The Nobodies Album (2 page)

It’s extraordinary, this assault of color and light, this riot of information, though the people moving through it seem barely to notice. I try to absorb it all—the neon, the colossal ads, the day’s news moving past on the side of a building. I dabble in a bit of time travel: if I were a woman from the eighteenth century (or the seventeenth or the fifth) and I found myself suddenly in the middle of this tumultuous place, how would I respond to a landscape so terrible and bright? For a moment I’m able to fill myself with wonder and fear, but I can’t maintain it for long. My twenty-first-century eyes are jaded, and in the end, this is nothing I haven’t seen before.

Several of my novels have had their origins in game playing of this sort. My last book before this one, a spectacular failure entitled
My Only Sunshine
, came into being when I had occasion to hold a cousin’s new baby and I began to wonder what might be going on inside his soft, slightly conical little head. A distancing measure, perhaps, if I’m honest—a way to step back from the indisputable solidity of the child in my arms, the head no bigger than a grapefruit, the compact body wrapped tight.

Still, it’s an interesting question. It’s the most basic of human mysteries—how do we think when we have no language, when we know nothing more than how to swallow, how to suck?—and yet every person on the earth has the answer stashed away in some jellied gray furrow of brain. Not such an original thought (quite a banal one, really), but on that day it seemed as if I had discovered something new. What if? I thought, which is the way books are always born. What if I wrote a novel from the point of view of a newborn baby? Start in the womb and carry it through the first six months or so. Finish before she can sit without toppling, before she can lift a cup or blow a kiss. What will she make of the family she’s been born into? What will the reader understand that the protagonist herself cannot?

Not much, according to critics and consumers alike. Except for one reviewer, who said a few nice things about the way my books succeed at capturing “the texture of life,” most readers had a fairly tepid response. I’m sure that people will see a link between the failure of that book and my decision to write
The Nobodies Album
, and it’s true that
My Only Sunshine
was the first book I thought about revising post-publication. But I’m not that easy to sway. If writers ran to change their books every time they got a few bad reviews, then libraries would be very confusing places.

I hail a cab, suddenly anxious to get this process started, to get this manuscript out of my hands and release it into the wild. I open the door and get inside, tell the driver the intersection I’d like to go to. As he’s pulling away, I happen to turn and look out the window, and the news crawl catches my eye. The tail end of a headline pulls at me, but I can’t be sure I’ve read it right, and then it’s gone around the side of the building.

“Wait,” I say. My voice is strange. “I need to get out.”

The driver makes a noise of disgust and pulls over to the curb. Even though he’s only driven me thirty feet, I take a couple of dollars from my bag and drop them through the slot in the Plexiglas partition. I notice with some surprise that my hands are shaking.

I get out and stand on the sidewalk, watching the news stories slide by. People push around me; I’m touched on every side. There’s a headline about the salaries of professional basketball players and one about wildfires in the Pacific Northwest. And then the one I’ve been waiting for comes around again, and the world changes in a series of cheery yellow lights: “Pareidolia singer Milo Frost arrested for the murder of girlfriend Bettina Moffett.”

In the moments that follow, as I stand mute in the middle of the humming crowd, the thing I’m most aware of is my own response to this news. I don’t scream or faint or fall to my knees; I don’t burst into tears, or lean on a wall for support, or worry that I’m going to be sick. I feel utterly, pervasively blank. I’m consumed with trying to understand what I’m supposed to do. If I were writing this in a book, I wonder, how would my character react? But this isn’t fiction; apparently, if my senses are to be believed, this is life.

For a blink of a moment, I think about getting another cab and continuing on my way to my meeting. But of course I don’t. I find my phone in my purse and call my editor; I tell her that something’s come up and I won’t be able to make it to lunch. I don’t say what’s wrong, and I can’t tell whether she already knows or not. As for the manuscript, I tell her I’ll drop it in the mail.

And then I’m free and lost. I force myself to begin walking again, though I have no idea where I’m going. Sometime soon I’m going to feel this blow, and I’d rather not be standing on this radiant bruise of a street corner when that happens. I count out the things I’m going to need: solitude, a television news channel, access to a computer where I can read the rest of this story. Someplace soft to lay my body when the spasms finally hit.

I see a hotel down the block, and it gives me something to work toward. Don’t crack apart here in the city’s guts; it’s not going to be much longer. Keep it together for the length of time it takes to talk to a desk clerk, ride an elevator, walk an anonymous hall. Swipe the card and feel the door click open. That’s all you have to do.

This is happening; this is not fiction. And the thing about life? It doesn’t have texture at all. Go ahead, feel the space around you. Do it now. See? It’s nothing but air.

From the Jacket Copy for
MY ONLY SUNSHINE
By Octavia Frost

(Farraday Books, 2009)

H
ow does the world look to its newest inhabitants? In this astonishing and daring new novel, Octavia Frost takes us to a place we’ve all visited, though we can’t quite recollect its landscape: infancy. Starting from the one experience we all share—birth itself—and moving into the tragic particulars of one baby born into one family, Frost sheds new light on how we become who we are.

