The Babysitter

The Babysitter

"Wake up!

Your daughter needs you!

Snap out of it! Get the fuck up!"

Melody screaming. Kylie crying. They've become the soundtrack of my life since the baby arrived. An itch I can't scratch. I just want one night of peace, one night without the nagging bitch who used to be my sweet wife in my ear, without this brat crying until morning. Tonight will be different. Tonight I'm prepared. Tonight I will sleep.

The expensive bottle of Jack Daniel's Single Barrel is doing its job. Each swallow softens the screaming, the crying, the endless demands of a household that apparently can't function without me.

After all, Melody has one job: be a wife and a fucking mother. I pay for everything. The mortgage, the cars, the life she enjoys. I'm responsible for keeping us afloat, and I have a manuscript due in six weeks. No sex in weeks. No peace. Enough with the postpartum bullshit. It's been weeks. She's fine. It's just another excuse. Tonight she can handle the baby.

There's a certain euphoria in drinking yourself into a stupor. That beautiful moment before the blackout when obligations dissolve into the warm burn of whiskey and exhaustion finally takes you into a deep, thoughtless slumber. Even the Sandman's grasp can't keep out the noise.

The nightmares are back. Screaming. Crying. Voices beyond the bedroom. Scary faces and sirens haunting me as I drift in and out of broken dreams. What a weird fucking night.

I swear, if this woman doesn't start taking better care of our baby and let me rest, it'll be the end of me. I should've hired that damn babysitter. Hired her tight little ass without saying a word and started fucking her. Melody was the one who wanted help. She only changed her mind after seeing the obvious attraction between us.

The brunette sat across from me during the interview, crossing and uncrossing her legs beneath that innocent little dress. Those enormous anime eyes. That soft, hungry voice. The way she bit her tongue and giggled, innocent or maybe not so innocent.

Melody noticed. Maybe she was jealous. Hell, maybe she wanted the girl herself. We argued until Melody said to forget it. Don't hire her. She pretended it was for the good of our marriage, and suddenly even the money mattered.

Funny how money mattered when I wanted something. She'd spent our book advance faster than I could finish a chapter. Just write another bestseller, she'd say. Easy for her to make light of my work, my money. Easy for her to drift into damn near a stranger.

Maybe the babysitter could've been my muse. Or our savior. Maybe she could have sparked something Melody and I lost around the time she got pregnant. Too late now. At least Jack understands me. Each sip is like a lullaby.

Hours later, the red numbers on the alarm clock burn through my eyelids. 5:00 a.m.

I wake feverish, drenched in sweat, my head pounding. Hot and cold fight over my skin. Still, I've found something I've been coveting.

Silence. The house is completely quiet. I stagger into the hall. No Melody. No Kylie. Maybe she's finally gotten her lazy ass up and taken the baby for a walk. See? Tough love works.

I could use the peace to write. Half a bottle of premium whiskey and an empty house seem like just the blessing I need.

Two generous pours later, I'm at the computer, staring into a blank white screen. The light burns my eyes. I search my mind, my soul, for the right words and find none.

Fuck. Perfect time for writer's block.

Sleep. You just need sleep.

I crawl back into bed.

A door slams.

"You stupid piece of shit! It's all your fault! Your daughter needed you!"

Melody. Always the same fucking complaints. Drawers open and slam. Something hits the floor. She's pissed; she always makes a racket when she's mad. Part of me wants to get up, tell her to shut up, kiss her, throw her on the bed. That's how we used to settle arguments. Not anymore. Instead I roll over. I don't want any of it.

Melody keeps talking, but I let her words stretch and blur into sounds without meaning. I've mastered that over the years. Let the complaints run together, let the anger lose its strength. Without a reaction, anger has no power. I let Jack and what's left of my exhaustion drag me back into the darkness. It's almost become a skill at this point. Eventually her voice becomes a distant murmur. Then nothing.

When I wake again, something feels wrong. That feeling in your gut before you know what it is, before you know whether it can be fixed.

Then I see the bare patches in the closet. Empty drawers. Her jewelry box gone from the dresser. Melody's clothes, shoes, perfume. All gone.

I rush into the nursery. Everything's intact. The crib, diapers, blankets, formula. Even that ridiculous two-hundred-and-something-dollar baby monitor she insisted on buying.

I want Kylie to hear my voice, she'd said. And I want us to see her at night. Night vision. Two-way audio. Every unnecessary feature in the most expensive one available. Now its little black screen stares back at me, mocking me. Why take her things and leave the baby's? Then the answer snaps into place. A game.

She's gone to her mother's or one of her girlfriends' houses. She wants me to panic, beg her to return, promise to change.

Well, fuck that. All Kylie's things are here. She can't stay away long. I won't crack. I pour another drink and sit at my computer.

Sentence after sentence appears and disappears. Nothing works. Every paragraph sounds wrong. Some too bland, others so poetic they're trying too damn hard. I blame the hangover, then exhaustion, then Melody. A writer needs inspiration. A muse. Something beyond bills, diapers, a demanding woman and a crying baby. By evening the screen is nearly as empty as when I started.

