The Baby Monitor

“And then Abby poured the boiling oil on the monster, and killed it dead, and the villagers were so happy they gave her a bag of gold, and a new crown, and lots of new clothes, and said that they were so grateful, because they didn’t think their village would ever get rid of the evil Queen, but Abby did, but she had to leave as there was another town where the people had a problem, and she had to go fix it, so they wouldn’t be scared anymore, like they always been, since anyone could remember …. “  

​Francis smiled at the baby monitor. She was listening as Charlotte pretended to read to Isabella.  Lottie did this every night.

​After Francis had put her seven-month-old daughter in the crib and dimmed the nursery lights, her older child, a precocious five-year-old, would select a big picture book from the bookshelf by the far wall. She would sit in her diminutive rocking chair with the small lamp on a child’s table beside her. Then, based on the pictures, she would tell a story about a plucky princess warding off ogres, tigers, or dragons.

​Sometimes these stories took place in towering castles, set high up in dark mountains bathed in pale moonlight. Sometimes they took place in haunted houses on dark lanes in thick forests, outside town, where bad men with eye patches locked up little boys and girls so witches could make them drink potions.

​Francis was always amazed at Lottie’s creativity. The tales followed a simple formula. The boys were usually defective. The girls fearless. Sometimes Lottie grudgingly lets a boy in a story wield a sword. But usually they were just there to hold doors open and look out for danger.

​Invariably, the girl saved the day, and the townspeople rewarded her. And the little boys and girls lived happily ever after after the heroine freed them from the locked cellar.

​Through the monitor, Francis waited until she heard Lottie’s sparkly ruby shoes, the ones she always wore when telling Bella a story, tap on the wooden floor, signaling that the story was done and Bella was asleep. Then Lottie would put the book away, turn off the light, and leave the nursery door cracked open so the hall light would spill in a little.

​After that, Lottie would come downstairs to announce that Bella was asleep. She would kiss her mother on the cheek. Then she would go back upstairs to brush her teeth and go to bed, where she would take a flashlight and leaf through one of her books under the covers until she fell asleep as well.

​Tonight was no different. After Lottie had gone back upstairs, Francis poured herself a large glass of Barolo and lit a joint. She worked as hard as her husband, and she looked after the house and kids. So to hell with it - let the neighbors talk. Besides, Liam was at the city apartment, where he lived during the week, so no one was there to judge.

​Halfway through the second glass, Francis heard a scream that died with a grunt. She had been lost in her phone, scrolling. She assumed it was from the TV. But when she looked up, one of her real estate shows was on. It didn’t seem a likely source, although who knows? Maybe some writer thought the novelty might keep the likes and subscribes coming.

​Francis smiled at the idea. She wondered whether a market existed for a YouTube show that blended house hunting with true crime. Probably not. But maybe someone would give it a whirl.

​Francis looked over at the baby monitor. That was it, she decided. Some sort of interference had made it sound like someone dying somewhere. OK. That was a stretch. She must be imagining things. Although it did feel real, the way dreams do.  

​The next night, Liam was still away. Lottie read to Bella. And Francis thought how lucky she was to have two such great daughters. It made her wonder what her parents were like. Where they were. She had often thought about trying to find them. Yet she never had.

​Francis thought it might upset her adoptive parents. But she knew that was just an excuse. They had never hidden her circumstances from her. As long as she could remember, they had let her know she wasn't their biological child. But that was fine, they insisted, because they had chosen the best baby in the world. They even kept her original first name so she would have that connection, however tenuous.

​But even though Francis had no desire to meet her parents, she wondered what had happened to them. She guessed they must have been pretty young. Perhaps they had other children when they were in a better place to have them. But she would never know if she had siblings.

​Or maybe they had separated after they had given her up for adoption. And later met other people and had children. Then Francis would have half-siblings. More relatives she would never know, she thought wryly. Or maybe she would.

​But that was the wine and weed talking. She always woke up happy with her family. And feared knowing more would upset the applecart.

​The next time there was no mistake. The words seemed to be coming from the baby monitor. This time it was a man saying, “I know about Barry. You think you are so goddamn discreet. But everyone knows you are a cheating bitch.”

​It was like a badly written TV show. But the TV wasn’t on. Oddly, Francis thought the voice sounded, if not familiar, at least as if she had heard it before. Typical. She didn’t know how often others felt deja vu, but lately it felt like it happened more to her. Perhaps that’s what happens when you get older. Or become a parent.

Places you have never been seem familiar. You walk into a room and feel like you've been there before. Her home was like that. She and Liam had moved in when she was expecting Lottie. It was a project. A civil war house; it was bank-owned. It had been unoccupied for two years.

Cheap chipboard covered crumbling plaster. Old yellow-pine floors were hidden beneath pea-green shag carpet. And the first-floor ceilings sagged. It was a far cry from their city apartment. Yet it seemed familiar. Before walking in for the first time, she knew the stairs would be on the right. And they were.  

