Coco
The baby knew quite a few things. She even knew that she would
forget the things she knew now. She didn't know close to everything,
though. She didn't know the difference between on purpose and accidental.
A diaper fastened too tightly at the waist hurt, period. She didn't
know if the forgetting was for the best or merely the way it had always
been. And she didn't know if anyone was in charge of these things
– in case you're wondering.
She sat in her mother's lap or at her mother's feet. Her mother smelled
soft and sharp at the same time. She smelled of the cool pink lotion
she rubbed into the baby's skin and cigarette smoke and of something
else, faintly, like orange peels steeped in urine.
She knew that the man they came to visit wasn't in charge. His voice
was deep but there was less to him than other people his size. The
baby's mother chain-smoked and watched this man. Her mother wanted
something from him the way the baby wanted grape juice and graham
crackers at the same time every day. She looked at the man the way
the baby studied the dust motes slanting through the gap in the curtains
in the only window of the room in which they sat. Her mother wore
a silver-gray sweater that sparkled outside in the sun, but just sat
there now, dull as ashes. There was one lamp and the muted television
for light.
The boy was solid, but he wasn't in charge, of course. The baby liked
the way the boy smelled. He had nice teeth, too - squarish and just
the right size for his mouth. The boy didn't quite belong to the man
the way she belonged to her mother. He smelled like milk that had
been sitting in a cup for awhile and like the carpet at a house where
they'd once stayed. If she stuck her nose right up against him she'd
probably sneeze. The boy could come and go as he pleased, in and out
of the rooms. Sometimes he sat down on the floor and pressed his palms
to her palms and spoke to her and she almost understood him.
She knew there was happy and unhappy. Two feelings. Unhappy was the
room being too hot or her mother not coming to hold her when she cried
in the middle of the night. Her mother sometimes cried when they were
alone, but only a trickle
of tears and sound came out. When her mother was happy she made a
small clicking sound with her tongue like a faucet dripping and she
fixed grilled cheese sandwiches and cut them into tiny warm cubes.
Then, the baby remembered a time the boy had cried. She had heard
a funny sound. Her mother and the man were talking and the sound was
like their cat throwing up in the closet. The baby had crawled into
the hallway and no one stopped her. She crawled very fast toward the
sound. The door was ajar and she pushed it open with her forehead.
The boy was under his covers, holding a pillow over his head. The
room smelled like him only more. Maybe she laughed. The boy raised
the pillow and looked at her.
She knew her own name had two parts, the same sound repeated, and
it felt good in people's mouths, like tapioca pudding.
The man sometimes fell asleep in his chair. Today he was smiling in
his sleep though she knew he wasn't happy and neither was her mother.
The man was never happy, unless there were signs of happiness she
hadn't yet learned. Her mother clenched her fists in her lap and watched
the man sleep. His chair was covered with brown sticky skin. The room
was very quiet, like right before the cat started to gag or the phone
rang. Her mother wasn't in charge. Her mother was good at pushing
the baby in the swing just hard enough, though she never seemed to
know how hot or cold the baby was. The baby often perspired beneath
a sweater or shivered when her legs she'd kicked off the blanket.
Her mother didn't always notice when she'd lost a sock.
It bothered the baby that she'd forgotten about the boy crying and
whatever had happened next. She wondered if this was the beginning
of forgetting. Suddenly the refrigerator hummed and rattled hard and
her mother got up and kicked the man's chair hard. His eyes popped
open like a doll's. The boy appeared in the doorway. The baby couldn't
remember if they still had the cat. Why couldn't she remember? The
cat had been sick. The cat didn't always come home at night. The carpet
with the good smell was puffy-cloud gray flecked with dark blue. It
was textured with scallops like the water carved into the sand at
the beach. The cat was dark gray like a shadow and shiny like velvet.
The boy's eyes were gray-pale gray, as if the color had been left
out rather than put in.
Her mother kicked the man's chair again. He dropped to his knees and
began kissing her mother's ankles, making wet, smacking sounds like
her mother sometimes made on the baby's stomach. The boy stood in
the doorway needing to be someplace else. He looked at her. He wanted
to know: did she understand? Yes. Her mother's expression looked like
she imagined her own face did when the man was pushing her on the
swing. Too hard. Harder. Too hard.
The baby opened her hand wide and sniffed her palm. Just then it held
the scent of wet grass. The baby hoped that even after she had forgotten
the things she knew now she would still remember the smells. If not
the smells then at least all the colors of gray she had seen.