A Recorded Sound in The Valley
What is a baby anyway?
There’s no sound in the motel; we must be the only ones left. I ask my fiancé if we can go for a walk. He nods. We leave our room before the night creeps in. As soon as we step outside, the loud noise from the highway hits us. I’m jealous of the cars that speed out of this dump.
I shiver, it’s cold; it must be minus five or six. I glance at my hairless fur boots disappearing in the mud. I feel stuck in a rut; I’m in a small crease of a valley on holiday.
I’m in love with a man who has no money, we both don’t have jobs and soon we’ll get married, but the ring doesn’t fit and my nightmares feel real. Around me are hundreds of vines, but there are no shiny grapes, the trees have been stripped, the birds are gone — nothing’s our neighbor. It’s all bare here, it’s all gone.
I look up at the big mountain. I feel like she’s laughing at me, at what I’ve become. Since I’ve committed to my fiancé I only get to play with her a few hours a day when my groom and I pay the day rate. And to earn that special right, I pay a hefty price; in one week on the mountain, I blow what I usually burn in a year. But it’s all worth it; when I’m up there everything feels easy and possible, and even the light is different. It’s quite a sight. I like to watch the money sit comfortably in the sun with their nose high up in the sky; it reminds me of old times.
Now, come 4:30 p.m. when it’s time to go down, I’m reminded the mountain will never be mine — all I can do is rent it for a limited time. As I think of that, a gust from the valley slaps me back into my present. Where I am, in the trenches, my nose can’t be pointing too high, it’s too clogged up from all the cheap booze we’ve been drinking.
A few steps into our walk, two people come our way. We get hellos, but no smiles from two old men walking a dog. As we go around the bend we see a large stinking hole on the side of the road filled with deep waters. It’s just the right size to drop a body or two, and it’s probably full of shit.
We move on from it and land on a tight path along a wide river. From afar I notice a busy mom pushing her baby’s pram while she runs. I comment on how that poor kid must be feeling on that bumpy road. My fiancé stays positive saying it’s important for mothers to keep healthy.
He’s right. What do I know about motherhood? It must be hard; no time to breathe, no time to think, no alone time ever. I wonder what happens to a mother’s brain then.
As she gets closer I observe her; she’s got earphones in her ears, her face is bright red and her eyes are barely open behind her icy glasses. Next, the baby gets my attention; they’re bundled up in many layers of blankets — so many layers I don’t see much skin. I don’t usually look at babies, but this one deserves some attention; even their hands and feet are covered.
When there’s no more distance between us I get full visibility; the baby’s head is bent down on its knees, I only catch a small slit of its yellow forehead skin, and it emits a long, continuous sound. Not a cry or a moan, just a strange in-between. It’s neither quiet nor loud and it’s stuck at a frequency.
My fiancé and I look at each other. He confirms my suspicions, something’s wrong. I get shivers down my spine. We discuss what we think we saw. He thinks it’s not her baby. I think it’s no one’s; it’s made in China, no doubt I’m right. Her little trot on the valley’s muddy grounds must have made the doll move.
I wonder who that woman is. Perhaps she’s performing for someone. A man, a crush? Possibly an ex who walks on this path too. Maybe she’s using the baby and the jogging to make him think she’s a new woman with a purpose.
As I consider that strange theory, we cross paths with a thick, bearded man in his forties; he could be the one she wanted to see. Or maybe this is all just for her: she likes to feel like a mother even if she isn’t one. She must have been pregnant once before she lost the baby and the man. And now she’s all alone, so she’s decided to live in that illusion.
If that’s the truth, I wonder when her act ends. Does she feed the doll? Does she whisper sweet songs to it in the night? Does she cuddle it close to her heart and press her hard milk-less breast against its plastic mouth? How long has she been doing this? That act can’t go on during the summer; you can’t hide a baby in kilos of blankets when it’s boiling outside.
I want to go deeper into her story, but the highway’s destroying my ears so we turn around. On our way back, the mother appears in front of us again. As soon as she sees us she grabs her phone in her hand. I know what she’s doing; she’s turning on the doll’s sound recorder before we reach her. The lady’s clever; she also wears earphones in her ears, so that no one stops her. Worst case scenario, if she runs into someone she knows she just smiles and keeps going.
My mind travels far and then it comes back to the present. I keep my eyes peeled and walk as slowly as I can to find out if my hypothesis is real. This time around, I have to know. She’s still far; I have time to get sharp. I use all of my strength to gather my feelings inside and keep calm.
The mother gets closer. I need to concentrate on that baby as if it were mine. The child is now right in front of me, it can’t go anywhere, it can’t escape. Soon there’s almost no air between us, no time, no space, and in a few seconds, it all happens again.
When the moment’s gone I’m still uncertain. During our final steps back to the motel, I tell my future husband about my theories. He laughs. I ignore him and stare at the different shades of grey outside our bedroom window thinking about a plastic mouth squeezed against a woman’s breast.
