Sick Baby

By Oliver Reimers

Paul is a type designer, and Tracy is attempting motherhood. Their baby, Frank, is two months old. His face has turned mustard yellow. When he opens his eyes, they are the color of bananas. This is the fourth week Frank has had jaundice. “Every baby gets jaundice,” Paul said when Tracy first pointed out Frank’s changing skin. They did not take Frank to the doctor, so Frank is at home and yellow. He does all the things a baby does. He tries to chew off his own fingers. He spits on himself profusely. Sometimes he will defecate and sit in his wasted diaper, undisturbed. Mostly Frank is quiet. “It is a sign of intelligence,” Paul said when Tracy brought it to his attention.

Tracy tried once before to be a mother. She quit before the baby was even born. Tracy and Paul went to the ultrasound to determine the baby’s sex. “A healthy baby boy,” the doctor said. He dragged the transducer across her gelled stomach. The fetus wiggled on the screen. It looked more like a worm than a human.

“We are considering Paul for a middle name,” Paul said.

“I’m named after my father,” the doctor said.

Tracy’s stomach sank.

*

It is Saturday. Paul is designing a new font. It is a Serif font that seeks to become the industry standard for newspapers. Tracy sits with Paul in his office. Frank is on the floor, spitting. Paul is working on the letter o. This is the hardest letter. It is crucial that it stands out from the other Serif fonts, but there are only so many ways one can write the letter o. Paul’s favorite letter is g. There are many ways one can write a g. On his office wall are framed sheets of his font alphabets. A local news publication has agreed to use one of his fonts, Adkins Modern, for the body text of their articles. The first article published in Adkins Modern is cut out and framed above Paul’s desk. This is what Paul does from seven a.m. to five p.m. every day but Sundays. On Sundays, Tracy makes him take the day off. Even on Sundays, he points at different fonts and says, “That is Times New Roman,” or, “That is Akzidenz-Grotesk.”

Tracy’s sister, Dana, warned her about marrying the kind of man that goes into the type designing industry. “He would be in an asylum if he weren’t a savant,” Dana said. She found Paul cold and off-putting. Most people do. She still has not grown fond of him, and she tells Tracy so every time they have a moment alone.

“It is five,” Paul says. He sets his pen on his desk and leaves the room. Frank hits the floor with his fists. He is so tiny and so yellow.

*

Frank has inherited Paul’s belly button. Both are gaping mouths. “Here comes the airplane,” Tracy says as she feeds Frank mashed sweet potatoes. Frank’s belly button stares, slack-jawed, back. His stomach is smooth where Paul’s is thinly haired, but they are unmistakably the same. Frank accepts the potatoes. He is too agreeable. “Are they supposed to be this agreeable?” Tracy asks.

“He is a respectful baby,” Paul says.

Since it is Sunday Paul is not working. He is organizing the file cabinet. There is a folder for tax information, a folder for personal papers, a folder for just-in-case forms, and a folder of photographs. Paul is looking in the photographs. Paul pulls out a photo of an ultrasound. He checks the back but does not find a name or date. “I do not know which baby this is,” he says.

“Toss it,” Tracy says. “It’s just an ultrasound.”

Paul puts the photo back in the folder. He decides it is the first baby, the one they thought of giving the middle name Paul. This baby was not really a baby, and Paul does not think of it that way. It is more like a stray dog one finds on the street and briefly cares for, only to discover it has an owner. Paul was sad to see it go, but it was not too hard after a day or two. Now there is a real baby Paul can keep. Paul is looking in the file cabinet because he needs Frank’s medical information. Paul got distracted by the haphazard organization of the file cabinet. He finds Frank’s birth certificate and medical card.
They go to the hospital and get Frank examined. The doctor only needs to look at Frank to know that he has infant jaundice. “He’ll need conventional phototherapy,” the doctor says. He gives Paul and Tracy a biliblanket to use on Frank at home.

“Are you sure his condition isn’t fatal?” Tracy asks.

“Babies do not often die of jaundice,” Paul says.

