A Christmas Caroline by Camilla Isley

Seven

Motherhood 101

“Are you experiencing any blurred vision?” A young doctor—probably someone at the bottom of the pecking order who got stuck working on Christmas Day—asks me.

“No,” I say, dangling my feet off the examination table.

“Please follow the light with your eyes.” He waves a thin flashlight in my face, and I dutifully track it with my gaze.

A nurse knocks on the door and comes in to hand the doctor a file. He clicks the light off and looks at whatever the nurse gave him.

His eyebrows rise slightly. Is it an okay-good rise or an oh-my-gosh-she’s-gonna-die rise?

I anxiously follow the upward and downward progress of the doctor’s eyebrows as he keeps reading. After all, even in my real life, outside this crap parallel universe, I was in a medically induced coma. If the same fall happened in this world, why didn’t my family bring me to the hospital last night? Shouldn’t they have been more invested in my well-being?

The doctor clears his throat, interrupting my thoughts.

“Your scans came back, and they’re negative for intracranial bleeding. The swelling in your brain is minimal and probably going down as we speak. How are you feeling?”

“Like someone who has been bashed in the back of the head with a baseball bat?”

“Ah, yeah, that’s normal, the headache will persist for a few more days, but I can prescribe you painkillers for that.”

“She’s breastfeeding,” Sam interrupts.

The doctor winces. “In that case, I’m sorry, nothing stronger than Tylenol. Take a max of six pills per day, no more than two at a time and at least four to six hours apart.”

“Isn’t the maximum dosage ten pills per day?”

When I have long days at work, migraines are par for the course and I pop Tylenols like candies.

“Yes, but since you’re breastfeeding, what goes into mommy”—he points at my chest—“goes into the baby, so a lower dosage is preferable.”

Oh, great, moms don’t even get the good drugs or enough of the crappy ones. They have to keep their headaches. Way to go, Melodie, your independent study is truly selling the “quit your job, be a mom” lifestyle.

“And what about her memory?” Sam asks.

Sorry, Pal, I want to tell him. My memory will never come back because this universe doesn’t exist. You’re never getting back your perfect Mommy Caroline.

“Your wife is suffering from traumatic amnesia, which means her memories should likely return as the injury heals. But there’s no telling when—or, in the worst case, if ever. Some patients never recover.”

Sam does his best to keep a straight face, but I can tell he’s not happy to be saddled with this new grumpy model for his wife.

“Is there anything we can do to speed up the recovery?” he asks.

“The best course would be to stick to old routines.” The doctor now turns to me. “Caroline, surround yourself with familiar faces, go back to work if you’re not still on maternity leave—you will increase your chances of remembering things.”

Aha, fat chance. “Thank you, doctor,” I say nevertheless.

“Other than the memory loss and the bump,” the doctor concludes, “you seem perfectly healthy and are cleared to go home and enjoy the day.”

Aha, double fat chance. I’ve never hated Christmas more.

I’m not sure if the look on Sam’s face is relieved or worried as he asks, “Should we be on the lookout for any other symptoms, doctor?”

“If she gets lightheaded, faints, falls for no apparent reason, or throws up, rush back to the emergency room immediately.”

“Thank you, doctor,” Sam says. “Merry Christmas.”

Shiny and bright!

***

Sam pulls up in front of “our” house, kills the engine, and turns to me with a heavy sigh, evidently preparing to give me a pep talk.

“We should discuss how to handle the kids,” he says.

“What do you mean?”

“Jo is old enough to understand what happened, we can tell her the truth. Bram is too small to notice anything is wrong but Will wouldn’t handle the news well. He’s already having trouble coping with the arrival of Bram and wouldn’t be okay with the idea of his mommy not remembering him or…”

I cross my arms over my chest. “Come on, say it.”

“Not loving him.”

I’m not sure how to respond. Should I feel guilty for not loving a kid I’ve never even seen?

“Caroline, I get it.”

“I don’t think you do,” I say.

“Well, not really. But I can try to put myself in your shoes. You wake up this morning thinking you’re twenty-five and that we just broke up and, instead, you find out we’re married, have three kids, and live in New Jersey. I get it, it’s a lot to take in.”

“It really is.”

