The Citrus Syndrome

17 ; paranoia

Paranoia

Violet

Why does everyone want to kill my baby?

It is a strange question, one I thought I wouldn't ever have to ask, but that's all I can think right now. Everyone I see, everyone I don't see, has it out for Faith. Every syringe is filled with poison and every cold cloth they try to lay over her forehead is dripping with venom. Every hand that tries to touch her wants to feel her neck snap under its fingers. Every bowl of food offered to us is full of pure cyanide.

This fear, this vigilance is exhausting and paralyzing. I can't do anything, yet I have to do everything I can. If I fall asleep, she will die. I am sure of that much.

Bo lies beside us, but how do I know he isn't on their side.

I hear all sorts of words swirling above my head as Bo and the others talk about me. Second stage, paranoia, warped perception, hyper-protective. They speak of disease but do not understand that this is one hundred percent real.

Soon, Faith begins to cry. Her diaper is clean; Catherine must have changed it before she returned the baby. She isn't running a fever or anything. What is she crying about? Her wails pierce my heart, making it beat even faster. Have I failed, despite my most convicted efforts? Is my baby going to die?

Bo turns over with a groan, settling on his side. "I think she's hungry," he croaks out. "They have food here. Just ask for some."

"No," I snap. How can he claim to care about his daughter when he's so careless with her? "It's all poison."

"Vi, you're sick, okay?" he says. His eyes are soft with sympathy like he is talking to a child who has scraped her knee while riding her bike. "Let me take care of Faith. You need to rest."

"No!" I repeated. I clutch the baby closer to me, afraid he might yank her out of my grasp before I can protest. "I'll feed her." I lift my shirt, unclasping the latch on my bra. It is wet with perspiration.

Bo grabs my arm. "Vi, don't," he begs. "She isn't infected yet. Couldn't your milk give her TCS?"

I want to slap him but I don't have the strength. "I'm her mother," I hiss. "I would never hurt her."

"Baby, I know you wouldn't hurt her on purpose. It's just not safe --"

Too late. Faith is already attached to my breast, her sobs dissolving into contented smacks and swallows. Bo looks angry. "Quit glaring," I snap. "She's trying to eat."

"You probably just gave her the damn disease!" Bo says. He would have yelled it, but I can see his strength waning. Even when he reaches for Faith, I easily bat his hand away.

"No I didn't." I feel like crying. Why would Bo accuse me of such a thing? No one loves Faith more than I do. I would never hurt her. "Stop accusing me." I sniff, frowning at Bo.

"Violet," he says, his voice quiet and soft like silk. "You know that paranoia is a symptom, right? No one is trying to hurt Faith. It's all in your head."

I hold the baby closer to my chest. She loses her hold on my breast and breaks back into stuttering sobs. I guide her mouth back to my nipple, wincing as her teeth close around it. One of her fists is pinned beneath my ribs, the other batting at my neck. "No, it isn't," I argue.

Bo grunts at me, frustrated that I will not blindly comply to whatever he says. "The food is poison, huh?" I nod. Bo raises one gray hand, letting it fall back to the bed in a lazy arc. A man comes over to see what's wrong. "Can we have some food?" Bo asks.

"No!" I cry, but they ignore me. "Don't, please, don't. I don't want you to die."

Bo doesn't answer. He watches the man serve a lump of porridge into a bowl, sticking a spoon in the middle. The man brings it back, handing the bowl to Bo despite my protests. "Do you need any help eating?" he asks. Bo shakes his head and thanks him.

"Don't eat it," I beg. He isn't listening. "Bo, please don't leave me here alone."

"Jesus, Vi," he says. "Calm down. I'm not going to die."

But I can't. My heart is beating out of my chest with fear, blood rushing to my head. Faith is crying again because I am holding her so close that she can no longer reach my breast. "Don't," I plead one more time before he lifts the spoon to his lips.

My heart stops as he pulls the spoon out of his mouth, swallowing the food. I feel like I am watching his body fly out of a windshield. I join Faith in her sobs, certain her father is about to die.

Then he moves, shifting so that his warmth falls on my cheeks and stomach. I hear clinking as he sets the bowl on the floor beside him. "See?" he says. "Not poison."

I peek at him from behind the film of my tears. "You're alive?" I say, meaning it as a statement but speaking it as a question.

"Yeah." Bo smiles a pale, wry smile and pushes my hair away from my face like he used to before he kissed he when he got home at the end of the day. Oh, how I miss those days. I start to cry again. "Don't cry," he says, draping his arm over my waist. "We're okay."

I press Faith's face to my stomach as though I can absorb her health, her youth, her ignorance. "We aren't okay," I whisper.

"Oh, you know what I mean," Bo says.

A startling thought crosses my mind. What if the man is in on it and Bo is, too? What if that demonstration what only an elaborate hoax to get me to trust these people? I give Bo a suspicious once-over. "What if you're in on it?" I wonder aloud.

"Vi," he says again. "Don't let it get to you, okay? You have to trust me."

"No, I don't."

But something scarier than Bo's possible betrayal has happened. Faith is no longer crying.

I carefully peel her small, sweaty body away from my chest. Her lips are blue from lack of air and her face is tinged gray with it. And the outlines of her last tears are still pressed to her cheeks like a roadmap of her misery.