“I hope not.” I think of my cello, my computer, any valuables I have scattered about.
“Maybe you just didn’t shut the door all the way?”
“Maybe.” I always shut the door.
After a few anxious minutes, police sirens bleep and stutter along our street. My fingers tighten on the stroller as I imagine neighbors straining on their front porches, whispering behind cupped hands about the paranoid blind lady. This is not a neighborhood where cops do regular drive-bys. The red and blue lights pierce the blurred veil of my vision, and I squint behind my sunglasses.
A car door opens and shuts and then a lone officer approaches. “Ma’am?”
“Hi, I’m the one who called,” Jess says. “This is Rebecca Gray. She lives here. She’s…”
“I’m blind,” I explain. “When I got back from my walk, my front door was open. And I’m positive I shut it before I left.”
“Officer Toby.” He thrusts a hand in my direction. “Do you have an alarm?”
“I do.” I consider the possibility that I could have forgotten to arm it, but it doesn’t add up. “I always set it before I leave.”
“And the alarm hasn’t gone off?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“Have you gone into the home, ma’am?” His radio squawks with a string of garbled commands.
“No.”
“Good. I’m going to check the perimeter of the property and the interior. Please stay out here until I’ve completed the search.”
“Thanks, Officer.” Jess whistles when he walks away. “Who knew Elmhurst had such hot cops?”
I laugh and elbow her. Another cop name floats through my mind. To distract myself until Toby returns, I blurt: “I used to date a cop.”
“What? When?”
I shrug and shush Jackson as he fusses in his stroller. I reach around for his pacifier and pop it back into his mouth. “A lifetime ago. Before Chris.” Just saying my husband’s name sends a pang of fresh grief through my gut. “I met him when I still had my sight. I was twenty-five. He was a cop trying to make detective with CPD. Both of our careers were flourishing.”
“So what happened?”
“He got transferred to Florida,” I say. Though we both assumed we’d get married, have kids, and live in the city, when he got an offer to lead a narcotics unit, he took it.
“Ugh. Florida? No wonder you broke up.”
I playfully slap her arm.
“That wasn’t it, but I couldn’t leave the symphony. And he couldn’t miss out on such a great opportunity.” I shrug. “We were both realistic about long distance. Once he left, my sight got worse. I met Chris when he was volunteering at the Chicago Lighthouse.”
“What in the hell is that?”
“It’s a community center for the visually impaired.”
“Then Chris was a rebound.”
I roll my eyes. “Chris was not a rebound.”
“Chris was totally a rebound.”
“No, he was just there when I needed him.” I smile. “Chris was always there for me. He was dependable.”
“Like a minivan.”
“He was a bit like a minivan.” My heart lifts just joking about Chris. This is what I want to do more of, I remind myself. Talk about him as if he’s right here. Before I can say anything else, Jess leans in.
“Hottie approaching.”
“Ma’am, the perimeter and interior are secure. No sign of forced entry. Nothing suspicious in or around the property. I’m happy to do a walk-through with you to make sure nothing is out of place.”
“That’s not necessary.” I remove my ball cap and run a hand through my sweaty hair. “I’m sorry about this.”
“No problem. You ladies have a great day, okay?”
“Thanks so much, Officer.” Jess lightly touches my elbow. “Want me to come in with you?”
“No, I’m fine. Thanks for coming over.” I hug her, wave good-bye, and head inside. I shut and lock the front door. “Is Mama paranoid or what?” I remove Jackson from his stroller. His body is sticky as I settle him on one hip. I peel off my T-shirt and invite cool air to flow in from the gap. “It sure is hot out there, huh? I’m ready for fall. Are you?” We walk to the kitchen, and I open the freezer and stick my head in and play peek-a-boo a few times. His hearty chuckle squeezes my heart until I think it might explode.
“Okay, let’s get you settled so Mama can make dinner.” I walk the few steps to deposit him in his Pack ’n Play by the kitchen table, except it’s not where I left it. I rotate, inch by inch. Chills stud the back of my neck. I stall in the kitchen, moving methodically to retrace my steps. I round the corner and shuffle toward the middle of the living room, until I bump into something: his playpen.
My nerves sizzle. I would never put the Pack ’n Play in the middle of the living room. Because of my sight, I place most furniture on the perimeter of every room, leaving a wide open space to pass through. I’m certain it was by the kitchen table this morning. Could the cop have moved it?
I retreat slowly from the room, as though the playpen might detonate. I call Jess’s number again, fit Jackson back in his carrier, and leave the house as fast as I can.
3
BEC
Sometime in the night, Jackson wakes me. I open my eyes and fiddle with the baby monitor, but his cries stalk the hallway. I don’t bother checking the time and instead throw the duvet back and sit up.
My thoughts ping around as they do each night, when I lie awake for hours and wait for Jackson to signal he’s hungry. Ironically, he’s only been waking a few times per night. Now, I travel the hallway toward his nursery. The absence of morning light is like wading through ink.
At his door, the cries grow more urgent.
“Hold on, little guy. Mama’s here.” I cross to the crib. I lower my arms in, but he’s not where he usually is. “Did you roll?” I scoop again, but my grip comes away bare. I rub my hands across the sheets and frantically scour every inch of the crib. “Jackson?” I traverse and skim again.
Nothing.
The cries intensify, but they aren’t coming from the crib. Now, they’re behind me. I whip around. “Jackson?” I rush out of his room and down the hall. The cry shifts again, as if bouncing freely through the house. I fumble for the baby monitor on my nightstand and knock over my water glass. It thuds against the carpet. Back in the hallway, I strain to hear exactly where he is.
Downstairs?
“Oh my God.” I ignore the logical part of my brain that knows a three-month-old can’t escape his crib, and I sprint downstairs anyway. My toe bumps into something. I crouch down and connect with a tiny nose, mouth, and chin. But it’s not flesh I feel—it’s plastic. A baby doll? I check to make sure. The doll cries harder, and I drop it and spin around in my foyer. “Jackson?” I call his name again, and mid-cry, he cuts off. The house grows deathly quiet, except for my chaotic breath.
A crack of lightning brings me out of it. I jolt awake, drenched, my heart a jackhammer. I lie in my bed, queasy with nerves. “It’s just a dream,” I reassure myself. “You’re okay.” I reach for the glass of water on my nightstand and suck down the last remaining drops. I collapse back in bed. Thunder rolls outside, then another flash of lightning.