At home they wrap Frank in the biliblanket and set him in the corner. In his swaddled state, Frank glows teal. He does not cry. It has been days since he made a noise. On Monday, while Paul is in the office and Frank is in the corner, Dana sits in the living room with Tracy. “He doesn’t pay much attention to you,” Dana says. Frank stares at the ceiling. “At this age they’re supposed to like you.”

“Paul says he’s just thoughtful,” Tracy says.

“Paul has a skewed view of what is right and normal,” Dana says.

Dana is a right and normal woman and does things as they should be done. She is a career woman and works as a receptionist for the pediatric center of the hospital. Her house is large and vivacious. She often holds cocktail parties for her many acquaintances and then tells Tracy afterward everything she dislikes about these women. Dana has a husband, Douglas, with whom she is quite affectionate on the rare occasions they see each other. Douglas is a military man. That is part of why Dana married him. Separation is a crucial part of a good marriage. Whenever Douglas is discharged, Dana throws a party and has seven wonderful days and nights with him. After that, she becomes busy with other endeavors.
It is five, so Paul emerges from his office and sizes up the room. “He is looking better already,” Paul says of Frank. Frank is just as yellow and quiet as the day before. Paul kneels beside him. Paul lifts Frank off the glowing blanket and bounces him on his lap. Frank spits on Paul’s shirt. Bubbles of slick saliva stain the black cotton. Paul only wears cotton shirts in either black, blue, or gray. It is acceptable for these colors to be combined into patterns of stripes, or to have text on them. It is not acceptable for them to be collared. This causes problems when Paul and Tracy must go to formal events, which they often do not go to as a result. Paul made an exception for their wedding as well as for Douglas and Dana’s, but he will not for fine dining establishments or business casual mixers. Paul sets Frank back on the biliblanket and leaves to change his shirt.

“It’s a wonder he even likes Frank,” Dana says.

“He’s a loving man,” Tracy says. “He doesn’t seem like it from the outside, but he is.”

“If I were you,” says Dana, “I’d need an affair to stay sane.”

Tracy has never desired an affair.

Paul reenters the room in a blue cotton shirt. “Dinner will be ready in one hour,” he says. He goes into the kitchen and starts the oven for baked potatoes.

“I hope he makes quiche,” Tracy says. “His quiche is just great.”

*

Frank is opening and closing his hands with passive fascination. The yellow has dulled, and now he is a patchy crimson. “When you were a baby,” Tracy asks, “did you have jaundice?”

“I have told you already,” Paul says. “I was an exceptional child.”

*

On Sunday, they stroller Frank through the neighborhood. It’s possible he needs stimulation that Paul and Tracy’s house cannot provide. Seeing other people besides Paul and Tracy may also make him appreciate his parents more. Outside, it is oppressively hot. Paul dabs at his forehead with the hem of his shirt. Tracy lets her sweat collect in fat drops on her chin until they fall onto the hood of the stroller. A woman with a blue brindle greyhound sits on a bench along the sidewalk. The greyhound, terrifyingly curved, pokes its nose in the stroller. 

“What a darling baby,” the woman says. Tracy halts the stroller to appease the woman. The woman peers at Frank. “What’s his name?”

“Frank,” Paul says.

“That’s a strange name for a baby, don’t you think?” the woman says. The greyhound splashes its tongue over Frank’s face.

“He won’t be a baby forever,” Tracy says.

The greyhound raises itself on its meaty haunches and plants its front legs in the stroller. It licks and licks as Frank stares. “I wanted a dog,” Tracy says.

“It is not uncommon for a dog to devour an infant whole,” Paul says. The greyhound opens its jaws wide. Tracy wonders if the dog will snap its jaws shut. Paul jerks the stroller away. He continues along the sidewalk. Tracy lingers to pet the greyhound, then hurries to catch up with Paul.

