The Little Angel

It wasn't something I wanted to talk about.
I knew it was coming. The clock on the wall silently told me. With each little movement of it's hands, I was losing her. My chest tightened and I strove to ignore the silent ticking. What good was it going to do if I listened to the damn clock? What good was it going to do if I started counting with it? It would only hurt more.
I dangled toys in front of her. She blew raspberries at me and reached out with her awkward hands. She slapped the mirror around a few times and laughed. She grabbed the rubber ball and tried in vain to shove it in her mouth. She got frustrated and threw it. I couldn't stop the tears from rolling down my cheeks.
I remember people, close friends of mine, telling me it was useless. The things I was hoping for weren't going to happen. My dreams were going to fall down around me. That I was trusting the wrong person and that I shouldn't be with him anymore; he was only making my life harder. And then, they happily told me that I was a horrible person. That this little angel before me babbling nonsense deserved a better caregiver. They stated with such defiance that I didn't deserve the position I was in, and I certaintly didn't deserve the unfailing trust and love the little angel gave to me.
I remember wishing I wasn't on the phone with them, so I could tear their throats out.
So I was going to school. So I wasn't home as often as I would like to be. So I was working full time also. I was trying to give this little angel all she deserved. I was trying to make our lives simpler by being able to provide more. And that didn't mean I was trying to make our lives simpler now, but also in the future when my current job expired and I would be nothing more than an ammunition dealer. There was nothing wrong with it, but it wouldn't give us enough to survive off of.
But things weren't simpler. Sure, we were surviving beautifully, but the man who babysat for me happened to be family. I was told he had dropped out of school, so there would be no problem if he baby sat until my husband came home from being out to sea. I was told by my loving parents that there would be no problems. But the problems came, and they came quickly. First, he wanted more from me than I was willing to give. He wanted two new cell phones, expensive ones. Then he wanted an X box. Then he wanted a better computer. Then he wanted to buy our father a computer case. Then he wanted money for pot. Then he wanted money for alcohal. Then he wanted money for take out. Then, while I was gut wrenchingly sick, he wanted me to walk to the nearest gas station to buy him ciggarrettes. My entire family was addicted to material items and craved money more than I could have possibly imagine.
And then came the day when, after all that, he wanted to go home.
I understood. He was eighteen. But he only had to stick it out with us for four more months. Four months! I guess when I was eighteen, which was only two years ago, I probably would have thought four months was forever also. But I needed him. She wasn't old enough yet. She was only three months. She just wasn't old enough yet to be watched for a long period of time in an entirely different state.
I just wasn't ready to give her up.
I begged. I bought. I yelled. I cried. I did everything in my power. I asked friends for help and, well, you see where that led me. I finally just craddled my little angel and rocked back and forth on the living room floor. I couldn't see anything except for the top of her head and her wide blue eyes as she tugged furiously at my hair.
And then the anger hit. I was just so furious. I was furious because I couldn't afford to drop out of school. It would cost twenty-three thousand just to quit. I refused to aquire such a debt, because it would hurt the little angel's future. I couldn't quit work because no one could back out of their military agreement. I was furious because my husband could come home, but the military was jerking him around. I was so furious at my friends, who ended up not being very good friends.
I was just so enraged.
Without thinking about it, I called my husband. I was very quiet as I told him to cancel his airline ticket. I could feel myself wishing I could tell him everything, to just let it out. But we've fought before, and I didn't want to deal with that also. But as I continued to rock her and to let the tears flow, I allowed myself to tell him I was mad at him. What else could I do?
The clock kept ticking. It reminded me of Poe's The Telltale Heart.
After hanging up, I could feel myself cutting ties. I usually did it when I was faced with something so emotional, so psycologically deteriorating. This would kill me. Maybe not in reality kill me, but something inside me would die.
There was no way I was cutting ties with the little angel. We were bound by steel cables. I could feel myself cutting ties with my husband. I suddenly didn't care if he came home. There was no meaning to our relationship if she wasn't in it anymore. The emptiness in both abdomen and house would be too much. I started cutting ties with my so called friends. Who the hell needed friends like that? I could feel my mind wrapping around the loneliness and emptiness I would feel. I cut ties with anyone and everyone I ever knew, just to feel nothing, just to excape that awful, chest hammering pain.
She cooed and sneezed right in my face. I smiled down at her and she smiled back up at me as I wiped the snot off my nose. Blowing another rasberry, she tugged humorously at my hair. She laughed, and coughed. Sick as she was, sick as we both were, she was in no way a troublesome baby. She took life like a champ, pain and all.
They would be here soon. I tightened my grip on her and focused on her face, on her eyes. I focused on her little lips as she blew raspberries. I focused on her hands as she tugged even more furiously. I focused on her hair as it tickled her ears and forced her to try grabbing the side of her head. I took in every aspect of her person, of her personality. I memorized every curve of her face and every unintelligable syllable she uttered. Every movement she made, I could recall from memory.
The pain in my chest became unbearable. The tears were hot as lava crawling down my face. My throat burned from keeping the animal like moans inside.
