Caul Baby by Morgan Jerkins (read any book .TXT) 📕

baby wasn’t supposed to be born for another four, five weeks. Denise did not want to go back in there. She didn’t want to be involved in Laila’s revolving misery and cursed herself for answering her sister’s call and loving her too much to not jump all at once.

Laila’s breaths were becoming shorter and faster. Something switched off in Denise’s mind. Whatever anxieties she had disappeared the moment Laila cried out her name. Denise ran on the sides of the corridors where there were no tracks of blood and peeked underneath Laila’s dress. She could not see anything but blood.

“The baby’s coming. She’s coming.” Laila laughed through her cries and grabbed ahold of Denise’s hand. “Just hold my hand. Don’t let go.”

“I won’t, Lay. Hold on. She’ll be here soon.”

The doorbell rang, then a loud rap-rap-rapping on the knocker. Denise let go of Laila’s hand, and Laila screamed again.

Two police officers, one white and the other Black, were at the door, but before they could get a word out, Denise saw a small crowd forming on the opposite side of the street. Every single one of the bystanders was silent, their pity-filled faces contorting and flinching at what was happening with Missus Laila Reserve’s baby in there.

“Yes, yes, come in. My sister is in labor. Where’s the ambulance?” Denise looked past their ears for any flashing red sirens.

“Where is your sister?”

“What? Can’t you hear her? She’s right here.” She reached out to pull them in, but they shrank, turning their lips up at her blood-covered arms.

The police officers entered the foyer and saw Laila bearing down without so much as looking up to acknowledge their presence.

“How long has she been like this?” Both took out their pads and pens from their back pockets.

“I—I don’t know.”

“How far along is she?”

“Seven months. Seven and a half months.”

“Somebody do something!” Laila growled. Spit flew out of her mouth in all different directions. She sputtered like an engine before biting down hard on the fabric of the top of her blouse. The officers encouraged her to continue breathing while they called for backup. Laila unleashed a long scream, then a gasp. Everything collapsed to an unholy silence.

“Do you hear anything? Did you hear anything?” Laila asked.

Denise cradled the baby in both palms but did not inch out from underneath Laila’s dress with her.

“Denise? Denise!”

Denise lowered her head between her shoulders. She closed her eyes, and the tears stung from the heat between Laila’s thighs. She quickly searched the baby’s bloody body for any sign of movement. But the baby, whose eyes were also closed, just lay peacefully in her palms.

“Give her to me.”

“Close your eyes first, Lay.” Denise softened her tone and continued, “Let me wrap her first? We’ll count together and then open our eyes on three.”

Laila leaned forward over her knees and kicked her legs on the ground before thrashing. Memories of her time at Bellevue and the adoption caseworker who bombarded her with questions about her mental health, daily routine, and sex life overwhelmed her already exhausted mind until it caved and collapsed again. She flashed her teeth at the ceiling and snarled, clawing at her breasts till milk squirted from her nipples and her whole face was covered in it. She cried and licked the milk around her mouth and cried some more, sniffling and drooling and snotting. She touched one of the baby’s legs and used that blood to mark up her face, drawing 1, 5, and 0 over and over again—the digits in the figure Maman told her that she had to pay for the caul: fifteen thousand dollars. The police officers radioed for the ambulance.

“Lay?” Denise covered the baby in a towel. “Laila? Laila.” She nudged Laila’s knees.

“Bring me to my feet.”

“Lay, sweetheart, I think you should stay where you are until the ambulance comes. You’ve just given birth.”

“No, I didn’t. Giving birth would mean my child was breathing.” She scowled at the officers and held her arms out in front of her. “Are you going to make yourselves useful or stand there and be a part of my home decor?”

The officers helped Laila to her feet, but she did not retract her arms after she found her balance. She turned toward Denise and said in an unrecognizably deeper tone, “Denise, give her to me.” She scrutinized the shakiness of Laila’s arms and how her bottom lip could not stop quivering as though she were uttering words only intelligible to herself. Or worse-believing that she were speaking and no words were coming out. She held the baby, now wrapped in a towel, closer to her chest and grimaced. “Lay—”

“Give me my goddamn baby, Denise! I’m not going to tell you again.” Denise shrank from the demand and passed the baby over to Laila. But when Laila finally got her wish, she couldn’t look down at the child’s face. She covered it with the towel in hopes that the grief would be less unbearable. Still, she pulled the baby closer and fingered around the chest for any last hope that it would rise. Maybe she’d never been pregnant to begin with. The weight she held in her arms felt like a pair of pomegranates. Sweet things. Sweet, sweet things. She smiled and rocked from side to side, imagining the red juice staining her hands. Yes, that’s right. Red juice staining her hands and fingers from all the pomegranate picking. A gentle hand touched her shoulder. A female’s warm voice diffused the air, but her tone became more urgent and assertive. The acidity of that woman’s voice broke Laila’s trance and made her jerk.

“Missus Reserve. I’m an EMT officer. Let me escort you into the ambulance.” The officer tried to guide Laila with her arms, but Laila elbowed her in the love handle.

“Ambulance. For what? What?” She inadvertently peered down at her hands and found no pomegranates but a reddish infant whose body was shriveling as her grief began to spread like fog across a barren field. The baby