The Medium of Memory | ONC2020

13. The Baby

Charlotte set the bundle delicately on the old worn chair near the fireplace.

Sparse early morning light filtered through the windows of the sitting room, but it was chilly and Charlotte threw more wood on the fire from the stack next to the fireplace.

I worried that the soft wet ground would be too muddy for a burial.

As we'd planned, Charlotte went to check the front door. I stood looking at the small bundle of ragged cloth on the chair, wondering if Clara had ever peeked inside to see her child decaying into bones, or if she'd just continued to imagine him the way he was in life. I hoped the latter, for her own sake.

"It opens!" Charlotte called from the front hall, thankfully interrupting my morbid thoughts.

She rushed into the room, cheeks flushed. "The door opens," she said. "Though it's frightfully chilly outside! Even so, I'll be glad to get out of this house, and get him buried!"

We decided to search for some coats or other clothes to wear outdoors since we would most certainly get terribly muddy digging a grave. Charlotte was already wearing trousers under her calf-length skirt and merely had to remove the overskirt. She found a moth-eaten coat in her mother's room upstairs. I, on the other hand, had not dressed as conveniently for outdoor activities. Thus, I changed from my simple day dress into a blouse and bloomers from Clara's wardrobe, which clearly had not been worn in some years, and topped it with a coat I found hanging on a hook by the back door.

Thus attired, Charlotte gently scooped up the baby's remains and we faced the front door with determination. This would surely be no easy task, and, I reminded myself, we had no assurance that it would work—that it would stop the haunting.

Charlotte held the bundle gingerly as I pulled open the door. It quickly pulled itself out of my grip and slammed shut.

"But just a moment ago—!" Charlotte exclaimed in surprise.

"Maybe it only works for you," I suggested. "Try it."

She had to hand the delicate bundle to me. I took a step back. When she tried the door, it stayed open, letting early morning light and cool air seep into the front hallway. Tentatively, she took a small step forward but didn't go out.

"All right," she said. She turned to gather up the baby from me. As she turned back to the door with the bundle in her arms, it whooshed shut as if on a gust of wind.

"It's him!" I gasped. "The baby. The house isn't going to let us take the baby!"

"That makes no sense," Charlotte observed. "It wouldn't let us leave in the night, and we didn't even have the baby with us." Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully as she looked at me. "It's you."

The thought came to me suddenly that maybe the house wanted me, too, and I felt sick with fear. But I had to stop thinking of the house as a sentient creature, with wants and desires. It might be filled with living memories of the past, but it was just a house. The past couldn't hurt us, unless we let it.

The challenge, of course, was to not let it.

I noticed a warmth in my arms, and I realized I was holding the baby. My baby?

I shook my head. I felt confused. It was like a fog had descended on me. What was I doing? Leaving? Why?

Charlotte stood with her hand on the door knob.

"What are you doing?" I asked, and my words felt heavy on my tongue. My voice sounded strange in my own ears, merged with the buzz of memories growing louder all around me.