JUNO

MINDEN, LA

SEPTEMBER 1986

If I open the door, you got to be calm. I can see the shadow on the floor—the weight of their body leaning against the surface. You can’t throw things, call me all these names, or hit or bite or scratch. None of that.

Oh, you got another thing coming if you think that’s all I’m going to do. The sweat that has gathered on my forehead is rolling down my face and seeping into my eyes, causing them to sting. I wipe at them with my bloodied sleeves and sniff. As much as I do not want to give this abhorrent creature the satisfaction—I absolutely refuse to address it as human—not with that stupid accent of theirs. It sounds like they have a permanent golf ball lodged deep into their throat. My mother would’ve slapped the mess out of me if she’d ever heard me slur over my words like the thing does. The strange thing is—I can’t even tell what sort of voice it’s supposed to be. It sounds like it’s supposed to be connected to the television that was once plugged in the corner of the living room ages ago.

Well, before I destroyed it.

Juno.

“Where is my baby?” I explode. “Get away from him. I’ll kill you go near him again.”

They don’t reply.

My voice is hoarse from screaming, and my eyes are puffy from crying. The horrendous cast on my arm makes me completely worthless. I am a fool. I know I am only making the situation worse and delaying the outcome that I yearn for. But to take away a child away from its mother mere minutes upon birth? To put my hope in faith in a complete stranger that is only here for one thing and one thing only? That itself is a crime, more so than my being here. To further piss off my captor, I kick the door with my heel, ignoring the pain shooting through my shin. At this point, nothing else matters besides my child’s safety. Although the basement is dark, I can easily find something in here to break the door in.

My breaths are shaky as I clumsily descend down the steps, clutching my swollen belly. The placenta lays abandoned on a pile of bloodied towels, but the sight no longer phases me. It is too quiet out there. The thought of my baby being sold or left somewhere to die in a trash bin makes my chest throb. I wrap my hands around a long, rusted, metal pipe, tugging at it, ignoring the cobwebs and dust mites landing on my filthy nightgown. As I pry it free, I turn and face the doorway, ready to smash it to bits. Strands of hair are over my face, and I grit my teeth.

And I stop.

The door is already open.

Except it’s not leading to the living room or kitchen of the dusty, broken down house.

It is outside—a beautiful spring day. The sun is shining so brightly that it splashes golden light upon the crooked treads of the basement stairs. I grip the railing, before rubbing my eyes several times with my hands. It doesn’t disappear when I lower them. For a moment, I look around the dark basement in confusion. Maybe I am in a different part of the house that I have never been in before? But the scenery is so lovely that I can’t help but slowly ascend up the steps. The rusted pipe slips from my hands and rolls into the shadows, but I hardly hear the impact. It is just an empty, distant echo in my ears.

“Hello?” I call out.

A fresh, rejuvenating wind reaches my face, a relief against the stench of sweat clinging to my skin and bloodstained nightgown. I look up to see a brilliant blue sky. It is very blue, and the grass is so soft I can make a pillow out of it. I bend down and grab a handful of it, before it blows it away. I scratch my head as I look for any sense of normalcy. My front yard is nowhere to be seen, and my Camaro, usually buried beneath the over growing weeds, is gone. I freeze, before I slap at my cheeks. I am dreaming. I am dreaming.

My hands go to my swollen abdomen. The pain between my legs is suddenly more apparent. The baby is asleep. The baby isn’t supposed to come for another three months. I promised Tom that I would go the doctor for checkups. I would make sure that the baby was healthy, wasn’t born addicted to anything.

The faint sound of crying catches my attention. I immediately turn my head and start running towards it, ignoring the piercing pain gathering up into my right side. I trip and fall on a large field of daisies. How they got there, I am not sure. It seems to grow farther and farther away, and the wind grows stronger. My chest burns. I didn’t even give my son a name. What kind of pathetic mother am I? Here I am, spending all this time planning and not even having come up a name for the baby. I am scrounging through all these flowers—the sight of them is actually starting to make me sick—until I stumble upon a tree. It’s a large oak, twisted and curved around the branches, bearing the weight of many seasons.

And there, on a bed of moss and leaves and flowers, lies my little boy.

He is wailing. A maternal instinct washes over me as I scoop him up into my arms, holding him close to me. I kiss his round face and briefly sigh. He has my mother’s face, but my father’s dark brown eyes. How he has gotten out here, I do not know. But I hold him close, inhaling his scent, letting my tears briefly falls on his cheeks. He is cold. It is too cold in this place. I need to get him somewhere warm. But before I can think about returning back to that basement door, I catch a figure watching us from a nearby tree, near the shadows.

I stare back.

* * * * * * * * *

It’s not so cold anymore.