Excerpt from
MY ONLY SUNSHINE
By Octavia Frost
ORIGINAL ENDING

The night of the day she rolls over for the first time, she is wide awake at her two a.m. feeding, her eyes open in the dark, her legs continually flexing and unflexing, as if her muscles simply cannot contain this jubilant new information. She nurses without focus, stopping to find her mother’s face, the crack of light that makes its way through the blinds, the long mountain of her father lying next to them in the bed. Then the nipple is covered up, and she finds herself being carried back to her crib. “Sleepy girl,” she hears, and “sleepy time.” The click of the door, the narrowing light, and she is alone.

But the sleep isn’t there. She can’t keep her body from moving. She rolls onto her stomach and finds she can’t get back. Up on her arms, head high, stuck like a turtle, she hollers until her mother comes back and flips her. They do this again and again.

Finally she’s too tired, and she can’t make herself wind down to the place where she wants to be. Back arching, legs kicking, body flopping back and forth until, as if she were a fish losing breath on the pier, her movements grow less frequent and less spirited. The upper half of her body seems ready for rest before the lower half. She collapses forward onto the sheet, eyes falling halfway shut, mouth working the pacifier, but her backside is up in the air, and her knees bend, bouncing her up and down. She can’t keep still, and she roars with anger. Nothing is right, it can’t be right; her mother lifts her and swings her back and forth, makes the swishing sound that she hears sometimes in her dreams, but now it doesn’t help, nothing is ever going to help. She goes rigid, she resists, she yells. And then her mother leans forward, touches their foreheads together, and in the sudden close room their faces make, she’s able to let her eyelids drop. Another moment, and she’s away.

•  •  •

Light and noise, the morning sun and the cracking thunder of her parents’ voices. The frogs hanging over her bed are there again, back from the shadows, and the air rises and falls with sound: this is how she knows the night is over. But something isn’t right. Her skin is warm, her chin slick and wet. Her mouth hurts; her gums are beating like a heart. In one place there’s something new, a rough edge poking up, and she doesn’t like the way it scrapes against her tongue. A muffled slam from the other side of the wall, a bellow and a shriek, then the sound of something clattering to the floor. She begins to cry. After a moment, the other noises stop. This is how it always happens. She doesn’t know who will come to get her this time—milk smell or spice, soft skin or rough—but she knows that for the length of time it takes for someone to walk to her room, pick her up loosely, and cradle her close, her crying will be the only sound there is.

•  •  •

She’s undressed to her diaper, sitting on her mother’s lap in a cold, bright room. Her mother is talking to a woman wearing a white jacket. There’s a small bear stuck to a necklace of long tubes on the woman’s chest.

It sounds like she’s meeting all the milestones. What’s your home situation like? Is she in day care?

Her attention moves from the bear to the panel of lights up on the ceiling. Her cheek is against her mother’s chest, and she feels her mother’s voice before she hears it.
No, she’s home with me
.

Any pets in the home?

No
.

Any smokers?

No
.

Good. Are there any guns in the house?

She’s still watching the light above her, but suddenly everything grows tight and quick: her mother’s arms around her, the soft pulsing beneath her cheek, the rhythm of the noise against her ear. She squirms, and the grip loosens a little, but her mother’s body doesn’t slow.

No
, her mother says.

Laughter from the woman with the little bear:
I hate asking that one, but you never know
.

Sure
, her mother says.
Right
.

Well, once she starts crawling you’ll need to think about baby-proofing the house. The nurse will give you a handout
. The woman leans toward her, waves the little bear in her direction.
Let’s take a look
.

Unhappy things now: a cold weight against her chest, her belly, her back; light in her eyes; something sharp in her ear. She twists away, but her mother holds her in place.

Everything looks good. She’s scheduled for four immunizations today. I’ll tell the nurse to come on in
.

The door opens and closes. Her mother’s hands are shaking against her belly. A knock on the door, and a new woman comes in, carrying a shiny tray.

Hi, sweetie
, the woman says, holding out a fat finger for her to grab.
Boy, are you going to be mad at me
.

•  •  •

Bundled into her car seat, she’s transported backward to the store. Her mother threads her legs through the openings in the metal cart, and she rides high through the aisles. She loves it here: the brightness, the activity, the tall walls of color. Leaning forward, she opens her mouth against the bar and presses the hurting place against the cold metal.
No
, her mother says, pushing her body back up.
Yucky
. But now that this cool comfort has been revealed to her, it’s impossible to resist. She must put her mouth to this new star of a thing, must press her sore flesh to its chilly mass and feel it warm against her tongue. Eventually her mother gives up trying to distract her, and she sucks and gnaws until there’s something new to fill her mind. When they reach the aisle with the balloons, her face floats upward as if it were suspended by a string.