I consider going out. A bar. Maybe a prostitute. Maybe I just need to feel alive, get some air, some sex, and I'll be myself again.

Instead I finish the whiskey and return to bed. Melody will be home tomorrow.

The next morning feels different. I inhale, searching for her perfume, her body odor, the faint smell of a fart, anything.

Nothing. No crying. No laughter. No complaints. Now I actually miss the noise. But I know Melody. These Latinas are taught to play hard. She's waiting for me to crack. It's only day two. I can handle day two.

I walk to the bathroom through blurred vision and splash water on my face. My reflection looks distorted and frail in the dirty bathroom mirror. God, this place is a mess. I wish Melody had straightened it out. Maybe when she returns we'll both make an effort. I'll drink less. She'll show a little more appreciation. We'll put things back together. For now I'm too anxious to write. What else is there to do but sleep?

By day three, the silence is unbearable. I open the refrigerator. Leftovers, spoiled food, containers I don't remember buying. Flies circle the dirty dishes in the sink. How could Melody leave the house like this? My stomach growls, but nothing looks appetizing.

I wander into the nursery and lift Kylie's blanket to my face. Detergent. Formula. The faintest trace of my daughter. For the first time, I wonder how she's doing without her home, her crib, her things. Enough. I grip my half-charged phone and call Melody. Straight to voicemail. Again. Nothing. Maybe I'll have to surrender this little contest. For Kylie's sake, of course.

I pour water from the five-gallon jug Melody insisted we buy. The first mouthful tastes warm and metallic. I spit it into the sink.

Maybe I'm getting sick. Maybe she was right: maybe the alcohol is killing me. Or maybe I'm just hungover and need another drink. There's cheaper whiskey beneath the sink. A couple of drinks, a shower, some writing. Then my girls will come home and everything will return to normal. That's the story I tell myself as the afternoon disappears in front of another blank screen. The cursor does far more blinking than I do typing.

By nine, I can't take it anymore. I call again. Voicemail. Three days. How can she keep our daughter away for three days?

I go back to the nursery, hoping its familiar contents will reassure me. Instead, a question surfaces. Why did she leave everything?

The blanket. The crib. The monitor. Fragments of that first night flash through my mind. Melody screaming. Kylie crying. Sirens.

Your daughter needed you. Needed. Past tense. My chest seizes. Did I sleep through my daughter's death? No. Impossible. Surely the police or paramedics would've woken me. But what if Kylie got sick? Melody was terrified of SIDS. What if she'd rushed her to the hospital while I slept?

What if she came back for her belongings because Kylie had— I can't finish the thought. I call again. Voicemail. I scream into the phone and hurl it against the wall. Now it makes sense. I drank myself into a stupor while my daughter needed me. That's why Melody came back in a rage. That's why she's gone. I collapse beside the crib. Eventually I find the cheap whiskey and drink until I can't stand. Then I crawl into bed, praying I'm wrong.

I don't know how much time passes. In the dead silence of the night, something wakes me. At first it's a strange sensation, like something crawling over my skin. Then I hear it. A small, faint, familiar cry.

I sit upright. Another cry. Kylie. I run into the nursery. The crib is empty. The nightlight casts an ominous pattern across the floor.

Then she cries again. The sound comes from the baby monitor. Its screen is black and I feel a cold chill come over me.

"Kylie?" Another tiny sob. "Baby girl?" I lift the monitor and find the talk button. "Daddy's here, sweetheart. Can you hear me?" The crying continues. I press harder. "Come on, baby. Please."

A crackle. Faint rustling. Humming. Soft. Sweet. Almost musical. "There we go, sweetheart. That's my good girl."

I freeze. I know that voice.

"Such a pretty little thing. Look at those eyes. You look just like your mama."

A small laugh.

No. It can't be.

The brunette. The fucking babysitter.

For a moment I'm back in our living room, watching her cross her legs. Beneath the terror and confusion, I feel a sick flicker of arousal.

Jesus Christ. My daughter might be dead, my wife is gone, and some filthy part of me still wants her.

I want to vomit.

"Where are you? Where's my daughter?"

The speaker hisses.

A door closes. Footsteps. High heels clacking against hardwood.

Click. Click. Click.

I turn toward the nursery doorway.

"Melody?"

The footsteps grow louder, as if someone's coming down my hallway.

Then, from the monitor:

"Well, if the new superstar isn't finally home."

A woman's laugh.

"Oh, thank God. These heels are killing me."

Two sharp knocks. I picture her kicking off her shoes.

"How's my baby girl?" Melody asks.

"Being a little princess. Wonder where she gets that from."

"I haven't the faintest idea."

They laugh.

"Melody!"

"Seriously, I'm glad you're here," Melody says.

"Somebody has to keep my girls company."

"Your girls?"

"Unless you've got a better offer." The babysitter's teasing now.

"Careful. I might never let you leave."

Their laughter softens. A rustle. Something brushes the microphone.

"MELODY! ANSWER ME! STOP THIS CHARADE!"

Static bursts through the speaker.

"What's that?" the babysitter asks.

My heart leaps.

