Something awful and irreversible has happened in Manhattan, I am certain of it. I’ve just come from downtown where everything and everyone is covered in ash and now it seems to have followed me across the bridge to Brooklyn. The fine grey dust hangs in the air, landing on the parked cars and the tree leaves, which were just turning gold. It’s as if someone has draped a giant veil over New York City and the eeriness of it makes me even more anxious to get home to my wife and son.
The streets in my neighborhood look oddly empty. There are no cars on the road, except for a police cruiser patrolling the sidewalks, its driver’s eyes scanning the sidewalk. Last week, this same sidewalk was teeming with strollers and joggers when we’d taken the baby out on his first outing. The lullaby that my wife, Layla, sings to him has been popping in and out of my head. I can feel the fullness in my heart on that day, how complete Noah had made us feel. I recall the outing in great detail, down to the baby ducks stamped on Noah’s onesie. And yet, my memories beyond that day come in fragments, like a puzzle I can’t seem to finish.
Relief washes over me when I finally reach our front door, its red paint vivid against the surrounding grayscale.
Inside, our living room is filled with people. I spot two interns from the firm where I work and wonder what they are doing in my house. My in-laws sit by the bay window; their heads bent toward each other. I turn before they have a chance to see me. I don’t want to stop and talk to anyone – I just want to see Layla.
The kitchen is empty but there are dishes piled up in the sink and the counter is littered with half empty cups and glasses. I sprint up the stairs to the baby’s room and there I find Layla siting on the rocking chair, feeding Noah. I catch my breath and tiptoe in, not wanting to startle them.
“I’m home babe,” I whisper.
No response. The only sound is the lullaby playing on the CD player next to Noah’s crib.
I call out her name, raising my voice.
She pulls the baby from her breast, holding him upright while he burrows his face into her neck and I can almost smell the sweetness of his milky breath. Layla’s eyes remain closed. I fight the urge to shout, my confusion turning to annoyance, and reach for her. When my hand touches her arm, it goes right through it. A chill creeps up my spine and I run out of the room.
My head and heart are pounding in unison. It occurs to me that this could be a dream, one that is possibly induced or enhanced by the Ambien pills I’ve been taking. My father’s voice comes from downstairs and I go watch him from the landing of the staircase. He stands in the center of the living room, reading out loud from a paper held in trembling hands while my mom leans on his shoulder. Dark circles have formed beneath his eyes, making the rest of his face so pale it seems to glow.
I climb down so I can better hear him. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a poster-size framed picture of me on the foyer table. It was taken at the hospital the day Noah was born. I’m dressed in hospital scrubs, holding my tiny son, the expression on my eyes a mix of joy and panic. Next to it is an open notebook, its pages partly filled with handwritten notes I do not bother to read. My eyes go instead to my name that’s printed onto a set of cards with my picture in miniature.
In Memory of Justin Hassan
I close my eyes, waiting to wake up.
Copyright held by Karin Rumie
MUST LOVE CHOCOLATE 