A Touch of Charlotte

Charlotte starts talking to me at 3:07 on a Tuesday morning while I rock Emily and check my e-mail. What else is there to do in the middle of the night with a nine-month-old baby who refuses to sleep for more than two hours straight?

My inbox is full of subject lines promising me bigger penises, cheaper Rolexes, and mortgage approvals that I never asked for. I’m ten steps beyond exhausted, and I need something interesting to read that’ll keep me awake. Finally, I spot an e-mail from my friend Leigh with a subject line that says Check out this blog! I click on the link, and it brings me to a site called "Post Secret," which has homemade postcards with handwritten confessions sent anonymously from people around the globe.

I scroll through and read the postcards. Some are funny: I need to be naked when I poop! Others are sad: I knew you were gay before I married you. But one makes me stop and suck in my breath. It’s a sonogram—one of those ultrasound images where you can make out the baby’s head, just like the one we had on our fridge almost a year ago. Across it are these words scrawled in black magic marker: This is the only picture that will ever be taken of you.

I know what most people are thinking. They’re thinking that the woman who sent in the postcard had an abortion or a miscarriage. They might be right. But something else could have happened, especially if this particular sonogram is showing two babies. And it’s precisely when I think this that I hear a baby girl’s voice say, "Mommy."

I jump.

It’s Charlotte.

I know it is.

Swiveling in the chair and careful not to upset Emily who’s finally asleep, I search for her in the darkness. The light from the monitor casts the room in a funky blue glow, and the old digital clock on the opposite wall reads 3:07.

"Charlotte?" I whisper. Nothing. "Charlotte," I say a little louder, reminding myself that no one can hear me but Emily, since John’s asleep in our bedroom upstairs. "Charlotte, sweetheart. Mommy’s here." I look down at Emily. "And Emmie’s here too. We’re both here."

Just thinking about Charlotte makes my heart hurt. The tears come, and I close my eyes and let them fall. I picture them running down my cheeks, my chin, my neck, my breasts, and onto Emily’s face, drowning her.

"Bug," the voice—my Charlotte’s voice—whispers. She sounds so close, as if she’s right next to me.

"Bug?" I repeat. I open my eyes and try to see through my tears. Everything blurs before slowly giving way to focus.

"Bug! Bug! Bug!" Charlotte’s words resonate through my head, and suddenly I’m outside my body, watching myself as I hold Emily. And that’s when I see it—the bug on Emily’s mouth.

It’s a stink bug—a dirt-brown, shield-shaped insect that smells like rotten eggs. Except this one is five times bigger than a normal stink bug.

"Jesus!" I hiss. I try to flick it off with my index finger, but it won’t budge. It’s heavy and locked into position. I grab it by the antennae, and pull—gently at first—and then I tug harder and harder. The bug is moving! No—it’s growing. It’s covering Emmie’s mouth and nose.

"Put down," Charlotte commands.

I still can’t see her, but I know Charlotte’s here in the room, and I’m thankful for that. I kneel on the floor and place Emily on the blue shag carpet. The bug is smothering her mouth, her nostrils, her eyes. I need something strong enough to bat it off her. I jump up and feel around John’s desk. I grab his heavy-duty stapler—the one he uses to fasten twenty-five pages together.