{"id":18497,"date":"2023-04-20T18:00:50","date_gmt":"2023-04-20T23:00:50","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/?p=18497"},"modified":"2023-04-20T22:56:09","modified_gmt":"2023-04-21T03:56:09","slug":"the-crib","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/archives\/18497","title":{"rendered":"The Crib"},"content":{"rendered":"

A story by Giulia Sara Miori and translated from Italian by Isabella Corletto<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The child is sleeping. Greta walks into the room without making any noise, determined to complete her task\u2014she won\u2019t fail this time, she\u2019s sure of it. She looks at the blue walls, the white changing table, the organza curtains, the new dresser. Her mother had helped her lovingly pick out every detail of the d\u00e9cor: the wall color, the furniture design, the curtain fabric, the fixtures. They had redone the bedroom during the long months of her pregnancy to make it as welcoming as possible, but Greta isn\u2019t sure about anything anymore: not the colors, not the d\u00e9cor, not the tiny sleeping body covered in layers of tulle. Picking the rag bunny up from the floor and squeezing it to her chest, she places it back on the changing table and walks across the parquet floor, careful not to make it creak, before stopping about a meter from the crib. She realizes then that she\u2019s shaking. Greta gathers her strength and closes her eyes as her feet move mechanically, one step after another. The child is finally close enough that she can hear it breathe, and she reaches her hand out to touch him before slipping it back, overcome with dread. She walks to the window and leans against it before shutting the blinds and closing the curtains. You never know, she thinks. Finally, Greta runs her hand over her belly that had been deformed by pregnancy, and for a second she lets herself remember her inhabited womb. She walks out of the room and locks the door.<\/p>\n

Roberto is reading on the armchair when the doorbell rings. Greta catches her husband\u2019s eye and shakes her head, but he puts on his slippers and opens the door. From the living room, Greta can only hear fragments of a conversation. Thank you, Mrs. De Carli. You\u2019re really too kind, you shouldn\u2019t have bothered. They\u2019re very beautiful. Really. Very beautiful. Don\u2019t let her in, thinks Greta. I beg you, don\u2019t let her in. Of course, says Roberto. Of course we\u2019ll let you know. Thank you, she says, and the door closes again.<\/p>\n

As soon as she sees the flowers, Greta thinks of a bad joke. Roberto takes the blue ceramic vase\u2014the one they always use for anniversaries\u2014fills it with water, removes the plastic around the flowers, and arranges them on the table in the living room. She watches him without saying a word.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat are you looking at?\u201d asks Roberto.<\/p>\n

\u201cDo you know what kind of flowers they are?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cChrysanthemums.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI didn\u2019t know,\u201d says Roberto before sitting back down on the armchair.<\/p>\n

\u201cThey bring bad luck,\u201d says Greta.<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t be ridiculous.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m telling you. It\u2019s true.\u201d<\/p>\n

Greta takes a piece of newspaper and wraps the wet chrysanthemums in it before throwing them away and pulling out the black trash bag.<\/p>\n

\u201cTake them away,\u201d she says. \u201cI don\u2019t want them here. There\u2019s enough bad luck in this house.\u201d<\/p>\n

Roberto puts on his coat and takes the black bag down to the courtyard. Take him <\/em>away too, Greta says to herself. For a moment, she thinks about the clean and organized room, ready to welcome the child, and shudders. They\u2019re cute when they\u2019re babies but then they go rotten, the nurse had told her. Trust me, I\u2019ve seen it happen many times.<\/p>\n

The phone starts vibrating on the table. Greta sees the word MOM flash on the screen. Why won\u2019t she give up after three or four rings like everyone else?<\/p>\n

\u201cSo, how\u2019s it going?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s going well,\u201d says Greta.<\/p>\n

\u201cFrom the sound of your voice it doesn\u2019t seem like it.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m just a little tired.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhen can I come?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSoon,\u201d says Greta.<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s what you said last time, too.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI know, but\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat does Roberto say?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNothing. What\u2019s he supposed to say?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cFine. But is he helping you at least? Is he doing anything?\u201d<\/p>\n

