The Night Mother
by Raina Alidjani
“This property is truly one of a kind,” the realtor beamed as we descended the staircase. “The original floors and fixtures are intact and so well-maintained. Usually, people gut these old homes and start fresh.”
“The antique finishings were what drew us to the house. We never wanted to change a thing--only enhance,” I said, and my husband nodded in agreement.
A pit was forming in my stomach. The move felt right in theory. The city was getting harder to live in. Being unable to find parking and needing to lug groceries a block was not what retirement dreams were made of. Still--the thought of leaving the place we had nurtured new life in felt a little like dying prematurely. Even if that new life had grown up and moved across the country to start a new life of his own.
We sat at the dining table to discuss numbers and figures—to put a dollar amount to our life.
“Now, before we discuss the listing price, is there anything I should know about the house?” She drew out her pen and notebook.
I shook my head. We cared for the house almost as well as we had cared for our son.
“It’s perfect for families with babies,” my husband chuckled, “the night mother helps.”
I kicked him under the table. The last thing we wanted was our relator to think we were insane.
“The Night Mother?”
“Our son was great at sleeping through the night. We always joked that it was something about the house. We called it the Night Mother.”
“The antique finishings were what drew us to the house. We never wanted to change a thing--only enhance,” I said, and my husband nodded in agreement.
A pit was forming in my stomach. The move felt right in theory. The city was getting harder to live in. Being unable to find parking and needing to lug groceries a block was not what retirement dreams were made of. Still--the thought of leaving the place we had nurtured new life in felt a little like dying prematurely. Even if that new life had grown up and moved across the country to start a new life of his own.
We sat at the dining table to discuss numbers and figures—to put a dollar amount to our life.
“Now, before we discuss the listing price, is there anything I should know about the house?” She drew out her pen and notebook.
I shook my head. We cared for the house almost as well as we had cared for our son.
“It’s perfect for families with babies,” my husband chuckled, “the night mother helps.”
I kicked him under the table. The last thing we wanted was our relator to think we were insane.
“The Night Mother?”
“Our son was great at sleeping through the night. We always joked that it was something about the house. We called it the Night Mother.”
The fugue state was what I called the newborn phase. The mixture of exhaustion and endorphins made for a hazy recollection at best.
The night I returned from the hospital with my son, still bleeding into my disposable underwear, I fell into the deepest sleep. I expected it to last only two hours before the wails for nourishment began. That’s what the nurses told me to expect. Instead, I woke up soaked and swollen, my breasts leaking around me, wondering why they hadn’t been used.
I woke my husband in a panic, and we ran to the bassinet. I picked the baby up instinctually, waking him from his content sleep to ensure he was still with us. As I began to breastfeed, feeling the release of the stored milk, I fumed.
"Why didn’t you wake me to feed him? Did you give him formula instead?”
“I was asleep just like you were. It’s been exhausting.” My husband scratched his head.
"Sure, sure. Then who put him in this new swaddle?” I began to cry. During the fugue months, everything made me cry.
“You must have. You probably woke up, fed, and changed him and don’t even remember.”
"Do you think?” My sobs began to subside.
When I went to change his diaper, it was clean and fresh. I checked the pail. On top was a dirty diaper neatly folded. I must have woken up and done my motherly duty. It was the only explanation.
I felt like I’d gotten a whole night's worth of sleep, though, and that nagged at me. I should have been spent with bags under my eyes, but there I was – chipper and ready to face the day. And so, I did, forgetting the whole incident as soon as the baby spit up on me.
That night the same thing occurred. And the night after that.
“The Night Mother must come and take over the night shift,” my husband joked anytime I got anxious over my apparent memory loss. “I’d enjoy it if I were you. I know I am.”
The night I returned from the hospital with my son, still bleeding into my disposable underwear, I fell into the deepest sleep. I expected it to last only two hours before the wails for nourishment began. That’s what the nurses told me to expect. Instead, I woke up soaked and swollen, my breasts leaking around me, wondering why they hadn’t been used.
I woke my husband in a panic, and we ran to the bassinet. I picked the baby up instinctually, waking him from his content sleep to ensure he was still with us. As I began to breastfeed, feeling the release of the stored milk, I fumed.
"Why didn’t you wake me to feed him? Did you give him formula instead?”
“I was asleep just like you were. It’s been exhausting.” My husband scratched his head.
"Sure, sure. Then who put him in this new swaddle?” I began to cry. During the fugue months, everything made me cry.
“You must have. You probably woke up, fed, and changed him and don’t even remember.”
"Do you think?” My sobs began to subside.
When I went to change his diaper, it was clean and fresh. I checked the pail. On top was a dirty diaper neatly folded. I must have woken up and done my motherly duty. It was the only explanation.
I felt like I’d gotten a whole night's worth of sleep, though, and that nagged at me. I should have been spent with bags under my eyes, but there I was – chipper and ready to face the day. And so, I did, forgetting the whole incident as soon as the baby spit up on me.
That night the same thing occurred. And the night after that.
“The Night Mother must come and take over the night shift,” my husband joked anytime I got anxious over my apparent memory loss. “I’d enjoy it if I were you. I know I am.”
After a few months, we moved our son to his own room. I was anxious to have him apart from me. I never remembered caring for him at night and wondered if I would wake up to do it if we were in different rooms.
