Strawberry Sam

Sensitive content: mature themes, mental health, and strong language.

“I know what I saw, Hank,” I whisper as we stand by the kitchen sink. It’s been three days, no, four, since we got back from the hospital. I’m having trouble keeping track. It’s all been so hectic.

It’s three in the morning and I’ve just finished feeding the baby. He drank greedily but squirmed the whole time, making it uncomfortable for both of us. My nipples are sore, my neck is tight, and I need to lie down—but first Hank is going to listen to me.

“Cassy, please, let’s not do this again,” he says. His eyes are gentle and blue, like the horizon at sunrise, and in any other moment of our lives that pale expanse would be more than enough to calm my nerves.

“Hank, we have to go back. We have to be sure.” I try to keep my voice steady, but I can hear it cracking. He doesn’t answer. He just stares at me. I know what he’s thinking: I’m hallucinating, or seeing things, or crazy. He’s never doubted me before. He’s Hank: he listens, he’s attentive, he’s there for me when I need him. And that makes things so much worse now.

“Don’t give me those fucking puppy-dog eyes,” I snap at him, and I can see that he’s hurt.

I instantly regret those words, but before I have time to apologize, the room spins and he’s holding me upright, his arms around my waist, leading me to the living room.

“Just lie down, Cassy.” It sounds more like a question. “Please.”

“Okay, just for a minute.” I shut my eyes tight, trying to blot out the pain, but the cramps are coming on strong. “Can you—” I don’t have time to finish my sentence before I hear the door of the microwave open and close, followed by electric beeps and a monotonous hum. Two minutes later Hank brings me my heating pad wrapped in a kitchen rag, and I place it under my hoodie while I curl up on the couch.

“Thank you,” I say to him, “but we’re still going to the hospital tomorrow.” My words are hotter than I intend.

He says something, but I can’t hear him anymore. I’m drifting off, yet fighting to stay awake. I don’t want to dream—but I do. A baby with a thick head of black hair, just like mine, coughing and screaming, purple-faced, with a large strawberry mark on his left arm. Sam, my Sam. But in a moment he’s gone and they bring me someone else’s baby, another boy, almost identical, but… it’s not my Sam; I can hear him through the walls, feel the fluttering roar of his heart, erratic and violent, his wails pouring over me like waves crashing on the shore—he needs me, he needs me—but he’s gone. Then the quiet. So quiet I can hear the IV bag drip. So quiet the wall clock sounds like church bells. Tick. Tick. Tick.

And then I wake up.

The light pouring through the open drapes makes me squint through crusty eyes as I unfurl myself from various pillows and blankets. It’s already mid-morning by the looks of it and I nearly jump out of my skin before I see Hank seated across the room with Sam in his arms.

No… not Sam.

“Good morning,” he says.

“Look at his arm,” I reply and walk over to them. My head is spinning and my stomach feels like a pit of hot bile. I can’t remember the last time I ate.

“Cassy, please, I’m begging you to drop this.”

“I will not fucking drop it! Someone stole my son!”

I make to grab the baby lying on Hank’s chest but stop myself in time. I don’t need to see; I’ve checked that arm a hundred times, and a hundred more, in the four days since we got back—I need him to see, for someone else to see, anyone. Sam was born on March 9th, a little past noon, 7 pounds 12 ounces, with a shock of black hair and a bright red strawberry mark on his left arm.  

Hank shifts the baby and says, “The nurse will be here soon. For Sam’s appointment.” He looks up at me with searching eyes. “His postnatal checkup… You can take a shower if you’d like, we still have some milk left over from the last time you pumped.”

“That’s not Sam,” I spit at him, and leave them to go shower.

The water washes over me as I weep, freshwater and saltwater mixing behind clouds of steam. My mind revs, threatening to blow the valves barely holding it together. I have to make it back to the hospital. I need to see the birth records.

My Sam.

The doorbell rings as I’m getting dressed. I can hear Hank making small talk with the nurse downstairs, and then footsteps are getting closer. A knock at the door.

“Cassy, can we come in?”

Should I tell her? Maybe she can help me? She can get access to the records, can’t she?

“Yes.” My voice is hoarse and tired.

“Hello.” The nurse greets me softly. She’s an older woman with gray hair and a kind, wrinkled face. She reaches out to shake my hand with a strong but gentle grip.

“Hello,” I manage.

“What a beautiful baby boy, so healthy, here let’s put him down and we can go elsewhere to speak…”

Her words fade into static as I watch Hank set the baby in the bassinet. He’s wearing a white onesie with ducks on it. I remember when I bought that onesie, seven months pregnant, with swollen feet and a belly that was tearing through my clothes. I thought it was the cutest thing in the store. Little ducks for Sam.

The nurse prattles on about feeding habits and routines. I can scarcely make out what she’s saying.

“Show her his arm,” I blurt out, and they both freeze. “Show her,” I repeat, making for the bassinet, but they both jump to get in my way, hands at the ready, like I’m some monster that needs to be kept from him. As if I haven’t nursed him and cared for him for four days now—changed him, and cooed him to sleep—even if he’s not my Sam.

I can hear the baby’s soft breathing through the silence.

I grunt at them and walk out. Tears burning my cheeks again as I hold myself against the railing, trying to descend the stairs without falling.

When will this nightmare end?

“Cassy, it’s not uncommon to feel this way,” the nurse says over a steaming cup of tea. I wonder how long I’ve been sitting here. “Let me recommend a doctor who specializes in postpartum… issues.” She pauses. “You don’t have to suffer this way.”

