Nightmare #1

We get caught in the rain, Eleanor and I. I have no raincoat and she only has a cotton blanket to keep her warm. I stop under the awning of a church and wrap my wool sweater around her, in hopes of it keeping her warm. I feel so stupid for not thinking ahead. Eleanor cries, not wanting to lay down in her stroller. There is a couple getting into their car nearby. They see me wrap the baby in the sweater and the woman smiles as I gently kiss my newborn's head.

I arrive home and am alone. Mike must be out with the other kids. Eleanor is asleep so I leave her in the living room while I make lunch. Our new home makes me smile whenever I see it. It's our first home; small and broken in places but perfect in every way. I especially love the Cape Cod windows that stretch around the dining and living rooms. Outside, our property is set back enough from the road that we don't hear cars at night--or really, much of any noise. Beautiful, aincent evergreens line the property. I imagine that our kids will love to play hide-and-seek among those evergreens someday.

I hear Eleanor stir as the pasta is ready to be strained. "One minute, baby! I'm almost there," I call to her. She is quiet. False alarm? I finish preparing lunch and make myself a plate of spinach pasta with pesto and crusty garlic bread. I pour myself a tall glass of ice, cold water. As I make my way toward the dining room, I feel a draft. That's funny. I know I closed the door.

My heart panics, my head tries to reason. My body makes it way in slow-motion toward the living room, every muscle fighting the heavy burden of fear. Somehow I know, before I even get there what I will find. I drop the plate of food and the water as I see the most horrific sight of my life: an empty stroller.

She's gone. The door is open and she's gone.

The scream I emit is loud enough for my husband to hear at the top of the driveway. I see him drop the groceries as he races over to me. "What?" he asks breathlessly. I can only point to the stroller and whisper, "She's gone."

My foot is bloody from the broken glass and I'm tracking it over the carpet. I don't care. I cant sit still. One police officer is trying to bandage my foot while another gently but persistantly questions me. "Look, my story hasn't changed the fifty fucking times you've asked me. I came home, made lunch and she was gone." My husband shoots me a look that says "cooperate" and I can't look him in the eye. She cried and I didn't do anything. Did I hear her wake up as her murderer took her away?

Upstairs, I hear a rush of feet and low muffled voices. They've found something. Clack, clack, clack down the stairs. "It's a peice of paper," he tells me. My husband begs, "What does it say?"

"We have to verify the information, but it looks as if your daughter was abducted by militant extremists. They've left their calling card, a address for one of their most notorious websites."

"What is the website?" I ask, knowing it will answer my most feared question.

"Please understand that nothing has been confirmed," the Sargent reminds us. "The website is called deadbaby.com."

My scream penetrates the cold blue morning but is lost in the reality of day. The rest of the house is awake. I hear my husband getting ready for work, my daughters chatting. The baby, Eleanor, nestles against my body and suckles milk from my breast. My day begins as others do, but this morning I am more thankful.