Holding your breath for five years is a terrible amount of time. In the eighteen hundred days that had passed since then, I had been residing in a house that was no longer my home but rather a museum dedicated to a deceased person. I could no longer hear the corridor, and I recognized the midday shadows on Jennifer’s bedroom door. I was certain that my life would finish in this chilly, haunting old house where unsolved disputes persisted, exactly as it had begun.
That is, until Tuesday.
It was about six in the morning, that peculiar moment when everything seems a little surreal in the dim light. My brain wasn’t really awake yet, but I was still attempting to get to the kitchen for a quick cup of coffee. I hardly noticed the doorbell ringing. In our home, guests don’t arrive very early. They also don’t often arrive late. The ring was sharp, giving the impression that the person pressing it had no intention of waiting.
Tightening my robe against the chill, I opened the door. I recall being irritated that someone would call at that time of day. A delivery that was delivered to the incorrect address or a naughty neighborhood child had to be the cause.
There was nobody on the porch. There was silence on the street. However, everything seemed to turn upside down when I looked down.
On the mat was a basket. A swaddled baby girl, maybe three or four months old, was within the basket. She was staring up at the porch light with her eyes open and dark hair. But it wasn’t the infant that brought me to my knees. It was the item of clothing the infant was wrapped in.
After a hundred washes, the blue jean jacket would fade to that specific shade of blue because it was Levi’s. Because Jennifer had chewed the cloth for years while feeling anxious, the left cuff was ragged and had a raw tear in it. When she turned fifteen, I purchased her this jacket, which she detested since it was “new.” As a result, she had grabbed the jacket, pulled it with her bike, and exposed it to the sun until it was “authentic.”
I didn’t realize I was crying until I saw the tears on the baby’s head. I couldn’t leave her there, but I was trembling so much that I could hardly bring myself to pick her off the sidewalk. I grabbed her and hurried inside, locking and closing the door as if I thought someone would return and take her away.
I placed the basket next to the chilled coffee on our kitchen table. “This isn’t true. She is not this person. My thoughts were a disorganized muddle of denial. However, I knew what I had to do. I started searching the basket for any indication of who had abandoned her and what they required from me. An old diaper bag with formula, a few onesies, and a pacifier was crammed into the bottom. There was a piece of notebook paper in the blue jeans jacket pocket.
Jennifer did not write it. It was tiny, scrawled, and nearly unreadable.
“Hope is her name. She belongs to Jennifer. I truly apologize. I’m drowning because I tried to accomplish this by myself. You were the only person, according to Jennifer, who truly loved her for who she was. Three years ago, Paul threatened to call the police and claim that I had abducted her if we ever showed up. He promised to see to it that I was imprisoned. We were afraid. But Jennifer is no longer with us. After the birth, she did not survive. I am no longer able to do this. Don’t dislike her, please. — Andy
I think I didn’t breathe for a full minute. I felt like an unseen hand was physically crushing me when I heard the words, “Paul told us.”
I was in a state of perpetual grief for five arduous years. I had thought I was to blame for our most recent altercation in the kitchen. After all, it was nothing major; we were merely arguing over a boy, a curfew, and the usual teenage drama. He had escalated the situation by insulting her and telling her how dissatisfied he was. And I thought she was simply cooling down as she rushed out. I broke down when she never came back.
However, Paul was aware all along.
In addition to being my spouse, he was the one who saw me cry over my soup at supper. He turned around and remarked, “Forget it, she’s made her decision,” after witnessing me look at the posters of missing individuals. He was the one who spoke to them. In an attempt to boost his ego, he was threatening his grandchild’s father. It was better for his daughter to be dead than for him to have no control over her.
I just called him without thinking or hesitating. Three years ago, around the time he reportedly warned Jennifer to avoid us, he moved out. He was leading what he liked to refer to as his “new life,” which included a new wife and a new home free of thoughts of his abandoned daughter.
When he responded, I replied, “Come here.” My voice sounded icy, yet I could hardly recognize it.
“What’s going on at six in the morning?” He moaned.
“I’ll report everything in Andy’s letter to the police this morning if I don’t.”
There was no response.
Despite being unkempt and being thirty minutes late, he managed to portray the “sane” image that he held in such high regard. He went into the kitchen, glanced at the baby, and just went white. He then glanced at the coat. He glanced at the letter that had been placed on the table.
His voice faltered as he said, “I did it for our sake.” She was a complete mess. The boyfriend was a jerk. I reasoned that if I forced them both to go, she would understand how difficult life might be and return to me permanently. I never would have thought of that.
“You didn’t anticipate her passing?” I demanded, my vision blurry with anger. “Did you ever think that I would grieve for my child for five long years because you let her think I hated her so much that I never picked up the phone?” Did you know she was pregnant?
He extended his hand to touch my shoulder, but the idea of him doing so made me want to murder him. I told him to go. I threatened to drag him in court for the rest of his life if he ever revealed his identity again.
The house appeared deserted after his departure. Hope sobbed when she woke up. It seemed like I had just changed a baby’s diaper the night before, even though I hadn’t done it in decades. While she fussed, I looked at her and took care of her. Her jawline was as strong as Jennifer’s.
I saw an unfamiliar automobile the next morning. A battered vehicle with a cracked windshield. I recognized the person. After a few moments, the front door opened and a young man went out onto the porch.
Andy was the one.
Paul had described him as a “drifter,” yet he did not meet that description. Instead, he seemed to be under the weight of the entire globe. He appeared to have not slept since Hope’s birth; he was emaciated and dressed in tattered clothes. He stood close to his car, starring at me with a look of pure horror instead of going to the door.
Instead of yelling at him, I just gestured for him to approach me.
We sat side by side on the front porch steps for two hours. He gave me an explanation of everything. He mentioned that they had moved to a different state. Before her pregnancy reached eight months, Jennifer had accepted a job at a restaurant. She would talk about our house’s “blue room” and how much she missed my pancakes. He told me about the hospital and how everything happened so fast that not even the physicians could react in time.
When I looked into his eyes, I saw a boy who had lost the lady he loved and was making every effort to fulfill her final wish, not a murderer.
I assured him, “Your daughter is safe.” And you don’t have to worry about Paul anymore. It’s finished.
For the most part, I came to terms with the fact that Jennifer had indeed passed away. Uncertainty had vanished, leaving only an overpowering sense of loss that was both excruciating and oddly serene. The house didn’t feel like a waiting area anymore.
I went into Jennifer’s room that evening after Andy had gone to stay at a motel (I had to pay for it; he hadn’t even had a penny). I made the decision to open the window and let some fresh air into the room for the first time in five years. I rearranged the books and made room on top of the dresser for some baby wipes and a bottle warmer.
I picked up the blue denim jacket from the kitchen table, carried it to her room, and carefully placed it there. It had lost the subtle vanilla aroma that made me think of her favorite perfume. It was just old clothes and baby powder.
After five arduous years of waiting, Jennifer never came home as I had always dreamed. There were no heartfelt justifications like “I’m sorry I left.” But while I stood in the chamber’s darkness and listened to the breathing in the adjacent room, I realized that she had succeeded in sending me the things that were most important to me back home.
I stopped waiting for the doorbell and fell asleep for the first time ever after eighteen hundred restless nights.