“I don’t have postpartum depression,” I say. The mug in my hand is burning my skin. I look down to see a blister already forming on the inside of my index finger. “I just want my Sam.”

The nurse looks over at Hank, but before either of them can speak, I get up and excuse myself, claiming I need to use the bathroom. I leave them in the kitchen and run towards the front door, grabbing my purse on my way out. The sun is strong. Mounds of snow in our front yard weep over the death of winter.

The air is icy, though, and I realize I have no jacket on—nor shoes.

“Hello, I’m looking for the birth records for Sam Strata, I’m Cassy Strata, I gave birth here a few days ago.” My socks are wet and my nose is running. I can’t remember where I parked or how I got here so fast. “The records,” I repeat, “please.”

“Yes, ma’am, one moment,” replies the woman behind the main desk in the Birthing Unit. She looks uncertain. I tap my nails on the acrylic counter, looking around. It wasn’t so long ago that I gave birth here. Gave birth to a dark-haired boy with a strawberry mark on his arm.

“Ma’am,” the receptionist says, “I’m going to need to call Dr. Murphy. Would you mind taking a seat in the lobby right over there?”

“Yes, I do fucking mind taking a seat.” My skin is burning hot, but I’m freezing. “Just punch in his name and give me the birthing report—”

“Cassy!”

I turn to see Hank running down the hallway. He’s got my jacket in one hand and my boots in the other.

“Hank, don’t start with me. I want to see the birthing records.” I turn to the woman behind the desk. “And I’m not leaving until I do.”

“Just come with me a second,” he says, “and put your boots on. You’re in no state to go running around like this. What were you thinking?”

The look I give him answers his question, but before I can say anything, he’s pulling me into a long corridor and easing me into a seat. He gets down on one knee.

“Your socks are all wet,” he mutters to himself as he removes them and slips my boots onto my feet. I can hear the fluorescent lights humming through their glass prison; the walls inhale and exhale in sync with my breath. “There,” he says, sitting next to me and wrapping the jacket around my shoulders. “You scared me.”

“Who’s watching—” I stop myself before saying it.

“Sam,” he finishes. “I asked my mom to watch him.”

“That’s not—” I can’t bring myself to say it again. I know that’s not my Sam, but I’m tired, and cold, and hungry. “Please, Hank, just tell me the truth.”

Under this light his eyes are darker, like deep water just beyond the beach. They’re crying out in pain, but he keeps his composure; he always does, though a single tear streaks his face.

“Cassy.” He clears his throat. “Sam didn’t make it.”

Somewhere down the hall, a clock. Tick. Tick. Tick.

“The cord—it—it was wrapped around and… He couldn’t get enough oxygen, so they took him away… and…”

There’s a fire burning between my ears and the walls begin to melt away from the heat.

“There was a woman… she had complications… bleeding… the doctors weren’t looking… switched the ID bands… what should I have done… just a poor baby… there was no one for him… she didn’t make it… too much blood… and us… Cassy?”

What is he saying? Sam? My Sam? What…

“Please, Cassy, just come home with me.” He’s crying, but he doesn’t sob. His tears run down into his unkempt beard.

I nod, and he helps me up.

Back at the house, Hank sends his mom home while I feed… the baby. She leaves without a word, and I’m grateful. The baby takes pity on me too and drinks slowly, gazing into nothing through a stranger’s half-closed eyes. I lay him down to sleep and then I fall to the floor shivering.

Sam, my Sam.

I couldn’t save him. I couldn’t give him life. I couldn’t…

***

I wake up in my bed, not sure how I got there.

“Hey,” Hank says, brushing the hair from my face and placing his hand on my forehead. “I don’t think you have a fever. How do you feel?”

“Okay, I guess.” I’m not sure. “I feel like I had a strange dream but I don’t remember now.”

“Let’s get you something to eat. C’mon.”

He helps me out of bed, and I look over to see Sam sleeping in the bassinet. He squirms a little and cries, so I pick him up and cradle him. “I’m fine,” I say to Hank, who looks hesitant. “I’m strong enough to hold my son.”

Moonlight streams through the bedroom, and I laugh to myself about how upside-down our days have gotten, but I guess that’s what having a newborn is like. I eat a full meal—supper at three in the morning—and so does Sam. It’s something of a routine.

We change him before putting him back down. As I undo his buttons and tug gently on his sleeve, I notice the strawberry mark on his arm isn’t there. Did I mistake the arm? I check the right arm, but no, there’s no mark.

“Hank,” I start, “there’s no mark.” I look at him and take a step back. Pity fills his eyes.

“Cassy, please.”

“Please what? Why doesn’t this baby have a strawberry mark on his left arm?”

His lip quivers, but his eyes are dry. I realize now how tired he looks—drawn, gaunt—as if he’s been up for days.

“What is going on?” I ask, recoiling from the changing table as he steps in. “Why doesn’t this child have a mark on his arm?” Hank doesn’t answer. His steady hands are busy changing the baby, his gaze downcast.

He puts the newborn down in the bassinet, then turns to me. “Sam doesn’t have a strawberry mark on his arm.”

I replay the last few days of my life in a mental frenzy, clutching at each moment with desperation. I know my son. I know him. I know.

“I know what I saw, Hank. That’s not my son!”

“Hush, love, keep your voice down,” he says, placing a hand on the child.

“I know what I saw.”