A knock on the door. My fingers became vise grips. She cried a little, but I couldn't release her. My heart dropped into the pit of my stomach. I felt nothing. Clinging to her, I stood up and opened the door. Their smiling faces made me want to puke. I told them in a strangely calm voice that all of her things were packed and ready to go. I watched silently as they loaded the car with the things I bought, the things I had provided for her. I watched feeling nothing, hearing only the insane ticking of the clock as it spiraled out of control. I heard their merry chattering, speaking of how well they were going to take care of her. The urge to puke was growing.
When everything was settled into the car, my parents held out her car seat with pitifully unmasked enthusiasm. They enjoyed seeing me fail. They seemed to enjoy my misery. I knew they enjoyed the thought of raising this little angel for the next four months, possibly, if they could, forever. They didn't expect my husband to be responsible and come home. They expected him to run off with someone else, and leave me lonely. It was almost as if they delighted in the thought.
The nothingness was starting to wear off; I could feel the flash of rage.
But there was nothing I could do. This is how it would have to be. She needed to be taken care of and, despite my honest trying, I couldn't do it at the moment. I had failed as a mother. I had failed out of pure stupidity and unfailing trust. I had failed at everything.
I remember the clock's ticking stopping. My mother's arms wrapped around my little angel and pulled her out of my vise grip. I could only watch stupidly and through tear shrouded eyes as she was buckled into the car seat. I watched her squirm and turn trusting eyes on me. I couldn't move as they covered her legs with her blanket and picked her up. She smiled at me; she knew she was going for a car ride. She loved car rides. She threw her little arms around in excitment and cooed happily. They twisted the carseat around and that was the last I saw of her.
They were out the door and into the car before I knew it. My door was still open. It was the roar of the engine that brought me to life. I jerked forward and ran to the door. I tripped over her forgotten ball. I landed hard on my hand and elbow before jumping back up. When I made it to the door, heart hammering and throat raw, I saw the green SUV race out of my driveway. I leaped down the five steps and chased after it. I screamed. I waved. I tried everything to get them to stop. I was close enough to grab the bumper when they pulled into the street.
I chased them down the street. I think I ran all the way to the light, about a quarter mile away, before it hit me. They were probably on the highway. I wasn't going to be able to catch them now. Winded, I stopped and stared, feeling my heart hammer and my breaths come in gasp. I felt the pain in my legs and welcomed in. I felt the headache and welcomed it.
I dropped on my ass, and welcomed the scream that wretched from my throat.
For four months, I wouldn't see her smile. For four months, the cooes and cries wouldn't interupt my daily life. I wouldn't be the one who woke in the middle of the night to feed her. I wouldn't be the one to tuck her in at night, to sing calming songs to her, to play with her feet, to hold her toys as she batted them around, to be her punching bag. I wouldn't be the one to watch as she grew more and more each day. I wouldn't see her accomplishments or feed her the first solid foods. I wouldn't be the one to see her first crawl, or the first time she sat up without any help at all. When I saw her again, she would shy away before realizing it was me. It killed me. That little piece I thought would die was much larger than imagined.
I didn't go home that night. I wandered. I thought. I imagined every curve of her face. I contemplated grabbing my keys and driving four states to get her back. When I finally did go home, the house was so empty and so quiet that I broke most of my dishes. Just for noise. I turned my tv on full blast, to drown her echoing cooes and giggles.
I heard a very slow, very elongated tick. I glanced at my clock. It seemed to be counting backwards. Counting down the time she would be home.
I went to bed. There was glass on my kitchen floor. I would clean it later. There were no more ticking sounds in my house. Every single clock, every single time keeping device, lay broken on that floor.
I didn't want to hear another god damn tick. Ever.

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Comments


  • Dassy
    November 8, 2008
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    Magnifico!

    tsk. that would suck. i mean its bad enough that her husband is gone, her friends hate her, and her parents Want her to fail... but to have a child taken away as well must make her want to be suicidal. i know that it would b for me. u did an excellent job while writing this piece


  • Solei
    September 20, 2008
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    This is very beautiful! My god, i swear it brought tears to my eyes! fantastic!

  • uscespinoza
    September 16, 2008

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    your story made me want to go pick up my daughter from my in-law's. My mother-in-law babysits for my wife and I, and I have a hard time leaving her for a few hours. I can't imagine leaving, or letting her go for that long of a time. I enjoy every moment with her, even when she wakes me up at one or four in the morning and won't fall back asleep. And while it's difficult, I couldn't see myself with our her. I wish you the best, and hope that you work hard to get your daughter back. Good luck.

  • wessdogg2x4786
    September 13, 2008
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    baby

    i am so sorry that i am not home. you are an amazing writer and i know it helps you think clearer and get things off of your chest much like talking with my family does. i am sorry you think that way about your parents. i love you and i will be home soon i promise. i love you so much baby.
    WES

    beginning: 5, language: 5, plot: 5, ending: 5, dialog: 5, characters: 5.