She\u2019s used to her mother\u2019s comments, but they still sting. When she was about to walk into the church, dressed all in white and with a rose bouquet in hand, her mother had looked at her in the mirror and said: You still have time to change your mind.<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t worry, Mom.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOf course I worry.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cReally, there\u2019s no need.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI just don\u2019t know why you insist on doing everything by yourself.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m not by myself.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI could help you with the cleaning, at least.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI can assure you we\u2019re managing just fine.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cFine. Do as you wish.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI just need to take it easy for a few days.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s been a week.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI know, but\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m free tomorrow.\u201d<\/p>\n

Greta flinches. \u201cNo,\u201d she says. \u201cEverything\u2019s a mess.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m sure it is. I\u2019m sure the house is a pigsty.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMom, please.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDid you at least get him to latch?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes,\u201d says Greta.<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd does he sleep?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, he sleeps.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou haven\u2019t even sent me a picture.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m sorry, I haven\u2019t had time.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cGreta, it\u2019s normal for things to feel strange at first\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m fine, Mom.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMaybe so. But there\u2019s something about your voice that I don\u2019t like one bit.\u201d<\/p>\n

When she hangs up the phone, Greta notices that Roberto has looked up from his book and is staring at her.<\/p>\n

\u201cSooner or later they\u2019ll have to come see him.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSooner or later,\u201d she responds.<\/p>\n

Greta opens her laptop and types the words NEWBORN PHOTOS into Google. There are babies of all kinds: blondes, brunettes, redheads, hairy ones, bald ones, wrinkly-faced ones, smooth-faced ones, and more. But one picture won\u2019t be enough. She remembers then that one of her old high school classmates gave birth two months ago. She opens Instagram and scrolls through the pictures\u2014there have to be at least a hundred, maybe more. She chooses the ones without a recognizable background and makes a folder on her computer titled CHILD. Out of the pictures that made the cut, she chooses five to attach to her message and hits send.<\/p>\n

She\u2019s suddenly startled by a moan that sounds like the rattle of a dying man. The bedroom door is wide open. Greta walks in and sees Roberto standing by the crib, holding the child in his arms and singing him a lullaby. She stands silently by the door and then forces herself to approach them, until Roberto notices her and stops singing.<\/p>\n

\u201cHe\u2019s hungry,\u201d says Roberto.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll try to breastfeed him,\u201d she says.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll get the bottle ready in the meantime.\u201d<\/p>\n

Greta gives him a dirty look. \u201cWhy should he take a bottle?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re the one who said he\u2019s not eating.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWe have to keep trying.\u201d<\/p>\n

Greta works up the courage and takes the child into her arms without looking at him. The room is dimly lit. This time, she\u2019s wearing a pair of latex gloves, but the discomfort is still there.<\/p>\n

\u201cLeave me alone with him, Roberto.\u201d<\/p>\n

Greta tries inhaling and exhaling just like they\u2019d taught her to do during the prenatal class and then sits on the sofa, unclasps her bra, and delicately positions the child\u2019s head. She has more than enough milk, there\u2019s no doubt about that. So much that her breasts ache and drops of foul-smelling milk leak out of her, staining her clothes. But every time she tries to get him to latch on to her breast, the child refuses her milk and begins to whimper, emitting those cries that give her goosebumps every time. Why doesn\u2019t he cry like all the other children? She can stand looking at him, even touching him, but not hearing those cries. It\u2019s really too much. My god, thinks Greta. It\u2019s not fair that this misfortune has fallen on her. Maybe her mother had been right when she\u2019d said that she wasn\u2019t cut out for this. You\u2019re too fragile, Greta. You aren\u2019t like me. You aren\u2019t strong. She should have called her. Called her and confessed. Asked her to come quickly. Yes, she should\u2019ve called her. But what would she have said?<\/p>\n

The phone vibrates. She reads the preview of the message on the screen: He\u2019s really a beautiful child.<\/p>\n

