April Exclusive - "Lief" - Part 2

“Shoot. Sorry. I’m making a mess of this.”

“You’re fine. I’m the one who made the mess.”

In truth, we’re both terrible at this.

I went first, peeing and pooping as I sat on the nursery floor. It was almost comical, the way urine came out, like a tiny lawn sprinkler. The poop was less amusing; that was serious shit. My first thought, inspecting the rug beneath me; That’s done. May as well put that straight in the trash. Maybe just burn it, actually.

I looked up at Brooke. She seemed, quite rightly, disgusted. I’m not her baby. I’m not her problem. She could just walk away. Run away, covering her nose.

She didn’t. If anything, she looked sympathetic. Okay, still disgusted, but sympathetic at the same time. Not my fault, after all; Don’t blame the baby. So, in my mess, which was warm and then less so, which was a relief to my cramping guts and then a rank humiliation, I could tell Brooke saw me as more than an obstacle.

The nursery has everything. I imagined for a moment, a crazy moment, finding a baby, a real baby, already in the crib. But there wasn’t. I’m the tenant, apparently. This is all mine. Lucky me.

Brooke finds the changing mat, she locates the wipes.

“Probably should just give you a bath,” she says, eyeing me up and down.

“Hose me down,” I reply, shrugging. “Take me through the car wash.”

Brooke laughs. “Can you imagine? Car wash for babies!” She shakes her head. “In case you’re wondering, I’ve never done this before.”

“Had a guy turn into a baby?”

She rolls her eyes. “Never done anything with a baby.” She wipes at my mess, gingerly and then more firmly. “Never was a big sister, never been an aunt or a babysitter.”

“Never ever?” I ask. “Not even one single diaper?”

“Nope.”

“Huh.” I think back to my own experience. Hardly a pro, but sure, I’ve uncled, I’ve helped out. I give her what I hope is an optimistic smile. “It’s not that hard.”

She keeps wiping, throwing away a wipe and pulling a new one from the packet. “Just stinky.”

I smile. “Little bit.”

She smiles back, and then her nose wrinkles. “There’s just so much of it.”

“Sorry.” What’s my job here? Am I supposed to help her feel better? I might need some tender loving care of my own; I mean, I woke up as a baby. I have some things on my little mind. But this isn’t her fault, she looks just as shellshocked as I feel. And even though my headache remains, at last my stomach has stopped hurting. (Amazing, how a really big bowel movement can help with that).

“What was that poem?” I ask. “The epic one.”

Sure enough, her face brightens. “’Beowulf’. She laughs. I talked your ear off about it, didn’t I.”

“There were monsters,” I say, encouraging the distraction for both of us as she wipes my ass. “There was…vanquishing!” It had seemed appropriate for the bar we were in at the time. What was the name of that place again? It escapes me. Whatever happened to us (whatever happened mainly to me) is a blurry mess.

Brooke grins. “Grendel, and Grendel’s mother.”

“Whole lotta vanquishing.”

Brooke’s grin widens. “I didn’t even get to the best part!” She gives my body a look over. “Hey, I think you’re actually clean.” She finds a disposable diaper and unfolds it, examines in critically. “Probably gonna put this on you upside down or something.”

“You’ll be fine,” I say. “So, what’s the best part?”

Brooke takes my feet and lifts my butt, sliding the fresh diaper underneath. “Later on, Beowulf is a king, and he kills a dragon. It’s a whole thing.”

“That’s cool.”

“He dies soon after, but, you know, lots of honoring. Much lamenting.”

I wriggle my hips, helping to position myself on the diaper. “Gone but not forgotten.”

Brooke nods, taping the diaper and giving it a pat. “Exactly.” She shrugs. “I think you’re good.”

I manage not to laugh. All we’ve managed so far this morning is to change my diaper. Neither of us are ‘good’ exactly. But hey. Baby steps, I guess.

“Are you cold?” She points at the closet. “There’s lot of little outfits.”