Francis went upstairs. The hall light was on. Bella’s door was ajar. Francis pushed it open. The baby was curled up on her stomach, tangled in her blanket, asleep. The monitor's green light was the only light in the room. The room was still, peaceful, noiseless. Francis opened the door to Lottie’s dark room. Nothing stirred there either.

​She went downstairs.

​The weekend came. Liam was home. The routine changed. He would read to Bella while Lottie sat in his lap. It was a break from the usual gore and poisons. The girls would get their princesses old-school, Disney-style. Demure young women needing rescue by itinerant Princes bestowing kisses without so much as a by-your-leave. Bella didn’t seem to care. And Lottie put up with it because ‘that’s how Dad likes it.’

Mercifully, no voices came over the monitor. And Francis was happy for the peace.

​Then Monday came, and Liam was gone again. The house was quiet. Francis had her glass of wine and shortbread cookies. She was mellow and happy. The monitor spoke.

​“I know about you and Barry. You must think I'm an idiot.” The voice trailed off. The speaker was angry but controlled.

​“What are you talking about?”

​“Is he the first?”

​The monitor went silent.

​Francis ran up the stairs. Everything was still. The girls were asleep. Francis wondered if she was losing her mind. Perhaps insanity ran in the family. Of course, she couldn’t know. She didn’t know her parents.

​Or maybe it was a sound effect. She lived in a village. The houses were close together. On a windless night, you could hear Mr. Jones's TV. He was deaf and refused to wear his hearing aids.

​But when she stepped outside, she could hear nothing except the rare car that drove by.  

​The next night, the man was yelling over the sound of something breaking. “Don’t you dare lie to me.”  

​“Calm down, Jack. Nothing’s going on. You’ll wake the baby”

​“Don’t tell me to calm down. If you want me to calm down, stop being a two-bit whore.”

​”Jack, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

​“Yes you do. I’m warning you. Stop this shit now. Or you’ll fucking regret it.”

​Francis heard a door slam. And the woman muttered. “Oh, for chrissakes,” as a baby started crying. Francis sprinted for the stairs, raced up, and banged into the nursery. There was no one there. Bella lay quietly in her crib, her tiny fingers clutching and unclutching her blanket. She was dreaming.

​There was nowhere to hide. The crib was low to the floor. The only furniture was a changing table. A chest of drawers. Lottie’s chair and table. And an armoire. Francis opened it anyway to be thorough. But a child would be hard-pressed to hide in there, let alone two adults. And the curtains only came down to the windowsill.  

​Back downstairs, Francis paced, trying to rationalize what she had heard. She talked various possibilities through in a conversation with herself. But nothing made sense. She must be imagining things. Perhaps she had a brain tumor. Or schizophrenia. However, she seemed to remember reading that this sort of thing happened to young men. Of course, she was no expert. If it kept up, Francis thought, she would have to make an appointment with someone.

​Then a solution dawned on her. The monitor ran on radio waves. Perhaps the neighbors were arguing. But she didn’t recognize the voices. Besides, she thought they would have to be using some kind of device. And the voices sounded like they were in the same room.

Francis couldn’t shake the familiar feeling. Perhaps she was replaying some domestic drama in her head. Memory is an odd thing. She would search for something she hadn’t seen on Netflix. Read the description. Look it up on IMDB. Start it up. Then, after five minutes, realize she'd seen it before.

It was worse when she smoked pot - which was pretty regular for her. Not a lot, mind you. But consistently.

​The next night she at least confirmed that it was the monitor. The man was spitting mad. He was letting the woman have it with both barrels. Then Francis turned the monitor off, and the voices stopped. She turned it on. They started. She turned it off once more. Silence. Back on. And caught the woman saying, “What are you doing with that gun?”

​“I’m getting your attention,” the man said with ice in his voice. “If you don’t stop it, I’ll stop it.” The door slammed again. And a baby started crying. Francis trotted up the stairs. She knew she would find nothing, but maternal instinct compelled her to look. Indeed, upstairs was as it always was. Both girls asleep - no intruders.

The next night was the worst. Francis kept glancing at the monitor. Bella mewled and fussed, then went quiet.

​“Please put the gun down, Jack. You’re scaring me.”

Francis flinched at the noise. She could hear the fear in the woman’s voice. Worse, she felt the fear. It was as if she were in the room with them.

“Am I? Good. Now maybe you’ll pay attention to me. I had a simple request. I told you to stop seeing Barry. But you couldn’t, could you?” Jack slurred, with the careful precision of a drunk. “What do you want me to do, Jane?”

​“I want you to put the gun down, Jack”

​“That ain’t going to happen Jane.” The man exploded in anger

​“Please Jack. Keep it down. You’ll wake Francis.”

​“Wake Francis. I’ll show you how you wake Francis.”

The gun fired.

​”There. Maybe you’ll listen now, Jane.”

Silence. Then a baby started crying in a shrieking, high-pitched wail.

​“Oh, God! Oh God! What have I done? Jane, talk to me. I didn’t mean it. Please say something.”

Francis stared at the monitor. The baby crying was her.