\u201cIs the bottle ready?\u201d asks Greta.<\/p>\n

\u201cI thought you didn\u2019t want it,\u201d says Roberto.<\/p>\n

\u201cI changed my mind.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIs he the one who\u2019s\u2026crying?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll take care of it. Go rest.\u201d<\/p>\n

Roberto gets up again, takes the bottle, and makes sure the milk isn\u2019t too hot.<\/p>\n

\u201cHe may not be like the other children, but\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe isn\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe may not be the same<\/em>, but he\u2019s still our child.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cLock the door whenever you\u2019re done.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Greta had always known, even while she was pregnant. Despite the doctors\u2019 reassurance, she could feel it. He\u2019s a very normal child, ma\u2019am, stop worrying. When she\u2019d gone to the hospital for her first ultrasound, the doctor\u2019s discomfort had been clear. He\u2019d seemed hypnotized by the image on the screen, which had then prompted her to worry and ask him what was wrong. But he\u2019d said no, there was nothing abnormal. And yet, everything about the way he\u2019d said it\u2014the uncertainty, the frighteningly cold tone with which he spoke, his absent gaze\u2014seemed to suggest precisely the opposite. After that, she and Roberto had been met by a different obstetrician every time they had returned for tests or ultrasounds. If they asked for an explanation, they were always told that their previous doctor had had an emergency, so she\u2019d be seen by someone else. Eventually, the only ones left were the medical students. She didn\u2019t trust a thing they told her, but they never stopped reassuring her that the pregnancy was going as smoothly as it could.<\/p>\n

Even once he was born, they\u2019d told her that everything looked just fine, but she\u2019d quickly realized that the child hadn\u2019t cried. Why isn\u2019t he crying? she\u2019d asked. Everything\u2019s okay, ma\u2019am, the midwife had told her. Everything\u2019s okay, the nurses had said. But the fact that the child hadn\u2019t cried wasn\u2019t normal. She knew it. It\u2019s not normal that my child isn\u2019t crying. The midwife had laughed heartily, as if even the thought was absurd. Just wait a minute and calm down, she\u2019d replied, slightly irritated. And that\u2019s when Greta had first heard the wail in the delivery room. And, truth be told, she\u2019d felt scared. There, the midwife had said. Are you happy now? Your child is crying. He\u2019s very healthy. In just a moment we\u2019ll wash him off so you can hold him as much as you want. Greta had felt Roberto stroking her hair. She hadn\u2019t had the courage to ask him anything.<\/p>\n

\u201cDid he take the bottle?\u201d Greta asks, stirring the sauce.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo,\u201d says Roberto. \u201cBut the pediatrician said that this is normal in the beginning.\u201d<\/p>\n

She doesn\u2019t say a word and keeps cooking. Roberto clears his throat and says, \u201cMaybe you should be the one to hold him for a while.\u201d<\/p>\n

Greta turns down the heat and looks at him. \u201cSo you think I don\u2019t want to hold him?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI didn\u2019t say that.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat are you saying, then?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cCalm down, Greta.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou don\u2019t think I\u2019m a good mother?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOf course I don\u2019t think that. I was only saying\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI know what you were saying.\u201d<\/p>\n

She finally turns to look at him. He\u2019s standing there in his slippers, bottle in hand, wearing a felt sweater and looking like someone who had never paid attention to anything but work. If he had only made the effort to listen to her, maybe they wouldn\u2019t have gotten to this point. Maybe she wouldn\u2019t have felt so alone. Her mother was right: this man isn\u2019t right for her. But as usual, she hadn\u2019t listened. He\u2019d seemed trustworthy\u2014maybe a little boring, but trustworthy\u2014and at first Greta had gladly put up with his silence and polite answers. She\u2019d let him work in his study without ever bothering him, not even when she needed comfort. Really, she\u2019d only married him to have a child. But she\u2019d quickly realized that she was destined to only give birth to dead fetuses: she got pregnant easily, but then things would take an unexpected turn and the babies would die inside her, as if they had been suffocated by an inhospitable womb. She should have gotten the message and stopped trying, but she\u2019d never lost her optimism until finally, after years of unanswered prayers, she had not only gotten pregnant but had carried the pregnancy to term. She\u2019d been waiting for this child for seven years, and now the only thing she wants is to never have brought him into the world.<\/p>\n