“Charlie Bear, I’m not asking for you to be back to normal, I’ll help you out as much as I can, but if you see Will and don’t have any kind of epiphany remembering who he is at once, please pretend you love him.”

“I’m a proud bookshop owner, New Jersey wife, mother of three, and I love my kids,” I say, nodding. “Gotcha.”

We get out of the car and cross the street to my parents’ house just in time for lunch. Before we can even knock, Harper runs out and wraps herself around my legs closely followed by Nora.

“Auntie Caroline, you’re okay! We thought you might be dead.”

“No, Harper, I’m fine.” I touch the swelling on my head out of reflex. “Just a bump. Nora, go back in, you’re not wearing a jacket, and it’s cold outside,” I say, acting more attentively than I would normally, the memory of the future scene at Harper’s house still fresh in my mind.

Sam gapes at me.

“What?” I ask.

“You remember their names!”

“Well, of course, I do, they’re my nieces.”

Sam doesn’t say the words out loud, but we both know what he’s thinking: why can’t you remember the names of your own kids, then?

“I’m not the brain whisperer, Sam,” I say in a low voice so only he can hear me. “I don’t know why only certain memories are gone.”

Well, I do know, and it’s because they never happened. Our marriage, the three kids, it’s all a fake. But I don’t want to make another trip to the hospital or to be committed as a mental health patient, so I stick to the amnesia story.

With a bright, I-dare-you-to-complain smile, I add, “Shall we go in?”

I carry Nora in my arms while walking hand in hand with Harper.

Inside the house, I drop Nora on the hardwood floors just in time for Benjamin to barrel into me as I’m squatting on the floor to let his sister down.

“Benjamin.” I ruffle his hair.

He stands on his toes and kisses my cheeks. “I’m greeting you, Auntie, as the Europeans do.”

“How sophisticated of you, Benjamin.”

Behind my nephew’s shoulder, I spot a shy boy, two-and-a-half maybe three years old, leaning against the arched living room threshold. And no one needed to tell me he’s mine and Sam’s son. William has Sam’s curly black hair and straight nose. And while his eyes are also the same brown as Sam’s, the shape is all mine, as is the mouth.

“And who’s that handsome young man over there?” I ask.

Sam is standing behind me, and, even though I can’t see him, I sense he’s following the exchange with his heart in his mouth, holding his breath.

Don’t worry, hubby, I don’t traumatize kids for fun.

Will rubs his eyes with the back of his hands as if he’d just woken up or, more likely, if he’d been about to cry.

“Mommy,” he moans.

“It’s okay,” I say, while still squatting down on the floor. “What’s wrong?”

“Harper said you were dead.”

His cousin gasps in outrage. “I did not say she was dead. I only said that I overheard Grandma say Auntie Caroline was at the hospital and that my friend’s mother went to the hospital and never came back because she died there.”

“Well, I’m most definitely not dead,” I say. Then, opening my arms for Will, I add, “You want to give Mommy a hug?”

He rushes toward me and wraps his little arms tightly around my neck, burying his face in the nook between my neck and shoulders.

I hug him back and, while I don’t experience any kind of epiphany, there is something powerful in the moment. In becoming someone’s safe harbor. Will is hugging me like I’m the most important person in the whole wide world, the utmost center of his universe.

I straighten up with him wrapped around my body like a mini koala and carry him into my parents’ living room, finally making it past the entrance hall.

My mom has a baby in her arms, but I can’t honestly tell if it’s Bram or Tommy, Fan’s youngest. Since another baby is sleeping in a crib next to the couch.

That’s the last panicked thought that crosses my mind before my family assails me with questions.

“How are you?”

“What did the doctors say?”

“Is your memory—”

“Not in front of the kids,” Sam interrupts.

On the couch, another girl, younger than Harper but older than Nora, is doing her best to avoid my gaze. The girl has my eyes—color and shape—and my straight hair, while the rest is all Sam.

That must be Jo. She was smiling before Sam and I entered the room, showing a cute tooth gap, but now she’s sulking quietly. Ah, we must have a complicated mother-daughter relationship.

I’ll have to question Sam about it later.

I sit on the couch while still holding Will, who doesn’t seem to have any intention of letting go, and greet my daughter, “Hey.”

