The Safe Place by Anna Downes

Author:Anna Downes
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group

We sit on plastic chairs, our bodies curled like parentheses around the cot. She is a princess trapped in a forest of thorns. Wires hang all around like vines, and evil-looking machinery towers over her little body. I hate them. I want to rip them all away, hack them down and break whatever evil spell has been cast so I can carry my baby away to safety.

Instead, I massage my neck with my free hand. I’ve been sitting at the same awkward angle for hours. I could have moved, but in the absence of any other helpful course of action, sitting has taken on a symbolic significance. It’s my penance, the only way to pay my dues—or a fraction of them, at least. No moving, no eating, no washing, nothing. Just this constant vigil.

Finally, when I can stand the pain no longer, I shift in my chair and a wave of nausea almost knocks me down.

On the other side of the cot, my husband twitches. Reaches into his pocket. Looks at his phone.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing. Just work. They’re on their way to the awards.”

The awards. Such a big deal just a few days ago, but now I can barely remember the details. Some big industry accolade. His company was nominated for the first time. He’s been looking forward to the ceremony for months. I was supposed to go with him. He bought me a dress. Olive-green silk with a cinched waist and a long, flowing skirt. I picture it hanging limply in the closet at home.

His phone buzzes again. He stands up and walks across the room. Puts it on a table in a corner. Walks back. Sits down again.

Don’t look so fucking sad, I want to say. There’ll be other awards. When this is all over and our baby is better, there will be more parties, more events, more silky dresses. We could even bring her along, when she’s a little older. She’d love that. She could sit on my lap and cheer.

Parties and dresses … what’s wrong with me? I want to punch my own face. I feel so guilty, so disgusted with myself.

I stroke my daughter’s achingly soft cheek, her little nose, her hot forehead. I trace the curve of her ear and smooth the velvety place where her hairline begins. I press my lips to her temple and gaze into her eyes, studying the extraordinary shapes and patterns of her iris. All children are unique, blah blah blah, but I know that my baby is special beyond compare. The proof is everywhere: in the lift and wave of her hair, her sweet-as-honey skin, and the unspeakable beauty of her eyes. Both are a deep chocolatey brown with honeyed swirls and nicks of gold, and the right eye holds a little surprise. Northwest of the pupil, there’s a spot of pure blue like a single rock pool left behind by the tide. I noticed it when she was about six months old, once the standard newborn gray-blue had started to change.

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