I shrug. We both need to be dressed. In fact, Brooke needs that more than me, especially for the trip to the hospital. “If I’ve got clothes here in the nursery, maybe you’ve got clothes in the bedroom.”

Brooke nods. “I’ll take a look.” But she dresses me first, picking out a red romper decorated with a yellow digger. It’s infantile, but what isn’t? And she gets me into it, after I convince her that she won’t break me in the process.

“I’m a baby,” I tell her. “I bend, promise.”

She leaves me on the floor and goes through to the bedroom. I sit there, thinking how a real baby would have been put in the crib. A real baby would have a toy or a stuffy.

But I’m not a real baby. At least, I don’t think like one. And so, I sit there, focusing on my breathing, stroking the sides of my big head with clumsy fingers, trying to get a grip on my headache. And I try to remember what happened last night, beyond the tearing off of clothes, beyond an epic poem and a pretty nerd. Where did we go? What happened to us? And did it all start in that weird cocktail bar? I get a flash of something, a vision of green and blue smoke, and then it’s gone.

Brooke reappears, looking more like the girl I met last night, in a charcoal short-sleeved top and blue jeans. “Found a bra,” she says, smiling. “Really comfortable.” And then she exclaims, “Oh!”

I watch as she crouches down beside me. “Guess what?” she says.

I raise my eyebrows. “You found a magic potion that will turn us back to our regular selves?”

Brooke snorts. “No, but I remember the bar we went to last night.” She waggles her fingers in the air. “The Tipsy Cauldron!”

My eyes widen. Just like that, I remember the blue and green bubbling flasks, the spooky soundtrack, a feather quill and leather book on the table. The kind of thing, I guess, that witches use to write down their spells?

“Holy crap.” I stare at Brooke. “Forget the hospital. We have to go back to the bar!”

Brooke looks uncertain. “It was…it was like a pop-up place.”

I groan. She’s right. “They were just passing through,” I whisper. “Of course, they were. Tipsy Cauldron. I remember.” And I do. There was an interactive show, and complimentary cocktails. Generous servings. So damn generous. I shake my head slowly, just as much amazed as I am worried. “In the city of dark meadows,” I begin.

“Lies a bar known for magical cocktail creations…” Brooke continues.

I sniff. “And seductive staff. Jesus. So, what are we saying? A weird witchy bar that probably vanished into thin air did this?”

Brooke holds up her hands. “I don’t know! Maybe!”

“Crazy,” I say. I look at her. “You’re not a witch, right?”

Brooke looks offended. “Of course not! I’m a liberal arts professor at Colorado College!”

“Right,” I say. Because she told me about work last night, just like she told me all about ‘Beowulf’. “So, I guess we have to go to the hospital.” My stomach gurgles.

Brooke laughs. “After breakfast, apparently.”

I look at her chest. I can’t help it. Does she mean…

I watch her face redden. “I don’t…I can’t…” She looks away, rubbing the back of her neck. “We’ll look in the kitchen. This place has everything else; it must have baby food as well.” She nods. “And surely, some coffee.”

We go downstairs. Correction, Brooke takes us downstairs. I hold on to Brooke tight as we go down the steps.

“Relax,” she says, “Not gonna drop you.”

Probably true. But again, just one more sign of how much I’m depending on a woman I met…what, twelve, fifteen hours ago?

Fortunately, she’s right about both the baby food and the coffee.

She puts me in a highchair and then looks at the choices in the refrigerator. Peering at the label on one plastic pot, she says, “Stage 4.” She looks around at me. “Reckon you’re stage 4? Oh, hang on…Eight plus months…”

“Yeah.” I think I’m around nine months old. Old enough to sit up, to roll over, to crawl. But I’m hardly just walking out of here.

“Oh,” she says, “this sounds really good.” She peels back the label, sits down beside me at the table. “Blueberry, spinach, pear and rosemary. Wow, that’s awesome.”

I look at the purple-colored mush. “Yum,” I say sardonically. But it could be worse. It could be much worse.