“Hi, Mom.”

No, how are you? Good to see you’re not dead. Apparently, a mutter “hi” is all I’m going to get.

Will finally stops hiding in my neck and some inexplicable primordial instinct takes over and prompts me to kiss him on his chubby cheeks, repeatedly, until he has to push me away, laughing and giggling. I feel possessed.

“Will,” Sam says, squatting down next to the couch. “We have to talk to your sister in the other room. Could you let Mommy go for a few minutes?”

“Can I play with Lightning McQueen?”

“Sure you can.”

“Okay.”

Will smacks an absurdly loud and partly wet kiss on my cheek and hops off the couch while Jo sighs next to me and gets up, crossing her arms over her chest.

With a sullen pout, she asks, “Where do you want to go to talk?”

“Grandpa’s studio,” Sam says.

We all shuffle into my dad’s home office, and Sam closes the door with a soft click behind us.

Jo immediately climbs on Dad’s leather chair and spins around, reminding me terribly of myself at her age.

“Jo, would you stop spinning for a second,” Sam says. “We need to have a serious talk.”

Jo stops the chair to face us and, cross-legged and cross-armed, continues to sulk.

Once we have the resentful attention of our daughter, Sam, standing awkwardly on the other side of Dad’s desk, explains the situation. “Sweetie, after you went to bed last night, Mom went to search for Mr. Whiskers-Winkle in the garden because he hadn’t come home yet.”

What kind of creature is a Mr. Whiskers-Winkle, I wonder, but don’t ask aloud.

“But he was sleeping with me in my bed,” Jo protests.

“We know that now, but Mom didn’t, so she went outside and slipped on the ice, hitting her head.”

Jo stares at me with an indecipherable expression, a mix between wariness and being sorry for me.

“Earlier, we had to go to the hospital because Mom fell harder than we initially thought, and the thing is, sweetie, Mom has amnesia.”

“You mean like Anastasia after Rasputin tries to take her?”

I raise my eyebrows.

Sam turns to me and explains, “It’s one of her favorite cartoons.” Then, speaking again to Jo, he confirms, “Mom can’t remember what happened last night…”

Jo gives me a hopeful side glance before asking, “How far back does the amnesia go?”

Sam pauses undecided, “About seven years. The last thing she can remember happened before you were born.”

Jo doesn’t look the least heartbroken at being forgotten by her mother. Instead, she looks up at me with a glint of relief in her eyes. I smell smoke, lots of smoke.

“But that doesn’t mean Mom doesn’t love you,” Sam keeps consoling a child who evidently needs no cheering up. “She still loves you, but you have to be patient and help her as much as you can in the next few days until her memory comes back. And you also have to promise not to tell your brother, it’s important.”

“Okay, Daddy, I promise.” She hops off the chair. “Can I go now?”

“Not so fast,” I say, pinning her down with the signature mean-boss stare I use when I want to terrorize my employees.

“Sam, would you mind if I had a word with Jo alone?”

“Why?” My husband seems anxious at the prospect of leaving me alone with one of our kids.

“Oh, nothing, we need a mother-daughter chat, that’s all.”

Sam still seems unsure, but then looks around the studio and presumably assesses there are no mortal dangers, and that not even this alternative version of his wife could do many damages, because he nods. “I’ll leave you ladies to talk, then.”

As soon as the door clicks shut, I round the desk and lean against it on Jo’s side.

“So,” I say, giving her the evil eye once again. “Care to tell me what’s really going on here?”

“Nothing, Mom,” Jo says, gazing at the points of her shoes. “I’m really sorry you hit your head and got hurt.”

“Nu-uh, that’s not it, don’t play games with me. Why are you happy I can’t remember you?”

“As Daddy said, I know you still love me deep down,” she says in an angelic voice I don’t buy for a second.

I narrow my eyes. “If you tell me the real reason, there won’t be repercussions, whatever it is. But if I find out on my own… I can’t make any promises.” Then, before she can deny it again, I tap the side of my temple. “Remember, no one knows when all those memories might come back.” She doesn’t need to know the answer is never ever.

Jo theatrically rolls her eyes. “We had a fight last night, okay? And I’m just relieved you can’t remember it.”

Ah, bingo.

“What was the argument about?”

