DROPPING THE BABY

The man has the baby in his arm, his left arm, when he gets up for a drink during a commercial break, but on the way back to the living room he catches his foot on the leg of the coffee table and trips. The baby goes flying. From the floor, his chest soaked in soda, he looks around and spots the baby in the corner next to the ficus. He crawls over and picks the baby up and notices right away that something is wrong: her chest isn’t moving, and nor is she making any sounds. He tries to cajole her awake by calling her name and jiggling her hands and feet, and when that doesn’t work, he checks for bruises but does not find any. The baby is lifeless.

            His wife is on the back porch, bathing in the sun.

            Hon, we’re out of chips, he says to her. I’m gonna run to the store.

            There’s chips in the bottom cabinet, she replies. Next to the fridge.

            They’re not the kind I want.

            They’re the kind you always eat.

            Not this time.

            What about the baby?

            I’m taking her with me.

            Are you sure?

            I’m sure.

*   *   *

On the way to the hospital he rebukes himself for his clumsiness. How could you have done this? he says to himself. How could you not have been more careful? Why weren’t you carrying her in your right arm, your better arm, like you usually do, or watching out where you were going? It’s almost as if you wanted this to happen. This final thought horrifies him, because he’s afraid it might be true, because there was a time not that long ago when he did not want to have a child, at least not so soon after getting married. It wasn’t about the money, they have money, although things have been a lot tighter since the baby was born. And it wasn’t about his wife’s appearance either, about not wanting her figure to change, although it’s true that he hasn’t found her quite as attractive as before. Really, it was about comfort, about how he was just getting used to sharing his life with one person and did not want to have it upended by another, and not just any other, but a baby, a life wholly dependent upon his own. Could it be, then, that he didn’t trip over the coffee table, but instead, fatefully, over his own subconscious?

Halfway to the hospital sirens go off behind him. He pulls over and, not wanting to lose any more time than necessary, gets out to explain. The officer, responding to what must seem like a threat to him, also gets out, and pulls his gun.

            Stop! the officer shouts, using his door as a shield. Stay where you are!

            Officer—

            Get down on your knees and put your hands behind your head!

            Officer, I have my baby in the car. She’s injured. I need to get her to the hospital.

            Shit, the officer says, and begins to approach. But he isn’t looking at the man, not anymore. He holsters his gun and stares at a point somewhere over the man’s car. The man turns and sees what the officer is seeing. Above the roof of the car there is an apparition in the shape of the baby. It is small and translucent, and, slowly, it is floating upward.

            What’s going on? he asks the officer. Why is there an image of my daughter in the sky?

            It’s her soul, the officer answers, sounding like an expert, like someone who has seen this far too many times before. Her soul has left her body.

            What are you saying? That’s she’s dead?

            I’m afraid so.

            No, there must be something I can do.

            Forget it. It’s too late. Once it’s out it’s out. There’s no going back.

            But the man isn’t listening anymore. He climbs onto the trunk of his car and crawls up to the roof. Once on his feet he reaches upward, but the soul has already floated beyond his grasp, so he has to jump. On his first attempt he misses and comes crashing down, banging his knee and creating a dent, but on his second attempt he manages to snag a leg. Despite the added weight, the soul continues its ascent, raising them both higher and higher into the air.

            What do I do now? he calls down to the officer.

            I don’t know, the officer replies. I’ve never seen anyone do that before. He hesitates, then makes for his car. I’ll tell you what, he says. I’ll call a chopper. Hold on.

            Thirty minutes later the helicopter arrives. By then the man and the baby’s soul are well above the city’s skyline, and the man has switched his grip, and the leg he is holding onto, several times. He watches as the chopper moves into position over the top of them, and when he and the soul have floated up to the cabin, an officer extends her hand and yanks them inside. After securing his seatbelt, the man repositions his hold on the baby’s soul, cradling it in his arm, his right arm; and as if responding to all these efforts, and recognizing the concern emanating from the man who is holding it—its father—the soul no longer tries to ascend.

            I dropped her, the man confesses. I dropped my baby and she wouldn’t wake up. It’s possible I did it on purpose.

You dropped your baby on purpose? the pilot asks, glancing over his shoulder.

It’s possible. I don’t know. How can anyone be sure of these things?

            I would think on something like that a person would know.

            Not always.

The helicopter flies to the nearest hospital and lands on the roof. By then the first officer has already arrived and has brought the baby with him. A nurse takes the soul from the man and rushes it into the operating room, where a doctor attempts to reunite it with the body. As soon as the two are together, occupying the same space, the baby begins to breath again, and a moment later, opens its eyes and cries.

*   *   *

His wife is on her knees in the living room when the man returns, a paper towel in one hand and a cleaning bottle in the other; she is staring at the TV, transfixed by the breaking news.

I didn’t go to get chips, he tells her.

I know, she says, getting up from the floor. She comes over and takes the baby away from him, checking to see that she’s healthy. When I came in I saw the spill and I thought how inconsiderate. And then I saw the footage of a man floating in the air, holding onto the soul of a baby. The man was you. The baby was ours. She slaps him across the face. Why did you lie to me?

I don’t know. I panicked. I dropped our baby and she wasn’t breathing and I was afraid you would blame me if she died.

You’re right, it’s possible I would have, at least at first. But in time I would have seen it was an accident, not something you would have done on purpose.

But maybe I did. Maybe it’s what I wanted, to go back to the way things were before.

Maybe, she smiles, the baby cooing at her. But even you are just smart enough to know that killing our baby would not have led to that.

No, of course. You’re right.

She tells him to go upstairs and change, and when he returns he sees that she has washed the baby and changed the diaper. She hands the baby back to him and gives him a kiss on the lips.

Now take her to her room and put her to sleep, she says. Then come back down, you idiot, and we’ll start dinner.

He takes the baby to the nursery and places her in her crib. He sings a lullaby and waits for her to fall asleep. For a long while after he stares at the baby and thinks about what is and what might have been, and how, miraculously, he has been given a second chance. From now on, he thinks, I will have to be more careful.

Wolfgang Wright is the author of the comic novel Me and Gepe. His short work has appeared in numerous literary magazines, including Short Beasts, The Collidescope, and Waccamaw. He doesn’t tolerate gluten so well, quite enjoys watching British panel shows, and devotes a little time each day to contemplating the Tao. He lives in North Dakota.