•  •  •

At dinnertime she’s placed in a new chair, one that’s as tall as the table. Her father is sitting next to her, and she’s never seen him this way before, so close and at her eye level. He’s eating something with his hands, a triangle of color; the smell of it makes her want to put it in her mouth. She reaches out, but it’s too far away to grab.

There’s a white tray in front of her, and she bangs on the plastic surface with one loose fist. A piece of stiff fabric is placed around her neck from behind—she fidgets and tugs at it but can’t get free—and then her mother picks up a small white bowl and a spoon edged in pink rubber.

Cereal
, she says, dipping the spoon into the bowl and scooping up a small mound of white mud.

The spoon comes toward her, pushes her lips apart, and her mouth is filled with terrible lumps. She gags and propels the substance back out with her tongue. Her parents laugh.
Get the camera
, says her mother.

I know what you want
, her father says to her, holding the wonderful triangle toward her. It’s almost close enough for her to touch.

Michael, no
, says her mother, still laughing. She’s moving toward her with another spoonful of white.
You can’t give her pizza. It’ll make her sick
.

The triangle comes closer. Her mother’s mouth still curves upward, her eyes cast down toward the spoon.
She’ll be fine
, her father says, and then the food is at her mouth. She opens wide to receive it. The tip of the triangle lands on her tongue, but she can’t taste anything but heat. She jerks her head back and shrieks, outraged and brokenhearted.

Michael!
her mother yells, pushing him away from her.
You burned her. I told you she couldn’t have that
. Her mother reaches into a glass of clear liquid, holds a cold block to her tongue. The feeling is magnificent.
She’s only six months old
.

When her father speaks, his voice is very quiet.
Well, thanks for educating me
, he says.
Thanks for filling me in on that little detail. I certainly can’t be trusted to know how old my own baby is
.

Her mother stops moving.
I didn’t mean that. I just meant … it burned her tongue
.

Her father drops the pretty slice of food to the table so hard it makes a slapping sound.
Which was an accident. But I know nothing like that ever happens to you. You’re the fucking baby expert
.

No
, her mother says.
Michael
.

Watch out, folks. The goddamn baby queen is here. Whatever you do, don’t try to have fun. Whatever you do, don’t try to be a father
.

Her mother unbuckles the high-chair straps, her hands clumsy.
I’m not going to sit here and listen to this
.

Motion and noise, and everything is on the floor—the lumps and the bowl, the bright triangle and the pink spoon. She begins to cry again.

Put her to bed
, her father says.

It’s not time yet
.

Put. Her. To bed
.

And she’s whisked away through the rooms and up the stairs, her mouth spilling water as the beautiful smell gets fainter and fainter.

•  •  •

It’s not morning, but her mother is taking her from her crib and wrapping her in a blanket, putting a hand over her mouth as she begins to fuss. They’re moving fast, down the stairs and out into the cold. When the car door opens, she can see in the sudden light that her mother’s face is bumpy and wet, with patches of darkness that aren’t usually there.

She sleeps and wakes, sleeps and wakes. When she’s lifted from the car again, the sky has a new color. Her mother carries her to the door of a small red house, but before they get there, the door opens and a woman with black and white hair comes out.

You made good time
, she says. This new woman reaches out and scoops her right out of her mother’s arms.
Do you remember Grandma Kay?
she asks in a voice like singing. But this woman doesn’t smell right or feel right, and she yells until her mother takes her back.

She’s been a little clingy lately
.

Already, at this age? Well, you know, they pick up a lot from their environment
. Grandma Kay holds out a finger, moves it in slow circles until she reaches out for it.
This isn’t just about you anymore
.

Mom, stop it, okay? I’m here, aren’t I?

Inside the house, a man wearing a gray shirt kisses her, a warm whisper on top of her head.

Is this for real this time?
he asks.
You know he’s going to show up here
.

This house is different. This house has brown wings that spin on the ceiling and a soft rug that covers the whole floor. When her mother sets her down, she lays her cheek on the carpet and tests the hairy strands with her tongue. She watches the wings go around and feels the wind they make. She rolls over once, and then again. She rolls until she reaches the wall and can’t go any farther.

She sleeps in this house—not in her crib, but in a soft box with mesh walls—for two naps and one night before she sees her father again. When he comes, she hears his voice first. She’s on the soft rug, chewing on the ear of a rubber giraffe, when the buzzing noise comes from the front door. The grown-ups move all at the same time.

Shit
, says her mother.

Should I call the police?
asks Grandma Kay.

Her mother picks her up and runs with her into the other room, puts her down in her sleeping box, and leaves her there. She yells and yells, but no one comes, and when she stops to take a breath, she can hear that her father’s voice is one of the noises in the swell of sound coming from the living room.

She cries out for him. After a few minutes there are footsteps in the hallway, and there he is in the doorway, tall and smiling down. She kicks her legs with happiness at the sight of him.
Hi, Teddy Bear
, he says, and the sound of his voice fills her like warm milk.
Come see Daddy
.

She reaches out to him with both arms.