“I asked you for a phone and you said I wasn’t old enough.”

Damn right.

“How old are you again?”

“I’ll be seven next September and I’m in the first grade.” She sits up taller. “I’m not too young.”

“You’re definitely too young. The only electronic device you can get at your age is an eReader.”

My daughter’s mouth gapes open. “That’s exactly what you said last night.”

“Well, I might’ve lost my memory, but I’m still me. And I guess you didn’t take my refusal as a young lady mindful of her manners,” I say, citing Little Women.

Jo’s eyes drop to the floor once again. “No.”

“And what did you say?”

“I called you a mean old bitch,” she mumbles. I’m shocked for all of two seconds. I’ve been called worse. “And you replied that mean old bitches didn’t buy presents for their bratty daughters and that I wouldn’t get anything today.” Jo puts her hands forward as if to prevent me from confirming the punishment. “But you said you wouldn’t punish me if I told the truth, I can open my presents today, right?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “Would you like to add something else in your defense?”

Big blue eyes stare up at me. “Yes, Mom, I’m sorry I called you a mean old bitch.”

I still haven’t decided if I should be more offended at being called old or a bitch.

“Aaaand,” I prompt impatiently.

“And I promise I’ll never call you names again.”

For someone with zero mothering experience, I’m nailing this.

“All right, apology accepted. Let’s go join the others before Grandma’s turkey goes cold or something.”

The moment we walk back into the living room, my mother hands me a stinky baby.

“Ah, just in time to change his diaper.”

I take the poop-bomb, holding Bram, presumably, at a safe distance from my body, and pass it along to Sam. “I don’t change diapers.”

He takes our son from me. “Excuse me?”

“I said I don’t change diapers.”

“Why not?”

“It’s gross and I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“Well, since I’m going back to work on Monday, you’d better learn quickly. And you’re in luck because I can give you the clean-le-cul crash course right now.”

“Saying it in French won’t make it any less gross,” I say.

“Mon chéri.” Sam bats his lashes. “Please follow me dans la salle de bain.”

I trail my husband into the downstairs half bath which is equipped with all kinds of scary baby equipment: a changing table, wipes, diapers, and other obscure things I can’t name or fathom a use for.

Keeping the baby in a one-arm hold, Sam begins his lesson. “First off, make sure there’s a clean underpad on the changing bed.”

“Why?” I ask. “Isn’t the cotton cover enough?”

“In case of a leak, you don’t want to have to wash the cover every time. Then you gently lay the baby on top and check the damage.” Sam unbuttons the baby’s romper and pulls it off his chubby legs, raising it high above his belly. He repeats the process with the body underneath until the diaper is finally revealed. Sam tears it open and, oh, gosh, the room turns into The Bog of Eternal Stench.

“Agwhk,” I gag. “What is that?”

“Oh, don’t be such a wuss. This is only milk poop, wait until he moves on to solids, those are the real stinkers.”

“You mean worse than this? How’s that even possible?”

“It is, believe me.”

Sam grabs our son’s ankles in one hand and lifts his bottom off the changing table to remove the diaper and to wipe his tiny butt.

“And we’ve had a leak,” he says, assessing the brown stain on Bram’s white body. Ew. The poop has raised up to at least half of the baby’s back. “We’re going to need to change him completely.”

“Okay? Where are his clothes?”

“I left his bag in the hall.”

“I’ll go get it,” I say, ready to do anything to get away from this smell.

“That’s the other thing, Caroline.” Sam stops me. “If something like this happens when you’re alone with Bram, you can never ever leave him on the changing table.”

“Why not?”

“Because he may roll over and fall.”

“Okay, so what do I do if I need clean clothes?”

“The safest thing is to put him on the floor on a towel, not much harm he can do from there.”

“Never leave the baby alone on the changing table, gotcha.”

I run out of the room and breathe in a gulp of fresh, poop-free air. By the time I come back into the bathroom with Bram’s bag, the smell isn’t as awful. “You got rid of the Eau de Poop,” I say. “How did you do that?”

Sam points at a white plastic bin in the corner. “Diaper Genie.”

Bram chuckles. He’s naked except for a clean diaper and his old clothes are sealed in a plastic bag.

“Should I put those in the Diaper Genie as well?” I ask.

