of a wounded animal.

I froze, listening to her moan. As if he sensed everyone’s distress, the baby began to shriek again, not a timid, shy sound. My mom’s voice got louder, competing.

My forehead and underarms were slick with sweat. “Shh…there, there,” I said out loud, my eyes alternating between the baby and Mom. Neither calmed down.

“Mom? What’s wrong?” I called over the noise.

Her guttural shrieks stopped, but she rocked harder in her chair and wrapped her arms around herself as if trying to squeeze her insides out.

“I can’t. I can’t. I can’t,” she chanted softly.

I swayed and shushed the baby while my mom repeated the words over and over. The baby hiccuped and then quieted again, his little eyes beginning to flutter with sleep. I stopped swaying and crept toward my mom, but his eyes flew open, and the cries resumed.

I really wanted to hand the baby over and run from the room.

“Mom.” I swayed the baby again, trying to calm him. “You can’t what?”

She was supposed to stop the crying, not me, but she continued to hug herself, repeating her words over and over and over.

“I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.”

The baby’s eyes closed and his body stilled to a quiet breathing rhythm, but I didn’t dare stop swaying.

“Do this,” she said. “I can’t do this.”

“What?” I didn’t know what she meant. She was freaking me out. “What can’t you do?”

She lifted her arms and swept them upward, gesturing around the entire room. “This. I can’t do this.” She ground her teeth together and began rocking again, shaking her head and muttering, “No. No. No. No. I can’t. Can’t.” Her voice sounded dead, as if she’d cut out her emotions.

“I’m going to call Grandma. Okay, Mom?”

She didn’t stop rocking. “Take the baby away.” She wailed again, uttering a wounded cry that was barely human.

Panic pooled in my stomach. A bead of sweat dripped from my forehead onto the baby’s yellow sleeper, but it was quickly absorbed by the fleece.

She wasn’t okay, not at all. “I’ll be right back, Mom. Will you be okay?”

She didn’t answer or look at the baby. Her motions didn’t stop.

I carried my brother from the bedroom and closed the door behind me. As I hurried down the stairs, he started whimpering again. It intensified my feelings of inadequacy. I didn’t know how to look after a tiny baby.

“Are you hungry?” I asked, hoping by some miracle that he’d grasp speech