Chevy Stevens - Still Missing

But today my normally happy baby was restless and edgy, and every time I tried to nurse her she moved her mouth away from my nipple. Her skin was hot to the touch and her cheeks were circles of red, like someone had drawn a clown’s face on her. Her belly looked distended and I thought she might have gas, so I walked around with her, but she threw up all over my shoulder and finally just cried herself to sleep. I’d never felt so helpless in my life. I was terrified of what The Freak might do if I told him, but I had to get her some help.

“The baby’s really sick, she needs a doctor,” I said as soon as he came back inside.

He glanced at me. “Start breakfast.”

During breakfast she started crying in her basket and I moved to get her, but he held his hand up and said, “Stop. Going to her only reinforces negative behavior. Finish your meal.”

Her wails ripped the air apart, and as she inhaled between each lusty cry, I thought I heard a wet rattle in her chest.

“She’s not doing well. Can we please get to a doctor? I know your mom died, but she had cancer—it wasn’t the doctors that killed her. You can tie me up in the van and take her in.” I hesitated for a second. “Or I’ll wait here and you can just take her, okay?” Had I really said that? She’d be alone with him. But she’d get help.

He chewed slowly. Finally he paused, wiped his mouth on his napkin, took a sip of water, and said, “Doctors ask questions.” Her wails reached heart-wrenching levels.

“I know, but you’re smart—smarter than any doctor—you’ll know what to say so they never suspect a thing.”

“Exactly. I am smarter than a doctor, that’s why I know she doesn’t need one.” He stomped toward her bed, with me right on his heels. His voice rose to compete with her cries as he said, “She just needs to learn some respect.”

“Why don’t you relax, and I’ll quiet her?”

“I don’t think so, Annie. Obviously you’ve been doing something wrong.” As he picked her up from the basket, I gripped the fabric of my dress at my thighs to stop my hands from pounding on his back and prayed she’d calm down for him. But when he bounced her, the wails only grew frantic.

“Please just give her to me.” I held my shaking hands out. “ Please. She’s scared.”

One minute he was staring at me, his face burgundy with rage, and the next his hands were up and she was dropping. I managed to catch her, losing my balance and falling hard on my knees at the same time. Whether from surprise or finally fatigue, the baby gave an exhausted hiccup and was quiet in my arms. He knelt down, putting his face close to mine, so close I felt his breath against my face.

“You’ve turned my daughter against me. Not good, Annie. Not good at all.”

My voice a shaky whisper, I said, “I would never do anything like that—she’s just confused, because she’s not well. She loves you. I know she loves you, I can tell.” His head was cocked to the side. “When she hears your voice her eyes move in that direction. She doesn’t do that for me when you’re holding her.” Total bullshit, but he had to buy it.

His eyes drilled into mine for an excruciating minute, then he clapped his hands and said, “Come on, our breakfast is getting cold.” I placed her in her basket and followed him, my body tensed for her screams. Thankfully, she’d fallen asleep.

After breakfast he stretched his hands over his head and patted his stomach. I had to try again.

“Maybe if you let me look through the books I could find some herbs or plants that grow up here for medicine. That’s natural, and you could look at the books too and check what’s okay to give her.”

He glanced at her bed and said, “She’ll be fine.”

But she wasn’t. Over the next couple of days a fever raged through her. Her silky skin burned against my hands and I didn’t have a clue what to do for her. Coughs left her gasping, and I put hot cloths on her chest in an attempt to loosen her congestion, but that just made her cry more, and cold cloths made her scream even louder. Nothing worked. She started waking up every hour at night, and I never went all the way to sleep—I lay half awake in a constant state of fear. Sometimes I heard her breath hiccup in her throat, and my heart froze until I heard her take another.

The Freak decided that if she cried during the day we had to ignore her so she would learn self-control, but he usually only lasted maybe ten minutes before he stormed outside while screaming, “Deal with her!” I was quick to get her when she cried at night, but if he did wake up, he’d throw the pillow—at her, at me, or put it over his head. Sometimes he punched the bed.

So he could go back to sleep, I’d hide in the bathroom with her until she calmed down. One night, hoping the steam would help her breathing, I ran the shower, but I never found out whether it would have worked—he came tearing in, yelling at me to shut it off.

After a few of these nights, I was a zombie. On the fifth night she was sick, it felt like she was waking up every half hour and it was getting harder for me to stay awake in anticipation. I remember my eyelids feeling so heavy I just wanted to rest them for a second, but then I must have fallen asleep, because I woke up with a start. My first thought was how quiet the cabin was, and, glad she was finally resting, I let my eyelids drift closed. Then I realized I didn’t feel The Freak next to me and I bolted up.

The cabin was dark. Even though it was summer, it had been cool the night before, so he’d had a small fire going, and from the glow of the embers I made out his shape at the foot of the bed. He was hunched over slightly, so I thought he was picking her up, but when he turned around, I realized he was holding her. Groggy, I reached out.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear her cry.”

He handed her to me, turned on the lamp, and started getting dressed. I didn’t understand why. Was it already time to get up? Why hadn’t he said anything? The baby lay quiet in my arms, and I pulled the blanket away from her face.

For the first time in days it wasn’t twisted in discomfort and her cheeks weren’t red or sweaty. But their paleness didn’t seem right either, and her rosebud mouth was tinged blue. Even her eyelids were blue. The sounds of his dressing were muffled by my heart whooshing in my ears, and then everything grew quiet in my head.

When I laid my cool hand against her cheek, her cheek was colder. She didn’t move. I brought my ear to her mouth, and my chest tightened as my own lungs fought for breath. I heard nothing. Felt nothing. Then I put my ear to her small chest, but the only sound was my own racing heart.

I pinched her tiny nose, blew into her little mouth, pushed on her chest. I was aware of mewling sounds in the room. My heart surged with joy—until I realized they were coming from me. In between CPR attempts, I pressed my ear to her mouth.

“Please, oh, please, just breathe. God help me, please .”

It was too late. She was too cold.

I sat frozen at the foot of the bed and frantically tried to deny the fact that I was holding my dead daughter in my arms. The Freak stared down at us with an impassive face.

“I told you she needed a doctor. I TOLD YOU!” I screamed at him while pounding on his legs with one hand and clutching her to me with the other.

He slapped me across the face, then in a flat voice said, “Give me the baby, Annie.”

I shook my head.

He gripped my throat with one hand and curled the other under her body. We stared at each other. The hand around my throat began to squeeze.

I let go.

He lifted her out of my arms and brought her to his chest, then stood up and walked toward the door.