“We’ll have the monitor; everything will be fine,” my husband reassured me. “You can put the volume so high on this thing you can hear a pin drop.”
That night I did wake, though—to the sounds of singing. I didn’t recognize the tune, but it was melodic like a lullaby, a young woman’s voice— sweet and sad.
“Tony,” I kicked my husband and whispered his name. “Someone’s in the house.”
He popped out of bed with a yell. “What are you talking about, Mary?”
The singing stopped abruptly, and with it, the light on the bottom of the monitor that signified noise went dark.
“In the baby’s room,” I whispered and pointed, the blood rushing from my head.
We both sprinted. The commotion had woken the baby, and I pulled him into my arms as my husband searched the house with a bat.
“And why did you think someone was here?” He asked, out of breath when he returned to the room. “All the doors and windows are locked.”
“I heard singing coming from the monitor.” I was still shaking but tried to calm myself. “And do you smell that? I think it’s perfume.”
“It’s the city, love. Someone might be playing a song next door, and it comes through the walls. And I won’t complain about a nice smell wafting in for a change.”
He patted me on the head as if I were the child and returned to the bedroom.
That night and the following three nights, I tried to sleep on the rocking chair in the baby’s room to no avail. The baby would only sleep when rocked and demanded to be fed every other hour. It was exactly what my friends told me having a newborn was like, and it was hell.
“He knows you’re there, and it’s disturbing his sleep patterns,” my husband rationalized.
“I was there when he was in the bassinet.”
“Yes, but now you are sitting up and not comfortable. You’re probably moving all around and making noise. Come back to bed, will you?”
And I did, and I heard the singing again. Instead of running into the room, I turned down the volume enough to drown it out. The baby didn’t wake me once.
From then on, I left well enough alone. My son remained seemingly well-fed, clean, and cared for, and I felt rested, and that was enough for me not to press the issue further.
I came to enjoy the scent of jasmine and bergamot that greeted me in the nursery every morning.
“We’ll have the monitor; everything will be fine,” my husband reassured me. “You can put the volume so high on this thing you can hear a pin drop.”
That night I did wake, though—to the sounds of singing. I didn’t recognize the tune, but it was melodic like a lullaby, a young woman’s voice— sweet and sad.
“Tony,” I kicked my husband and whispered his name. “Someone’s in the house.”
He popped out of bed with a yell. “What are you talking about, Mary?”
The singing stopped abruptly, and with it, the light on the bottom of the monitor that signified noise went dark.
“In the baby’s room,” I whispered and pointed, the blood rushing from my head.
We both sprinted. The commotion had woken the baby, and I pulled him into my arms as my husband searched the house with a bat.
“And why did you think someone was here?” He asked, out of breath when he returned to the room. “All the doors and windows are locked.”
“I heard singing coming from the monitor.” I was still shaking but tried to calm myself. “And do you smell that? I think it’s perfume.”
“It’s the city, love. Someone might be playing a song next door, and it comes through the walls. And I won’t complain about a nice smell wafting in for a change.”
He patted me on the head as if I were the child and returned to the bedroom.
That night and the following three nights, I tried to sleep on the rocking chair in the baby’s room to no avail. The baby would only sleep when rocked and demanded to be fed every other hour. It was exactly what my friends told me having a newborn was like, and it was hell.
“He knows you’re there, and it’s disturbing his sleep patterns,” my husband rationalized.
“I was there when he was in the bassinet.”
“Yes, but now you are sitting up and not comfortable. You’re probably moving all around and making noise. Come back to bed, will you?”
And I did, and I heard the singing again. Instead of running into the room, I turned down the volume enough to drown it out. The baby didn’t wake me once.
From then on, I left well enough alone. My son remained seemingly well-fed, clean, and cared for, and I felt rested, and that was enough for me not to press the issue further.
I came to enjoy the scent of jasmine and bergamot that greeted me in the nursery every morning.
“I could have used a night mother when my children were young,” the relator chuckled. Suddenly her smile faded, and I saw the hair on her arms rise. “Come to think of it….”
“What?” I pressed.
“When I did a property audit, I did see that a woman died here right after giving birth to a stillborn.” The relator furrowed her brow as if it was painful to think of. “She committed suicide in what would have been her baby's room.”
“Do you think?” My husband began to chuckle and shake his head in disbelief.
A tear rolled down my face that I quickly swatted away.
“So silly for you to bring that up from twenty years ago. It was a joke, that’s all,” I regained my composure. “However, I would love to find a nice family with small children for the house. It would make me feel that it still was well-loved.”
“What?” I pressed.
“When I did a property audit, I did see that a woman died here right after giving birth to a stillborn.” The relator furrowed her brow as if it was painful to think of. “She committed suicide in what would have been her baby's room.”
“Do you think?” My husband began to chuckle and shake his head in disbelief.
A tear rolled down my face that I quickly swatted away.
“So silly for you to bring that up from twenty years ago. It was a joke, that’s all,” I regained my composure. “However, I would love to find a nice family with small children for the house. It would make me feel that it still was well-loved.”
Raina Alidjani is a toddler's mother, speculative writer, and advertising recruiter residing in Philadelphia, PA. You can see her work in Eclipse Lit and the upcoming short-story collection Spun Stories by Myth & Lore. She is currently seeking representation for her full-length novel inspired by Persian mythology.