Cries in the afternoon

A light. A figure cast out of the darkness. A twist of the neck revealed the feminine coil of her hair. Outside the shrouded window at her back, rain was falling intermittently, without rhythm, as though it had just begun or abated. The woman appeared weary, aged by exhaustion beyond her years, stillness beyond that of a sleeper. She lacked the sleeper’s deepness of breath. Sitting, as she was upon the sofa with the shades drawn about her, she bore greater resemblance to mere shadow than to life. She looked akin to sorrow, yet her face bore no tears. Did tragedy call out to her? Or some conflict of the great unknown?

But listen! Can you hear it?

Someone does call out to her and has been calling all this while. Somewhere in the echoing, cavernous distance of a large, sparsely furnished house, a baby was crying, soft, solemn and soulful, not shrill. The cries matched the beating of the rain upon the window outside.

The woman stirred not. She let the cries of the child consume the silence which enveloped her. The cries elicited no pity from her, no compassion.

It is unknown, or rather unknowable, how long she had sat there as such, how long the child had been crying, and how long both would have continued, had a knock not fell upon the door.

The woman turned her head startled by the closeness of the rap, the impertinence of it, as if it was into the window of her soul the knocker was entreating entry. She rose abruptly, caught in indecision a moment, unsure if she ought to answer the child’s cries before the door. Unashamed to leave the child crying, she chose the door.

She hardly cracked it open, when in came a whirlwind of activity. The woman who burst through was older but not old, short and stocky, bearing a force beyond her stature. The new arrival crossed the room and passed through the darkness into the kitchen beyond. She unburdened herself of the three grocery bags she carried, before returning to her point of entry to switch on the light and throw back the curtains.

All the time she moved about, she spoke, her words rapid and somewhat ineffectual for their ceaselessness. There was not time to take in the first words before a mess of continuation had followed, no time to respond, barely time for the words to pass from ear to brain.

“Good Lord, Mare” came the words, “I just don’t see how you can stand it. Colic, the doctor says. Can’t do anything about it, the doctor says. Makes you wonder what those doctors know, if they know anything at all. I know you told me not to but I brought these few things over, so you don’t have to be going out. Don’t worry it’s not much. A bit o’ this and a bit o’ that. You need some light in here it looks like the grave. What? It’s three in the afternoon and you’re still in pajamas. It can’t be as bad as all that. You go get dressed. You’ll feel better. Put on a little make-up even. Brighten yourself. I’ll see to the child. Perhaps, she’ll take a bottle from her old Aunt Eliza today.”

Mary opened her mouth to protest but Eliza had already vanished down the hallway. Mary sighed deeply and followed her older half-sister. She passed the kitchen where the unpacked groceries, covered the small table, the nursery where Eliza was rocking and shushing the now screaming baby, and entered her bedroom, her sanctuary, where she could stuff towels under the door, turn up the radio to drown out the baby’s cries. If that did not work, she could run the vacuum.

Mary resented her sister’s intrusions. Twelve years Mary’s senior, Eliza had always acted more the part of mother towards her younger siblings than sister. Mary wanted to wallow in her sorrow and self-pity. Everyone, Eliza included had told her being a mother was the most wonderful thing. Having a child brings love and joy unimaginable, they had said. Mary did not feel love or joy, she felt only tired and hopeless, a failure. The hours of crying each afternoon, were burdensome and endless. Mary believed she could endure a great many things, but not this. This was unendurable. She did not want to get dressed. She did not want to face the world, even the small part of it within her own home.

A great many years later, Mary would see that Eliza had saved her life. For the moment, she felt bitter, yet too weak in her exhaustion to fight back. She did respect Eliza for never telling her to take a nap, which seemed to be Mary’s own mother’s sole words of advice. A nap would not make her child stop crying. A nap would not fill the void in her heart created by her inability to comfort her offspring.

The pediatrician had made a point of telling her not to blame herself. “It is not your fault,” he had said. “You have done all you can. Wait it out and it will pass.”

She was waiting but time moved slow. The afternoons dragged on into eternity.

She slipped off her warm, fuzzy pajamas. Weak from the effort she sat down upon the bed. As she did so, Mary noticed a change in the tenor of the baby’s cries. She took a deep breath. Slowly, she let it back out, releasing some tension. She rose and dressed, knowing the child would soon fall asleep, knowing a couple of hours of peace were at hand. At the same time, she feared Eliza’s lingering presence in her few peaceful hours.

She slid into a pair of jeans and pulled a green sweater over her head. Silently, she opened the door and returned to her spot on the couch. She wanted to turn on the television, to watch something mindless, though she knew Eliza would not approve of the kind of show for which she longed. Instead, she grabbed the top magazine from a towering stack on the floor and pretended to read. The only thing she noticed in the magazine was an advertisement featuring a bikini clad model, for it reminded her of the scar across her stomach, and how she would never again feel comfortable in such an outfit at the beach.

Five or ten minutes passed in silence, Mary did not know which, before Eliza appeared in the doorway. “Tell me what you have eaten today,” She commanded. Mary focused her attention on the magazine and shrugged. Eliza crossed her arms over her chest. “I’ll make you something. What do you want?”

“I don’t know,” Mary replied. “I’m not really hungry.”

Eliza’s keen eyes bore through the top of her sister’s head. Mary bemoaned her inability to stand up to her sister. They had vicious wild fights in their youth with hair-pulling and punches thrown but now Mary hardly had the energy to say no.

Eliza stood there, all five foot one, one hundred fifty six pounds of her. To Mary she was as immoveable as a six foot seven, three hundred pound linebacker.

“Pancakes?” Mary asked.

“With strawberries or blueberries?” Eliza queried in return, her voice softer, her concern showing. “I brought both.”

“With both, then.”

“And whipped cream?”

“Yes, please.”

Eliza nodded but instead of retreating to the kitchen, she lingered. Mary looked up and saw an unfamiliar softness upon her sister’s face. It was love, but painful love. The kind mixed with sorrow. Mary wanted to run to her, to hold her sister in her arms, to do anything to offer comfort, to not be a burden, a weight upon the shoulders of this woman, who stopped to check on her baby sister after working in the high school office all day, before going home to her own three children. Mary envied how her sister could assess the needs of all those who depended on her and put her effort towards the most dire situation. It was what a mother did. Mary felt herself the least of all mothers for she could not manage on her own.

Her eyes darted to the corner of the room, there beneath a layer of dust lay her violin case and her music stand. Eliza noticed the glance. Her eyes asked the question. Mary spoke the answer, “I can’t play for you, not today. I just can’t even imagine . . . but soon, my dear sister. I can feel it coming.”

Eliza smiled. “Take your time, sweetheart,” she replied, “take your time.”

Eliza turned back into the kitchen and soon Mary heard the sound of batter being whisked.