CHANNEL A
We still go to bed early, out of habit. I take the monitor from my bedside table and switch it on. George and I huddle around the black and white screen. Channel A, our channel, shows nothing but a blank square of white carpet. I flip quickly past it to Channel B. Static. Channel C is the gold mine.
“She’s asleep,” I whisper.
A thatch of dark hair above the round face, plump lips parted. She is tightly swaddled. She’s starting to outgrow the blanket, and her little bare feet stick out the bottom. She isn’t moving.
George’s head droops beside me. I turn off the lamp and he leans into my shoulder.
“Do you mind if I watch a minute longer?”
He kisses me and rolls onto his side. The screen lights up the room, ghostly blue gray. There is a ripple of cosmic interference, and then the baby is back, motionless and perfect. I press a finger to the screen.
George begins to snore. I turn the volume up and hear the roar of the baby’s white noise machine. I’m waiting for her to move—anything, a twitch of the foot, a little phantom sucking motion with her lips, a sleep startle.
Nothing happens. Nothing happens. Nothing happens.
My eyelids burn in the dark. I tell myself the statistics the doctor told us: fewer than four thousand babies a year, out of all the millions. Asleep in her own crib, on her back, swaddled but not overdressed (those tiny, bare toes), it’s very, very unlikely. Bordering on impossible. I dig an elbow into George’s side.
“I think something’s wrong with the baby.”
He sits upright with a strangled gasp, one hand flying into the air to keep the ceiling from collapsing. Then he grabs the monitor and sinks back against the headboard. His tongue makes a dry, sandpapery sound when he licks his lips.
“She’s not moving,” I say. “She hasn’t moved this whole time.”
George squints at the screen. “How long has it been?”
“I don’t know. Ten minutes.”
“She’s probably fine.” But his fingertips are white with pressure where he’s holding the monitor.
“I know. I know. But can you see her breathing?”
He brings the monitor very close to his face. “I don’t know. I can’t tell.”
“What should we do?”
Another person, any other person, would suggest turning off the monitor and going to sleep. But George looks at me with the stricken face of a million unfulfilled wishes. They are endless, the wishes. They never stop.
“I’m going over there,” I say.
George props himself up on his elbow and squints at me as I pull today’s jeans and sweater out of the laundry.
“Be careful,” he says. As if I’m going to rob a bank.
“Keep an eye on the monitor. I’ll be back soon.”
* * *
While I wait for the elevator, I try to think of plausible reasons to knock on the neighbors’ door.
I need a cup of sugar. Rejected. It’s not 1952.
My husband cut his hand, and we’re out of Band-Aids. Perhaps, if we didn’t live in a city of 24-hour drugstores.
There’s a funny smell in our apartment. So why not call the Super?
I’m out of time.
The elevator dings for the 14th floor and I stand outside the door to 14-E. There’s a crack of light at the bottom, but the sound-proofing is good in this building and I don’t hear anything.
I stand there, paralyzed. I wish I’d managed to become friends with the woman who lives inside. She would open the door and let me listen to her baby breathing. She would rest her hand on my back as we stood in the doorway, the warm scent of wet diaper in our noses. There would be a rustle and a sigh, and she would say quietly: See? Everything’s fine.
When I apologized, she would say it was no bother. I understand. I don’t know what I would do if...
* * *
The door opens, and a small, yellow-haired dog skips out and sits at my feet. I’ve seen the animal before, walking with the woman from 14-E while she pushes the baby in an expensive stroller. Now I hear a young male voice say, “Yeah, yeah, I got the bags.” The dog shows me its tiny, sharp teeth.
Before I can disappear, an impossibly beautiful young man comes out, holding a retractable leash. He is perhaps sixteen or seventeen, with dark, curly hair and the eyes of a panther.
A brother. How did I not know the baby had a brother?
The dog growls, and the boy bends to fasten the leash. “Sorry, lady. Cannoli’s a rude little mutt.”
I hurry into the elevator with him. My voice catches in my throat, but I force the words out. “You’re going to think I’m crazy.”
He looks at me sideways, his mind already made up. I push on.
“Could you please call your mother and ask her to check on the baby?”
The boy blinks, long and slow. The elevator sinks through a sea of molasses. Floor ten. Nine. Eight. Seven.
“You got the wrong idea, lady. I’m only the dog-walker.”
* * *
Only the dog-walker.
I lower my head and choke back tears of embarrassment. The elevator stops and the boy yanks the dog into the lobby. My finger hovers over the panel. Traces a circle around number fourteen. But I’m exhausted, my hands heavy as stones. Incapable of saving anyone.
* * *
Back at home, I put my key in the lock and the door magically springs open. George is there with his hand on the knob. “I was just coming to get you.” He holds up the monitor. “She’s fine. She’s moving. Look.”
I take the monitor from him. The baby is on her side. As I watch, she rolls onto her back again and smacks her lips a few times. Her shoulders writhe in the swaddle, but her eyes stay closed.
I turn the monitor off. “We should throw this away.”
George nods.
“But I can’t. I’m sorry. I’m not ready.”
“I know. Me neither.”
“Do you want to go in?” I ask. “Just one more time?”
He walks with me to the door. When I hesitate, he reaches around me and turns the knob. We go in together. The white carpet is so soft. We spent a fortune on organic wool. We were afraid of the chemicals they put on regular carpets.
I walk over to the corner where the crib used to be and lie down on the floor. George lowers himself and wraps his body around mine.
I look up at the green eye of the camera on the dresser. Maybe somewhere in this building—maybe in 14-E—they’ll turn to Channel A and see us here. Maybe someone will come knock on our door to see if we’re still breathing.
Melissa Lore (@MelissaLore1) is a rural northern California transplant to Portsmouth, New Hampshire, where she lives with her husband and two children. She earned an MFA in creative writing from Columbia University in New York City, where she was awarded the Lini Mazumdar fellowship and graduated with distinction. Her short fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in numerous literary magazines, including ZYZZYVA, Identity Theory, and The Normal School, and she was a finalist for Mid-American Review’s 2020 Sherwood Anderson Fiction Awards. She recently completed her first novel. When not writing, she can be found drawing, skiing, and performing with her family hip-hop band, Rock Street.