Chapter 4 - Echoes Through the Walls
The first forty-eight hours were a blur of fragmented sounds. From the upstairs bedroom, Clara could hear everything: the creak of floorboards in the hallway, the soft murmur of James rocking the baby at two in the morning, the clinking of glass bottles being rinsed under running water.
Clara spent most of her time sitting by the window, staring out at the backyard garden. Her phone buzzed relentlessly with congratulations and casual check-ins from colleagues at the hospital, none of whom knew what had unfolded. She turned the phone off and left it on the nightstand.
Every instinct in Clara urged her to pack a suitcase and leave for her sister’s apartment in Chicago. That was the logical, dignified response to deception. Yet every time she opened the closet doors, she pictured James downstairs—clumsy, exhausted, desperately trying to feed a hungry newborn with hands that were shaking.
Around 3:00 AM on the third night, Maya began crying. It wasn't a standard, hungry fuss; it was a piercing, inconsolable wail.
Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. The crying grew hoarser, filled with infant panic.
Clara lay in bed, pulling the duvet over her head, trying to shut it out. But her medical training betrayer her. She recognized colic and trapped gas; she knew how helpless new parents felt when nothing worked.
Unable to endure the sound any longer, Clara swung her legs out of bed. She walked down the dimly lit staircase, her footsteps silent on the runner.
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In the living room, James was pacing frantically. His shirt was rumpled, dark circles bruised the skin beneath his eyes, and his hair stood in tangled tufts. He had Maya cradled over his shoulder, patting her back in a rhythm that was far too fast and anxious.
“She won't take the bottle,” James said, his voice laced with near-panic as he saw Clara standing in the archway. “She’s been crying for half an hour. I don't know what I'm doing wrong.”