The walls of the kitchen come to me almost as pixels, then broad squares that grow until I can about touch them with my hand. Outside of the dirty window above the sink that I am facing, there is a full moon visible through clouds. I can see my useless car still parked out in the yard. My son lying in a crib and, instead, this time, he is sleeping peacefully. His hair peeks outside against his small head, covered by a knitted cap. His mouth is partially open, and his snores are small, but apparent. He smells like shampoo, and his own tiny heartbeat is rapid against my own.

I am standing in the kitchen.

There is no one in the house but me. It’s been like that the entire time. I’ve simply sleepwalked, went into labor throughout it, and woke up again. I ought to leave and get my son to the police station. I am able to leave. I don’t hear anything, just the crickets that are chirping louder by the moment outside. I should leave. But my feet are rooted to the filthy tile floor, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. My eyes twitch, but I stare forward at the glass. At the evening fog that climbs up over the peeling window pane, the white paint resembling dead skin piling up underneath a decaying wound, only bringing more filth.

Please, talk to me.

I continue to stare out the window.

Talk to me.

A hand latches around my left arm. The nails dig into my skin. I flinch in pain and try to pull away, but the creature’s grip is too strong. They roughly spin me around to face them, although I can see nothing but a dark figure. Pitch black. But I can hear stifled, choked up breaths as I begin to squirm under their grasp. I shift my left leg and deliver a kick. My eyes go toward the crib. My son. I need to get to him. For a moment, there is a slight grunt—a brief loosening of the giant hands that helped bring him into the world. I am close to the crib. Close. I can just about touch it.

I am very close.

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But the hands come back. They lift me off the ground, and we end up crashing against a table. I try to scramble to my feet, but I am pulled down again. There is the sound of rustling jeans, heavy breathing, the abhorrent smell of cigarettes, and the arms wrap me into some sort of embrace. It is one that I am locked into, one that I cannot escape out of. I grit my teeth and try to sink my teeth into the hand, but it does little. Their breaths are still short, heavy. I try to push their hands away, squirming and kicking and spitting and scratching, hoping to get their DNA underneath my fingernails. I am shaking.

Please. Just talk to me.

There’s a face buried into my shoulder, just as sweaty as mine. It’s apparent they haven’t washed in months. Years, maybe. They only to hold me silently, whispering the same cursed sentence all over again. I rack my brain, for something, anything, although the only thing I want is for them is to get off of me. But the oddest thought comes to mind. I want to call them all the names I know. I want to insult their family tree, the man and woman in the picture I saw in the attic upstairs. But I’ve learned too late that my foul temper and hurling well deserved has gotten the best of me and led me and my hold nowhere.

The creature’s twisted, blackened fingers dig deeper into my arms. I clench my jaw in pain. They have raised their head from my shoulders, their scabbed lips brush against my left ear. Talk to me. About anything. Please don’t ignore me.

Talking to this creature is the last thing I want to do in this world, but I need to face that I have only made things worse for my child. He sleeps peacefully through all this, and when he wakes up, he will need his mama. He is my priority. And his future outside of these decaying walls entirely depends upon me. When you have kids, you realize how selfish you were before they are born. I am selfish.

I have been selfish my whole life.

This is not about me.

Mom, I hope you are able to forgive me.

From the corner of my eye, the ATARI 2600 game system rests on top of a chair. Next to that is a box filed with gray cartridges. There is one lying on the green peeling carpet. In boxy letters, on the surface is written the words SPRING AND PARADISE FOUND.

There is no possible way that the place I left was a blasted video game. It couldn’t be a game. A deep pulsing settles into my temples. Water forms in the corner of my eyes. The creature has a heartbeat. It is fierce against my back. Their grip is becoming more gentle, now they that they are realizing that I am have stopped fighting. Their hand slowly wraps around mine. It makes me wonder, if someone was never loved, how far they would go to find it? I shrug that thought away.

I don’t want to think about it. It is a creature. It doesn’t think, it doesn’t feel. It is an animal that purely acts on instinct. It’s not going away anytime soon. I need to focus on getting my son out of here, even if I may never be able to.

I need to focus.

”I…” My words come out slow, timid. Painful. “…I need…need my t-telephone.” The creature’s body language changes, but I force myself to keep going. I don’t stop. “I need to call my boss..b-because I have to go to work.”

There’s a long pause. It’s listening, at least.

“I’d told her that I would be able to work once I get better,” I say a little quicker. “I got a new job, and she’s expecting me. That’s why I need my telephone. So I can call her and let her know that I am coming.” Why even mention this? There’s no point in doing so.

But it doesn’t apparently take much to impress the creature. Maybe it’s stupider than I think it is. I may be out of here sooner than I think. And the thought of it in handcuffs is enough for me to willingly endure another day in the house. I could almost hope. Almost.

Alright, they whisper. Let me get it.