“No, they’re washable, you know.” Sam chuckles. “If we had to throw away all the rompers he poops on…”

“You just put them in the washer full of poop?”

“No, you hand wash the poop first, and then throw them in the washing machine.”

“Ew, poor Maria.”

“Who’s Maria?”

“My housemaid.”

Sam blinks at me, and another dreadful realization hits me.

“We don’t have a housemaid, do we?”

“Nope.”

“And who does all the housework?”

“We do, and now Jo has taken on some basic responsibilities like bringing out the trash.”

“But wouldn’t it be easier to hire a housemaid?”

“We have help, the same lady who cleans the shop comes to the house twice a week to give us a hand with the bigger things, but now’s the holidays and she’s off to visit her family in DC.” Sam looks like he wants to pinch his nose. “And, as for the mortgages and college funds, twice a week is all we’re comfortable paying for.”

“Oh, okay,” I say, thinking the last time I did any house chore must’ve been at least five years ago.

We both gloss over the topic, and Sam undoes and re-fastens Bram’s diaper to show me how to do it. To the baby’s delight, we work together to re-dress him and finally get out of the bathroom.

But the moment I move away, Bram howls like a wolf on a full moon.

“What’s wrong with him?”

Sam bounces him. “He must be hungry.”

Before I can reply, my nipples go rigid and become utterly uncomfortable.

Sam stares in horror at my general chest area. “Charlie Bear, did you put on your nursing pads?”

“What are nursing pads?”

“They prevent you from leaking milk onto your clothes.” He points at my chest.

I look down where two twin dark stains are spreading in a circular halo around my nipples.

“What’s happening?”

“You’re leaking breast milk.”

“Why?”

“It’s a natural response to the baby crying, your body wants to soothe him.”

We walk back into the living room where my sister takes a two-second look at me and mercifully comes to the rescue. She grabs a heavy blanket from the couch and takes Bram from Sam’s arms, wrapping the baby in a warm cocoon.

“Let’s get you home and changed,” Fan says to me. “I’ll explain everything about breastfeeding.”

Joy to the world.

***

Half an hour later, I’ve changed into a breastfeeding wool dress with side breast pockets. Underneath, I’m wearing a detachable bra padded with nursing pads, and I’m holding Bram over my shoulder, waiting for him to burp as per my sister’s instructions.

“Sometimes it helps if you hold them upright and bounce them gently on your legs,” Fan says.

I follow her suggestion, holding Bram from under his armpits. The little mothersucker seems to enjoy this novelty and chuckles away content until a monster burp escapes his lips.

Fan rewards him with a shower of compliments, “What a good boy, what a beautiful little boy.”

Bram basks in the praises until his face contorts into a grimace, goes all red and another, more sinister gurgle comes out of his other end just before the now-familiar stench of baby poop invades my nostrils.

“Oh,” Fan cheers. “Someone has gone poopy-poop, good boy, good baby you.”

“Again?” I say. “Is he sick? Should we call the doctor? He already pooped thirty minutes ago.”

“Don’t worry,” Fan reassures me, as she offers to take the baby from me and change him. “He just fed, it’s completely normal to go again. Babies can poop up to five times per day, sometimes more, when they’re breastfeeding exclusively.”

“Five times per day?”

My sister waves me off. “But you’re almost past that phase. Once they’re weaned, they only go once or twice a day, tops. Solid foods are much better.”

Famous last words.

Back at my parents’ house, Fan and I have to duck out of the way as an angry Will throws a projectile of mashed potatoes in a screaming fit.

“I don’t like it. I’m not eating it.”

Since we sat down at the table, my sister took all of ten minutes to feed Benjamin—who, also in this universe, is self-weaned and ate on his own—while the rest of us have alternated in a dance of pleads, threats, and games to convince Will to eat.

I turn toward my sister. “Didn’t you say solid foods were better?”

“Unless you have a picky eater.” Fan pats my leg. “Give it another year or two and you’ll be out of the woods, I promise.”

The idea of another year here is so tragic I almost laugh. I sure hope Melodie isn’t planning to leave me in this suburban hell for more than a day because I don’t care if she’s a ghost and supposedly already dead, I’m going to find a way to kill her again.