"YES! I'M HERE!"

"Probably interference. A walkie-talkie, maybe," Melody says.

"Maybe we've got a secret admirer."

"Wouldn't be your first."

"Jealous?"

"Please."

More laughter.

They hear me. They have to.

"So that's it? You take my daughter and run off with your new little girlfriend? You think you're taking my house, my money, my fucking book, huh?"

Kylie starts crying.

"ANSWER ME!"

I hurl the monitor across the nursery.

It strikes the wall and disappears behind the dresser.

For one beautiful second, silence.

Then Kylie cries again.

Thin and faint as a shadow. The cry echoes as if it's coming from the bottom of a well.

I sink against the crib.

They planned this. Melody and that little bitch. They want everything I've worked for.

But how? How can their voices come through a monitor in an empty nursery? Is that why she insisted on this one?

Unless none of it's real.

Unless I've finally drunk myself insane.

The speaker crackles.

"Don't look at me like that, little lady," the babysitter whispers. "I'm not the one who woke you up."

Kylie hiccups.

I crawl toward the dresser. I hear the babysitter breathing, each little intake of air, as though she's kneeling beside me.

Then footsteps.

These don't sound like they're coming from the monitor. They're in the hallway.

I look up.

A floorboard creaks.

"Melody? All right, girls. You win. You fucking win. I'll never drink again."

Another creak.

Then the babysitter says, "There you are."

I can't move.

"Thought you'd escaped me, didn't you?"

I drag the monitor out. A thin crack runs across its black screen.

"Did you check your phone?" the babysitter asks.

Melody sighs.

"Another one of those voicemails?"

"Two today."

"Same thing?"

"Static. Breathing. Almost sounds like somebody talking underwater."

My blood goes cold.

My calls.

"Recognize the number?"

"Blocked. Every time."

I stare toward the bedroom. I called her three times. Didn't I? Or four?

The speaker crackles. Beneath their conversation comes a low, uneven sound, almost a voice. I lean closer.

It rises when I breathe out. Stops when I hold my breath.

"Hello?" I whisper.

The sound returns a fraction behind me.

"Hello?"

My own voice, flattened and distant, seems to leak from the speaker.

I clap a hand over my mouth.

The babysitter stops talking.

"Did you hear that?"

"Don't start," Melody says.

"No, really."

The speaker whines. Somewhere in the house a door clicks shut.

I turn so quickly my neck hurts.

Nothing in the hallway.

The nursery nightlight flickers. For an instant the crib looks occupied: a small dark shape beneath the blanket.

I lunge for it.

Empty.

Behind me, Kylie laughs through the monitor.

The sound is so close I feel it against my ear, though the machine lies on the floor.

"Stop it," I whisper.

The laughter stops.

"Ugh, this is weird." Melody sounds uneasy for the first time.

"Everything's fine," the babysitter says.

I snatch up the monitor and press the button.

"Hello?"

A pause. The women fall silent.

"Could you turn that thing off?" Melody asks. "It's giving me the creeps."

"Sure."

A click.

The humming vanishes.

The women vanish.

Kylie vanishes.

I wait for the familiar hiss. Nothing. Not even static.

I push the power button. Again. Hold it until my thumb hurts.

Nothing.

I shake the monitor, slap its cracked screen, press my ear against the plastic.

"Come on. Come on, you piece of shit."

I tear open dresser drawers, feel along the floor for a charger, a hidden speaker, anything that might explain it.

Nothing. Only the black monitor showing my distorted reflection.

They turned it off.

Wherever they are, they simply turned it off.

I hadn't understood how much I needed that sound until it was gone.

I press the talk button.

"Kylie?"

Nothing.

"Baby girl?"

I shout Melody's name until my throat burns. Then I beg. I promise to stop drinking, finish the book, hire whoever she wants. Things I hadn't known I was willing to give.

No answer.

I crawl to the crib and press Kylie's blanket to my face, trying to savor what's left of her scent. Soon all I smell is my own snot and tears.

What did I hear? A trick? A crossed signal? A woman in another house holding my daughter?

Is Melody with her? Were they laughing at me?

Or was there never a call, a monitor, a house at all? Am I still in bed, drowning in whiskey and some fever dream?

The thought I refuse to finish keeps returning.

Maybe I'm not asleep.

Maybe waking is the one thing I can't do.

I stare at the nursery doorway. It looks farther away than it should. The hall stretches into darkness the nightlight can't reach.

I try to stand, to leave this cursed room, but my body feels encased in stone. My legs fold beneath me.

For a moment I want to laugh at the irony.

I wanted silence. I paid good money for sleep and silence. I poured it down my throat to make sure nothing could disturb me.

Now I'd give anything for one more cry. Hell, even the screaming.

I press the dead monitor against my chest and shut my eyes.

"Come on. Pull yourself together. It's just a dream."

I wait for Melody's footsteps. For the mattress to dip beneath her weight. For her hand to shake my shoulder.

Nothing.

"Please..."

I don't know whether I'm speaking to Kylie, the machine, Melody, or myself.

I press the button one last time.

Wake up.

Your daughter needs you.