\u201cI can\u2019t even touch him.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cGreta, he\u2019s just a child.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo. He isn\u2019t a child.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe\u2019s a little different from the others, that\u2019s it.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cStop acting like he\u2019s normal.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe doctors say\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe doctors can say whatever they want.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThey say he\u2019s a very normal child.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe can\u2019t stay here with us.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat do you mean?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThere have to be some organizations\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou can\u2019t be serious.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m deadly serious. Roberto, listen to me. That child <\/em>cannot stay with us.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat child <\/em>has a name.\u201d<\/p>\n

Greta hears the intercom ring. Roberto lowers his gaze.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m sorry, Greta, but she really insisted on coming.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMy mother?\u201d<\/p>\n

She can\u2019t believe he\u2019d betray her like this. But he had.<\/p>\n

Her mother\u2019s voice floats in from the kitchen as her footsteps get closer. Greta\u2019s hands are sweating, and as she thinks of ways to get out of this she sees her mother\u2019s serious, delicately made-up face in front of her: her thin lips, her waxed eyebrows that she\u2019s filled in with a pencil, the black coat that falls down to her feet, her nails that are painted a matte crimson red.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhere\u2019s the child?\u201d<\/p>\n

Greta doesn\u2019t respond.<\/p>\n

\u201cI want to see him.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe\u2019s sleeping,\u201d Greta says.<\/p>\n

Her mother goes straight to the bedroom. She jiggles the handle up and down, but the door doesn\u2019t open.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy isn\u2019t this opening?\u201d<\/p>\n

Greta starts to cry.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m sorry, Mom.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cGive me the key.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m so sorry.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll take care of it.\u201d<\/p>\n

Greta pulls the key from her pocket and hands it to her. Her mother walks into the room, closing the door behind her.<\/p>\n

Greta\u2019s legs are trembling now; her heart pounds against her temples. She presses her ear against the wall and thinks she can make out her mother\u2019s voice speaking words in an unknown language\u2014first it\u2019s a whisper, and then the voice gets louder and louder until it becomes a monstrous noise, like the cry of a wounded beast. Greta pushes the handle up and down, up and down, up and down, but the door doesn\u2019t open. It\u2019s locked from the inside, it\u2019s locked and there\u2019s no way to get in, it\u2019s locked and there\u2019s no way to know where the sounds and screams are coming from, but Greta can hear it, she can clearly hear that there\u2019s someone <\/em>in that room. Someone\u2019s in there, she yells, someone\u2019s in the room, and she screams until Roberto comes and tries to open the door, first calmly and then by punching and shoving it as though trying to break it down. Greta hears her mother\u2019s voice talking to a man and the sound of breaking glass and moving furniture and horrible screams and wails that seem like they\u2019re coming from an abyss.<\/p>\n

The house falls silent; the door opens. When Greta walks in, everything is just as she\u2019d left it: the room is clean and organized, the glass on the windows is intact, the furniture is all in its place. Her mother is standing with her back to the door, half bent over the crib and singing a lullaby. Greta is sure she calls out, \u201cMom.\u201d But when her mother turns around to smile at her, she can recognize her son\u2019s icy gaze in her eyes.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Giulia Sara Miori<\/a><\/h6>\n
Isabella Corletto<\/a><\/h6>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

A story by Giulia Sara Miori and translated from Italian by Isabella Corletto   The child is sleeping. Greta walks into the room without making any noise, determined to complete her task\u2014she won\u2019t fail this time, she\u2019s sure of it. She looks at the blue walls, the white changing table, the organza curtains, the new […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2272,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"spay_email":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false},"categories":[76],"tags":[36],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6Jypy-4Ol","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18497"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2272"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=18497"}],"version-history":[{"count":5,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18497\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":18633,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18497\/revisions\/18633"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=18497"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=18497"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=18497"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}