Chapter 3 - The Hostage in My Own Living Room
By five o'clock, forty-five minutes after the front door had been pushed open, my house no longer belonged to me.
The baked ziti was bubbling in the oven, filling the air with a thick, heavy scent that made my postpartum nausea return with a vengeance. Kelly’s children had discovered the dog’s squeaky toys and were currently throwing them back and forth across my white living room rug, while our aged golden retriever, Barnaby, hid trembling beneath the dining table.
"Natalie, give him to me," Denise commanded, stepping in front of me as I tried to soothe Jonah, who was beginning to let out small, rhythmic squeaks of distress.
"He's hungry, Denise," I said, backing up an inch. "He’s been cluster-feeding all afternoon. I need to take him upstairs to the nursery so I can nurse."
"Oh, don't be silly!" Denise laughed, stepping closer and reaching her hands directly into my baby carrier. Before I could pull away, her strong, manicured fingers unlatched the plastic buckles on my shoulder straps. "He just needs some fresh air and a little grandmama love. You’ve been holding him so much he’s going to get spoiled!"
"You can't spoil a fourteen-day-old baby—"
"Nonsense," she interrupted, deftly lifting Jonah out of the sling before I could secure my grip on him. She held him out at arm’s length like a prize trophy, ignoring the sharp, shrill cry that immediately burst from his tiny lungs. "Look at him! He’s just fussy because you’re nervous. Babies smell fear, Natalie. You’re far too tense."
"Give him back, please," I said, my voice trembling now. My chest felt hot and heavy, my nursing top already leaking through the thin cotton pads.
"Howard! Look at your grandson!" Denise yelled over Jonah’s mounting screams, marching straight toward the couch where Howard was watching a football game at maximum volume. "Look at these cheeks! He looks just like Luke when he had the colic!"
"He doesn't have colic," I said, following her like a ghost. "He’s hungry."
"He just ate an hour ago, didn't he?" Kelly chimed in from the kitchen island, where she was currently eating potato chips directly out of a bag she had found in my pantry. "If you feed them every time they cry, Natalie, you’re going to stretch his stomach. My pediatrician told me three hours minimum between feedings."
"I am breastfeeding, Kelly," I said, my cheeks burning with a mixture of humiliation and rage. "It doesn't work on a strict three-hour schedule during a leap."
"Well, my kids were formula-fed and they slept through the night at four weeks," Kelly shrugged, licking salt off her fingers. "Just saying. You look exhausted. You should let Mom take him for the night."
My heart stopped. "What?"
"Oh, wouldn't that be lovely?" Denise beamed, bouncing Jonah up and down with a force that made his head bob uncomfortably despite her hand behind his neck. "We could take him back to our house in Connecticut for the weekend! Give you and Luke a chance to get some real rest! You look like death, honey. Absolutely grey."
"No," I said instantly. My hands were shaking so hard I had to tuck them into the pockets of my cardigan. "No one is taking my baby to Connecticut."
"It was just a generous offer, Natalie," Denise said, her warm tone instantly dropping ten degrees into sharp, passive-aggressive disappointment. "You don't have to bite my head off. We came all this way to help you."
"Help me?" I looked around the room.
My coffee table was covered in rings from wet drink glasses. Mason had spilled a handful of goldfish crackers into the crevices of my linen sofa. Aunt Clara was setting dirty paper napkins on top of my mahogany side table, and Uncle Greg was standing in front of my open refrigerator again, complaining that we didn't have any mustard.
"Where is Luke?" I whispered to myself, pulling out my phone once more.
The screen lit up with a low battery warning. 12%.
Still no reply from Luke.
"The ziti’s burning!" Aunt Clara shouted from the kitchen.
Denise didn't move. She just looked at me, holding my screaming son against her shoulder while she patted his back with unnecessary force.
"Well, Natalie?" Denise said, her eyes fixed on mine. "Are you going to get the food out, or are you going to let our dinner ruin?"
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My head pounded with a fierce, blinding migraine. My lower back felt as if it were being split open by an axe. I looked at my baby, whose face was now beet-red, his little fists beating frantically against Denise’s floral blouse.
"Get the oven mitts," I said quietly, turning toward the kitchen because I felt too weak, too broken, and too physically drained to do anything else.