She looks at the spoon, and then at me. “You want to…”

I sigh. “Quicker if you do it. Cleaner, too.” I have no faith in my hand-eye coordination, and I’d rather just be fed than show off my ‘big boy’ skills.

“Yeah,” Brooke agrees. She loads up the spoon.

“No talking about choo-choo trains or airplanes, okay?”

She laughs. “Deal.”

And the food…it’s actually pretty great. Maybe that’s my baby tastebuds, open for business. Or maybe I’m just starving. It doesn’t take long, and then the pot is empty.

“Huh,” says Brooke. She cleans up around my mouth with the spoon, and I guess if someone walked in right now, if someone peered through the kitchen window, all of this would look very ordinary. “Want another one?”

I surprise myself by nodding. Because Brooke is good at this part, and because I’m still hungry.

Brooke goes back to the refrigerator. “Ooh, this one’s limited edition. Strawberry rhubarb. Bursting with fiber, apparently.” She doesn’t ask my opinion, and I don’t give it even though judging from recent evidence, fiber is the last thing I need. Soon, that pot is empty too, and my belly feels full.

“You look better,” says Brooke. “Got some color in your cheeks.” She makes herself a coffee using the Nespresso on the counter. The smell makes me jealous, but there’s no coffee for nine-month-old babies, and besides, I got plenty more to be envious about.

She sips her coffee, and then looks down at herself. “The bra’s good and everything, but I still feel so tight. That normal, you think?”

I want to laugh at being asked. Am I really the expert in the room?

“Well,” I reply, “if you’re…you know, your breasts are full of milk and you don’t breastfeed, they’re going to feel…full.”

“It’s uncomfortable,” Brooke says. What, is she expecting me to latch on and drink away? Does she actually want that? I can feel myself blush at the mere idea. Besides, I’m full to bursting from the food.

I owe her a favor, but this isn’t it. “Maybe there’s a pump,” I say. “You could…you know, express it.”

“Oh,” she says quietly. God, she’s disappointed. And I wonder what’s going through her mind right now. Is she getting used to this? Used to thinking of me as her baby?

“It won’t last forever,” I tell her. “If you don’t breastfeed for a few days, it goes away. The doctors will answer any questions, I bet.” Yeah, let’s keep our focus on what we’re actually trying to do here.

Brooke bits her lip. “I guess.” She shakes her head. “I can’t imagine any of this going on for a few days. We’ve only been awake an hour or so, feels like a lifetime!” She smiles at me. “How’s your head?”

“Still sore. Could you maybe find some baby Tylenol?”

Brooke nods. “Sure.” She wipes my face clean and picks me out of the highchair. And then she sits me down on her lap. “Soon have you feeling better,” she says softly, holding me against her chest, and even stroking my head.

“Thanks,” I mumble.

“Got a fully belly at least,” she says gently. “Probably working on a brand-new poop!”

I laugh. “Got a diaper this time at least.”

“Thank goodness.” She rubs my back. “I think you’re being very brave.”

“Really?” I don’t feel brave. I feel mostly ridiculous.

Brooke rocks me gently in her arms, as if this really was ordinary, as if she did this every day. And I guess some parts of looking after a baby are universal.

“You’re just like Beowulf,” she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. “That poem is all about the three important values of the time. Bravery, honor, loyalty.”

“Yeah?” I close my eyes. She’s back in lecture-mode, just like last night. I don’t need a poetry lesson, but it’s nice to be stroked, to be held.

“Mmm-hmm,” Brooke says, holding me close. “Beowulf shows great bravery in everything he does. Just like you.”

I don’t, of course. I’m not a brave hero. I’m a tiny, helpless mess. But in Brooke’s arms, I can pretend, just for a little while. And as she tells me more about the poem, as she rubs my back in a circular pattern and tells me about the dragon that hates mankind, about more bravery, and great battle followed by a final blow, I imagine it behind my closed eyes.

Is it a story suitable for babies? Maybe, maybe not. Somehow, it makes me safer. Somehow, it puts me right to sleep.