Jim closed the blinds, unplugged the telephone, and put the tape in. He leaned back in his chair, took a breath, and pressed play. The tape crackled, the sound familiar though no less unsettling, for he knew what was to come. He skipped past the preliminaries, stopping when he heard Jess's voice.
"The baby monitor is one of the new models. There's a small camera downstairs in Harry's room, and a base unit next to my bed. I was nervous about Harry sleeping in his own room, especially with him being two floors below: the lower ground floor. It's a long way down. The house wasn't really designed for family living. Michael loved it though."
He turned up the volume and closed his eyes. He heard her take a sip of water. He flinched as the glass touched her teeth. "I liked lower ground floor over basement, like the realtor said. Basement sounds creepy, dark, and cold. Harry's room is nice though—there’re animal stickers on the walls. We had the ceiling painted blue, like the sky."
She coughed lightly, shuffled in her seat.
"It'd taken a few weeks before I managed to sleep more than an hour without checking the monitor; seeing what position he was sleeping in; making sure he hadn't kicked his sheet off. The nightvision mode gives his room an eerie, green glow; makes his skin look so pale I felt sure he was freezing cold down there."
She laughed then, a fleeting, anxious laugh.
“I wasn’t sure why I was sitting up in bed that night, why I was sweating, why my heart was pounding so hard. I remember reaching for the clock, seeing it was three-nineteen. Funny . . . the things you remember.”
Another pause, another cough.
“I glanced at the monitor and fought the urge to check him. I drove myself mad, always checking. He’s three after all, not a baby. I reached for my glass of water. My throat was dry and scratchy . . . I’m not sure . . . maybe I was getting sick . . . a cold or something.” She cleared her throat. “Is this too much detail?”
He heard his own voice, calm, reassuring, practiced. “You’re doing well.”
“I lay back and stared at the blank screen. He was fine. Harry was fine. It had been like this every night since Michael left. I was a wreck . . . I am a wreck: fucked. The person I used to be . . . gone . . . I’m not even sure I remember her. I wonder if I’ll ever see her again . . . that person I mean. Do I sound crazy?”
He'd smiled gently, shaken his head.