To my great relief, they finally let go of me. There’s a shuffling of jeans again as the creature stands up, moves around the room. I hear more thumping, and the sound of a receiver being gently placed on the ground. That’s where the bastard has been hiding it. The urge to bash it as hard as I can against their skull is tempting, but I barely hold back as I shakily give them the number to Tito’s Diner. They do it rhythmically in one go.

A heavy silence passes between us as the sound of the rotary dial being spun echoes in my ears. As I slowly take the cradle from their hand, I can about make a brief outline of their body. They are sitting criss crossed in front of me, and I can just about see a small smile sitting on their darkened face as I glance at them, barely visible beneath the disheveled hair hiding it. Their fingers are picking at the soil clinging to their bare feet—from SPRING AND PARADISE FOUND? No. I can’t do this.

It can’t possibly be a game. I didn’t see a single player in it. Just…..us.

”Hello?” The sound of clattering pots echo in the background. “What do you want?”

”Amy?” I try to hide the frantic tone in my voice. “Amy….it’s…it’s me. Juno.”

”Juno?” Then she perks up. “Oh, hey Juno! It’s been a couple of days. Was afraid you’d bail out on me like everyone else does.” There’s another crashing sound. “Will you stop that?! You’re supposed to put the dishes in the dishwasher. For the love—”

”I can come in t-tomorrow morning. 8 am.”

“Huh?” Amy’s voice returns to the phone. “Yeah, anytime before noon is okay. That’s when we’ll get busy. I’ll have your uniform ready, okay. I’ll see you for orientation.” There’s another chaotic sound in the background, and she goes into a loud tirade.

I open my mouth, but it’s yanked from my hands and slammed hard on the receiver. There’s a snipping sound, and I realized that the cord has been ripped cleanly through. My face burns. I’m ready to deliver another insult, but to my surprise, I’m pulled directly to my feet. Two hands wrap around my own.

You are speaking to me.

I freeze. There’s a strange, light, crackling sound, and I realize that the creature is laughing. They’re tugging at my arms back and forth in a playful way, their feet tapping against the dark, in rhythm with their shallow, haggard breaths. Before I know it, they sit me down hard on a stool and drag another chair in front of me, roughly grabbing my arms again. It hurts—I wish they would stop it.

They are still smiling like they won the lottery. The odd thing is that I can’t tell if it is a genuine or a fake one. I’m not too eager to find out.

“I need to take my boy with me,” I say, trying not to eye the crib. “I have to take him to the hospital. He needs to be in one because he’s premature.” I pause. “You do know what that means, right? Premature? Born too early?” And it’s all your fault, you sick piece of—

His name is Rush. The smile fades. The creature looks down, but pats my right wrist. I’ll watch him while you go to work. He be right here when you return. I’ll take care of him. I promise. You can tell me about your day. Tell me everything.

Return. The word makes me want to hurl, much more than the abominable name they’ve chosen for my son. The only thing they’ll be taking care of is the steel toilet in their jail cell. I try not to flinch as a hand presses something into my hair. They grab my arm again and lead me to the window where I can just about make my reflection, but not theirs. My nightgown is stained with blood and dirt. Both of their fingertips linger on my shoulders. I realize that it’s a flower—a pink lily—just placed above my right ear.

I only have one chance to not screw this up.

* * * * * *

Tom Brunswick’s body lies in the basement closet. It is halfway decomposed. The nose and eyes are shriveled up, and his jaw is clenched tight, like he had been trying to trap as much oxygen as he can. His paper skin is a shade of purple, red, green and blue. His bloodshot gray eyes are wide spheres that shoot into the abyss, never to look upon his beloved wife or daughter again.

I am awoken at three in the morning by the creature. I have just finished breastfeeding my son, as he had begun crying in the middle of the nights. I am in the middle of a fitful sleep on my mattress, trying to come up with a decent escape route when there is a warm hand that touches my face. Then they grab my hand, lightly shake me by my shoulders until I am slightly roused enough.

Come, they say.

I do. I don’t know why I didn’t refuse.

It is the worst decision of my life.

They lead me in the basement, at the foot of the stairs. And I see Tom in the shadows. He has been down here for at least a week, if not longer. He has been in the same place where my boy came into the word. I sink to my knees and start vomiting, but the creature kneels by me. A hand is placed on my back. I keep throwing up until I am gasping and spittle is falling from my lips. The creature’s long hair is soft against my face, and they draw me close to them. Their chin rests on top of my head as they pull me into an embrace. They don’t seem to care that I am getting everything on them, as a matter of fact, they seem to rock me back and forth in my arms, like a small child.

Don’t be afraid. Talk to me.

I am quivering, unable to move.

His family is safe forever. I only want you safe. Talk to me, Juno. Please. Just talk to me.