I pause, a few feet from the doorway, overwhelmed by disquiet. I step forward, then pause again, shake my head. There’s something wrong with me, I’m over-compensating. My wife is in there with my son. He only cried once. I step back, embarrassed and ashamed in my own hallway. But my heart pounds, sent breathlessly beating at the sound of my son. I step towards the room. Stop myself again. My heart thunderous as I say it aloud:
My wife is in there with my son. He only cried the once.
My wife stands next to the crib, her back to me. She holds her hands to her face as though embarrassed. She isn’t singing, but I hear the familiar sound of her hum. I rest my arm on the door frame, my head on my arm, and I watch her for a moment.
‘You stopped singing.’
She doesn’t react. The noise fades. She turns her head but doesn’t raise her eyes.
‘You stopped singing.’
She stiffens and I feel guilt at my tone. The impatience I hear. I’m halfway to an apology when she drops her arms and drops something heavy into the crib.
‘Hey, careful,’ I say and step into the room. That accusing tone again.
The closer I get the more I smell the dank of turned earth, but when I open my mouth to ask after it, I can’t stop the scream which comes.
I scream again. My son in his crib, my son. I see the blood. I smell the blood. I scream again.
My son is dead. My body, the world, drops away. My son is dead, a ragged doll twisted over himself, bleeding from where she bit him. I grab his crib to steady myself but the shake of my arms unsettles his corpse. One of his eyes is still open.
I look at my wife. I scream.
‘What did you do?’
The sound leaves my throat. I shake her shoulders, shake her again when she won’t say, shake her as she shakes. I try to ask again but I scream when I look at my son in his crib. I try to lift him but he’s wet, slippery, and I can’t shake the feeling of desecration.
‘What,’ I say, and am finally able to look at my wife, see the way she stands. She doesn’t respond to my shaking, won’t even look at me. I want her to, just to see her eyes for even a moment, but I can’t in the dark and she doesn’t look and the frustration wells within me and I am surprised by the urge to slap her. I feel sick at the thought and draw breath and try to find her eyes.
‘Why?’
She turns and a little of the light from the hall falls across her face. She has bitten herself as well, chewed her lips away from her teeth. Her eyes still haven’t focused. Perhaps they can’t now, drowned in a muddled white. Her jaw stops, settles, the hum disappears. She reaches out her hand and places it against the curve of my face. Her hand is wet and warm and fast and strong.
My voice becomes a bark as her fingers tighten around my throat. I grab her wrist and tug but she resists and tightens her grip. She is so strong. I can’t shake my surprise at her strength, can’t push past the idea that maybe she was always this strong, that maybe she only held back on my account.
I don’t know what to do. I can’t think of what to do. I don’t want to hit her. I don’t want to hit her, but she leans in suddenly as though she’d bite me too. I collapse my body quickly, twist and fall out of her grasp. I feel foolish at the move, how I scramble away, and just try to get to my feet as fast as possible.
I swear she speaks as she turns to track my movement towards the door. She moves unhurriedly, stiffly, and staggers a little at the larger demands of a step. The arm she used to grip my throat sticks out, rigid, as though she’s forgotten its purpose.
‘Is it a seizure?’ I say, starting at my own voice. I peer at her as though I could see disease. No, I whisper, as she gets close enough. She lunges, off-settles me, and I dance backwards into the dark of the room.
Again, the sound of my voice, over-extended, stretched beyond recognition.
I know I should keep my eyes on her, but my son’s body still lies in the crib. I want to pick him up, tell him I heard his voice. I was just too late. I reach for him but my wife draws too close, lunges and grabs me and I don’t realize I’m cornered until I can’t dance away.
She falls on me, wraps her arms around my torso and pulls me to the floor. Her teeth scrape at my stomach. With both my hands on her shoulders it is all I can do to keep her away. I yell her name, but doubt it matters. I beg her to stop. When her head is accidentally knocked against the dresser in our scuffle, and the unbearable strength in her arms weakens, I pretend for a little longer than I should that the idea doesn’t immediately cross my mind.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, even though I see what she has done. I scream a little, shout as I punch her in the head. The sound distracts me from my hands. My voice in my