*

Paul and Tracy sit in their bed as Frank lies silently in his crib. Frank is not asleep, even though it is well past ten p.m. Paul is sitting still. He is not doing anything. Tracy stares at Paul and Frank’s belly buttons. Sometimes, in moments like this, she remembers she is in love with Paul. She does not remember when she forgot. Paul is perpetually in love with Tracy.
During the week Paul revises the lowercase alphabet for his new font. He is excited to move onto the numbers once he finishes the lowercase letters. “Tracy,” he calls from his office. Tracy comes. She is holding Frank. “Tracy, I wrote your name in this font,” Paul says. On a piece of paper, he has inked Tracy in a chunky Serif font. He does this every time he makes a new font. He has a stack of Tracys in a drawer in his desk. Tracy leans over Paul’s shoulder. Frank looks at the font. He reaches a fat hand out and swats the paper. “He likes it,” Paul says. “I have never known a baby to show an inclination for type designing, but I suppose some things are genetic.”

Tracy tells Paul she is taking Frank to Dana’s house, but she takes him to the doctor. The doctor weighs and prods Frank. 
“The jaundice is gone now,” the doctor says. “He’s on track to be a perfectly healthy baby.”

“But there’s nothing wrong with him?” Tracy asks.

“Does anything seem wrong with him?” the doctor asks.

“He doesn’t cry,” Tracy says. “He doesn’t even smile.”

“Have you considered that he’s at an emotional equilibrium?”

“They’re supposed to cry and smile.”

“There’s nothing wrong with him,” the doctor says. “What’s so wrong with that?”

*

Dana is over for lunch while Paul works in his office. She has brought wine and cheese, and she and Tracy sit at the table. Tracy has not touched her glass. “Drink up,” Dana says. “There’s plenty. You’re not pregnant anymore, you know.”

Tracy looks at Frank. He is on the floor, rolling from his stomach to his back. “I didn’t drink while I was pregnant,” Tracy says.

“I never said you did,” Dana says. She eats a cube of cheese off a toothpick. “You know, the other day, there was this little boy coming in for an appointment, and he would only talk about orca whales. You could tell his parents had had enough of him and were just excited to get a break.”

“I’m sure he had some interesting things to say,” Tracy says.
“There’s only so much you can say about orca whales,” Dana says. “But he had this voice like a robot. Remind you of anyone?”

Tracy does not entertain Dana. Tracy pokes at the cheese. It’s the rubbery kind that comes from plastic trays in the store. 
“How old was he?”

“Probably six.” Dana dunks a cube of cheddar into the red wine. “This is how they make purple moon cheddar, you know. It’s probably something he’ll grow out of.”

“Who?” Tracy asks.

*

Douglas has come home, so Dana throws a cocktail party. Paul does not want to go to the party. Tracy is trying to get him into a short-sleeve button-up with a collar. “She is always having parties,” Paul says. He plants his arms at his sides. Tracy jams the buttons into their holes. Paul pulls at his collar. At Dana’s house, Paul stands in the corner with a notepad, practicing different ms. Frank is on the rug in the living room. Tracy and a dozen other people sit on the couch. Dana’s house is larger than it needs to be. Everything is floral patterned. Everyone watches as Frank sticks his fingers in his mouth.

“He’s so calm,” one of Dana’s friends says.

Douglas joins Paul in the corner. Paul pays no attention to him. “Business booming?” Douglas asks. Paul’s collar itches, so he grabs at it. He has a page full of ms. Douglas is frequently bothersome, and today is no exception. He gives up and comes back to the couch. “That Paul is a character,” Douglas says to Tracy and Dana. “Are you sure you meant to marry him?”

“Don’t say that, Doug!” Dana says. “It is hard to believe you married him sometimes, though, you know.”

Tracy watches Frank rub his wet fingers across the rug. “It’s not so hard to believe,” she says.

A man kneels next to Frank. He makes faces, and Frank does nothing. “I mean, I can hardly believe you two had a kid together,” Dana says.

The man directs Frank’s eyes to Tracy. “Look, it’s your mom.”

“I don’t know if I’ve ever seen you and Paul kiss,” Dana continues, “and you mean to tell me you two made that kid? I’d be hard pressed to believe that baby is his.”

Frank stares blankly at Tracy. In the corner, Paul opens a fresh page to get started on ns. “It’s his,” says Tracy.