Those who would not sleep

In the pitch of night she stood shivering; from fear or hatred, she was no longer sure.  It was such a tedious action: dig the hole, put the body in it.  She had done it countless times; loathing the screaming of rocks against the shovel and the heavy chug of dirt on the pale empty faces.  She paused, stared at that face one last time and then without regret said good bye to it forever.  She had learned early to never look back.

Madness always sang softly in her ear; much like a neglected music box: rusted and flat.  Once she was able to change the channel so to speak but then one day, she simply got stuck: one channel; simple reception.  So many paid the price.

The mother did her best by going to work as a librarian. There, she was tucked away in a rigid documented silence where chaos was only introduced by the opening of a book and only words rushed out.  She maintained control with her clipped "Shhhh!" accompanied by an authoritative stare. Her marriage was filled with slow, steady predictability.  She cooked, shopped, cleaned and socialized according to her calendars.  She kept it very organized and mistake free. All with that same clipped..."Shhh!" and stare.

Motherhood. It was where the channel got stuck.  Babies were unpredictable, unreasonable and loud. Perhaps it was the crying. It rattled between her ears, tearing at the very foundation of the self she tried to establish.  So who failed? Did the babies? Or did she, as a human being?

It began with Baby Jon.  He was dimpled and dark haired; a charmer from day one.  But the mother didn’t always remember to care for him.  Babies never understood what a tight schedule she had.  He cried when he  was wet or hungry and her face would pull in; her shoulders would raise and she would bite her lip.  The smacking only made it worse.  And, as she discovered, shaking caused brain damage; so Baby Jon would cry always because of ... his crying... as she saw it.  The mother then made the heroic decision to spare the unfortunate baby (more likely herself) a torturous life. 

That was her logic behind the pillow.  Baby Jon died mysteriously, leaving the house with none of the fanfare with which he arrived.

Second came Caroline.  The mother seemed to enjoy the pink frilly baby doll aspect of the girl's life.  That and the luck of her husband’s ill mother who had been moved in to the house.  Nonna took over as guardian angel and nanny for the daughter.  Nonna realized something inside the mother was broken; always speaking with a hushed, almost frightened tone.  She often glanced around as if searching for her .  Nonna taught the girl the importance of silence.

“Shhh Caroline.  Be safe.”

Caroline was five when Nonna died- in her sleep.  Looking back there was always the thought of what the mother had to do with that; perhaps hustling the old woman up the steps to St. Peter’s gates, but the answer now is moot. As long as she was quiet, Caroline was forgotten; for the most part.

When the mother gave the giggly new of the pregnancy, there was a tightening in Caroline’s throat.  She had formally been introduced to dread as it marched in, making a burning , heavy home in her gut.  That one was Baby Amelia.  She came home with colic and left without notice four months later in a not so peaceful sleep. 

The others?  Well six more total: Marcus, Christina, Margaret, William, Jane and Frederick.  Frederick was the favorite.  He was born deaf and made very little fuss..  He, in fact did very little at all.  The mother seemed almost elated by the disability but soon discovered what it cost in time and effort to properly care for a special needs baby~ while difficult for some,  it was impossible for the mother.  Frederick was three.  Caroline had tried so hard to be like Nonna. 

“shhh Be safe”

But at ten, there was the horror that she had failed when Frederick left without a goodbye, having died mysteriously in his sleep.

When the baby clothes arrived once more and the sweet soft humming of lullabies began, Caroline wept from deep inside and became violently ill.  Unable to believe there would be more crying, death and late night trips to the  “family place” as the mother called it "where little angles slept", drug Caroline down into a despair only written of in stories.  Sometimes the mother would look at the daughter, the one who made it and be amazed at the presence.  Most days there was pinching, burning and ugly words but from the daughter only silence.  She was alive; sort of . She didn't know whether to thank Nonna or not.

When Baby Dena came home, there was an instant love between the sisters.  The cherubic little girl was beautiful and happy; never a grump or a fuss. Surely the mother would keep this one.  But the smiling and happy baby was immediately viewed as mocking and selfish for stealing attention and notice away from the mother who was always showered with gentleness, pity, and hushed tones.  To keep the baby safe, the daughter slept in Baby Dena’s room, taking care that she got to the neighbors’ on time both before and after school.  Always there was the warning:

“Shhh Be safe.”

Dena was almost two when the ear infection woke her in the night.  The mother seemed stunned that she had any children at all but the tears and the wailing brought a wrath Dena had never known. The first swing sent her to the floor, then the mother got out the pillow; preparing yet another little angel for sleeping at the family place.  Since Caroline was now twelve, she was told to actually carry the little girl.  The mother followed her out passed the bachelor buttons and zinnias.  Back where there was only soft moss and dirt.  And babies.

Caroline was told to dig. All night that shovel bit at her hand causing a blister and bringing blood.

Then there was a small whimper.  Dena began to stir.  The mother was shocked and speechless.

What was she to do?


With every ounce of strength she had, she swung the shovel.  It cracked the mother's jaw and dropped her to her knees.  As if in prayer, she dropped her head in her hands and Caroline swung once more; hearing a thick crunch and feeling a warm spray across her face and chest.  The little girl knew there was no need for a pillow.

 So it was in the pitch of night she stood shivering; from fear or hatred, she was no longer sure.  It seemed like a natural progression; dig the hole, put the body in it.  She had done it countless times; loathing the screaming of rocks against the shovel and the heavy chug of dirt on the pale empty faces.  She paused and stared at that face one last time and then without regret said good bye to it forever.  She had learned early to never look back.

She wrapped the baby in the blanket thought to be a burial shroud and picking up her sister,  holding the small crying child to her as tightly as she could, she whispered:

“Shhhh.  We’re safe.”

They walked out of the family place; those two little angels who would not sleep. 

Dark, I know.  I did some research on the case of Marie Noe and based this story loosely on it.   The truth was horrible, repulsive and tragic; not ending as I had hoped... wanted; as a mother.  Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy displayed so boldly yet missed because of SIDS diagnoses... ten times.  I simply wrote this to soothe myself.  I thank you for stopping in.  I hope to see you again soon.  Enjoy your weekend.




The Murder Room: The Heirs of Sherlock Holmes Gather to Solve the World's Most Perplexing Cold Cases: Mark Capuzzo, Gotham Books


The Wacky World of Murder:
http://www.users.on.net/~bundy23/wwom/noe.htm


http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marie_Noe