Sleepwalking in Daylight. Elizabeth Flock

your sentence,” I said.

      “Nothing.”

      Then he cleared his throat the way he does when he has something to say.

      “It’s just—” more throat clearing “—I mean, are we sure we can take on a crack baby?”

      “I hate that term.”

      “You know what I mean. A child born addicted. Whatever. It’s a huge thing.”

      “We talked about this,” I said. “We’ve been over this. I thought you were good with it. We were on the same page. I can’t believe you’re changing your mind.”

      “Sam, we only started talking about it when we heard there was a long wait.”

      “Yeah, so?”

      “So … it’s only been a few weeks, four, tops. It’s a big thing. Maybe we should take a little more time …”

      “But here she is! She’s the one. She’s our girl. I don’t care what she’s got in her system. And up until now you didn’t care either. At least that’s what you said. Were you lying?”

      “Jesus no. It’s just that it’s … real.”

      “Yeah, well, having children is real, Bob. We’ve spent how many thousands of dollars trying to make one of our own. That was real, right?”

      “You know what I mean. This is a child with addictions …”

      “… and they said it wouldn’t be long until it’s out of her system altogether. They said the lasting effects are minimal. So she’ll have trouble concentrating in school. We’ll hire tutors.”

      “You really want this,” he said. Like it was a Christmas present that cost a little too much but that he’d be willing to buy to make me happy.

      “I really want this.”

      He looked at her picture, smiled up at me and touched her photo like I had.

      “Welcome home, Cameron Friedman,” he said.

      I threw myself into hugging him. I hadn’t asked him if he really wanted this. I figured me wanting it was enough for the both of us.

      My mother used to say there’s no such thing as too much love. But what happens when there’s not enough love? What if, when you look at your husband you feel blank like a piece of notebook paper?

      I remember my mother leaning over the bathroom sink applying coral lipstick, checking her teased hair to make sure the bouffant was not too big because big is tacky. I would sit on the edge of the bathtub, watching her wave wet with nail polish fingertips, getting ready to go out with my dad. Even when she wasn’t in it, the bathroom smelled like nail polish, Joy perfume and White Rain hair spray. Her closet had sachets so her clothes all smelled like roses, so that’s what she was: petals and softness and color.

      Mom’d say things like, “Rule Number One, never ever leave the house without lipstick.” She put it on right after brushing her teeth and as soon as I was allowed to wear it, I did the same thing. She told me Dad never ever saw her without it. She said in a fire there are two things you need to do before you run out, lipstick and mascara. I started having all kinds of nightmares involving fire and she told me that Dad always kept fresh batteries in the smoke detectors, he’s that kind of father, she said. For a long time if someone mentioned their father I’d ask if he changed the batteries in the smoke detectors.

      I remember she’d tell me I was meant for greatness and boy oh boy just wait something special was surely in store and boy oh boy would I look back and laugh at how I never believed her. I didn’t believe her when she said I would meet someone who I would love more than chocolate. I didn’t believe her when she said I would love being married just like she did or when she said just you wait, Samantha. You’ll see. The love you’ll have for your children will be beyond your imagination.

      It was definitely beyond my imagination the work it took to live day to day with Cammy. Lynn’s son, Tommy, was only a few months old at the time, so we hadn’t been able to spend time together, with or without the kids. Forget babysitters. No one had the patience for Cammy. Our social worker said the more exposure Cammy had to other kids her age, the better off she’d be. I thought I’d try the Mommy & Me class at our health club.

      When you have a child born addicted to drugs you notice things you never before gave a second thought to, like taking Cam to the club. I’d never heard the loud music pumping bass like a punch, coming in through the revolving doors, which alone were confusing to her, I could see. I hadn’t thought of lights being particularly bright, but they were suddenly blinding. The line of people checking in felt interminable—had it always taken so long?

      All this made Cammy hysterical. Hysterical. People turned around. They stared. Some shook their heads like I was a criminal for bringing her here. I found myself embarrassed. Looking back, I wish I’d said, “Really? Really. You’re upset about the noise my daughter’s making and you don’t mind Wang Chung blaring overhead?” Deep down, though, I couldn’t blame them. I was one of them not so long ago.

      By the time I signed us in, my arm was breaking under the constant squirm of frantic Cammy. My other shoulder was pinched in the straps of the baby bag I hadn’t been able to readjust. I was sweating, passing the spin studio. The pilates room. The office for personal trainers. I was walking past my former life. By the time we made it to class I was exhausted. I looked in through the window in the door and all the moms were talking with each other. So pleasant. Then I looked at their kids. The class was for mothers and their two-year-olds. They were strict about the age apparently. So when I looked in at them I was shocked to see they were nearly twice Cammy’s size. I looked from her to them and back at her. They were healthy of course. They’d been breast-fed healthy milk. They’d had carefully scrutinized pregnancies. The babies were all bobbing up and down happily on their mothers’ laps, waiting for class to start. I turned and whisked us both out of there and never again went to the health club.

      Bob and I went days without talking. It was a dance. Bob somehow sleeping through the cries in the night. Sometimes I knew he was faking sleep. He was teaching me a lesson. I was the one who wanted this baby. This child born addicted. If I wanted her so badly, he snored to me, I should be the one taking care of her. I felt in over my head but I wouldn’t admit it. I couldn’t bear to hear Bob say I told you so. I also wondered if he’d suggest returning her. Picking out another. Like a too-tight pair of shoes you need a half size bigger.

      We passed each other silently. He’d dress for work while I stroked Cammy’s belly, trying to calm her. The house was in a constant state of Cammy’s moods. When we did speak it was never above a whisper. And our conversations weren’t conversations but directives. Bullet points.

      “How’s she doing today?” he’d whisper on his way through the kitchen to the front hall to hang up his coat and change to house shoes. He never waited for an answer. Or, “We need diapers,” I’d whisper. He’d act like this was quite the imposition. Like it was the final straw when really he did the bare minimum. Or, “Can you pop this in the mail when you go out?” He’d tap the bills into a pile.

      I was too exhausted to ask him for help. I was too tired to fight with him about it. I should have said something. Maybe I did. But nothing changed.

      Sometimes I’d make more of an effort.

      “How was work today?” I’d whisper.

      All of this while Cammy either slept or squirmed in my arms. I held her constantly. I developed biceps. Bob would try to hold her, but if she cried too hard he’d hurry her back to me and stalk out of the room.

      It takes years to realize the impact an event has on your life. You don’t see it at the time. Then much later you have perspective.

      Not in this case. I knew, as it was unfolding, that it was tragic. The whole thing. I’d bitten off more than I could chew with Cammy. Maybe I could’ve done better if Bob had helped, but that wasn’t in the cards. I didn’t