Apartment 3G
I wake to the sound of a child crying, loud and insistent. Even before I’m fully conscious, I know it’s coming from 3G. I run my hand over my face with a groan. Exhaustion covers me like a heavy blanket, weighing down my limbs and making my movements clumsy. I’m so tired! I just want to rest. But once again, my youngest neighbor is making too much noise.
While many of the other tenants in the building are known to be loud, none are as consistently disruptive as whoever lives in the last apartment on my floor. Maybe it’s because I’d had children of my own once, but there’s something about a baby crying that cuts right through me. It can’t be ignored, unlike the yelling, loud music and occasional bout of breaking dishes that emanates from the other units.
I’m sure it’ll stop soon. It always does, I think to myself as I lie there filled with restless tension. I close my eyes and try to go back to sleep but the pitiful sobs keep me tethered to consciousness. Any second now… I am keenly aware of the passage of time as the minutes tick by, my cognizance of it seeming to amplify the sound. The cries fill the room like water in a bathtub, submerging me in the child’s distress. Two minutes becomes five, then ten, then fifteen as I fidget anxiously, twisting my hands together over my stomach.
The child’s wails reach a screeching crescendo and I realize rest isn’t coming so long as the baby is crying. With a resigned sigh, I give up on sleep and rise. Just a quick look, I promise myself as I step out into the fluorescent brightness of the hallway and begin to make my way towards the source of the sobbing.
I shouldn’t be doing this – it’s none of my business. I’m so weak already… My own tired objections run through my mind as I traverse the long, narrow hallway connecting the elevator to the units. Three doors bearing rusted brass markers for 3B, 3C and 3D line the wall across from the elevator, with 3E and 3F on either side of the ancient, sluggish contraption. My own apartment, 3A, was on the far-left wall and 3G was directly across at the opposite end of the corridor.
The building has looked the same for years, long before I moved in. The carpet is a sickly shade of yellow-beige that may have once had a pattern, now faded and stained brown in certain spots. Dust and dirt collect in the corners and water stains decorate walls covered in outdated, peeling wallpaper that had probably been hideous even in its prime. Mismatched lightbulbs cast the hall in varying shades of fluorescent white and blue, the glow doing nothing to hide the corridor’s many deficiencies. The complex is a run-down mess but the people who live here are past caring about such cosmetic offenses.
I reach the last apartment and pause, surprised to see that the door is ajar. Hesitantly, I approach, peering through the crack to the dwelling within. What I can see of the living room is filthy. Trash covers the coffee table and floor – a mix of pill containers, empty liquor bottles and food waste. An old grey couch sits with its back to the kitchen, its surface covered in stains. A hole in the lower-right side spills crumbling mustard-yellow foam into the ocean of waste surrounding the fabric island. Thin pink curtains are drawn over the windows, muted sunlight forcing its way through the threadbare fabric. Dust motes swirl in the dim afternoon light, casting the room in a soft glow.
The baby’s cries are coming from the bedroom at the back of the unit. They’re filled with the anger and distress only an upset child can manage. I wonder where the mother is. I don’t see anyone in the front room and aside from the wailing, the apartment is dark and silent.
I push my way through the door and silently navigate a short hallway carpeted with more empties and fast-food wrappers. The layout is identical to my own unit: a kitchen on the left that opens into the living room, and a bathroom and small second bedroom on the right. All the rooms are in a similar state. Apparently, no one has been taking care of this apartment for a very long time.
As I get closer to the master bedroom at the end of the hall, the volume of the child’s cries increases. The door is open wide and hanging askew – the upper hinge broken and the wooden surface dented around face-level. The sight summons memories of my own life I would have rather left in the past. A terrible sense of premonition fills me as I approach the doorway, accompanied by fear that is ultimately unfounded. It’s not as though anything can hurt me, I tell myself as the bedroom comes into view.
A woman lies sideways across the bed, wiry limbs sprawled haphazardly over the rumpled blue linens. Dark bruises mar the pale skin of her face and arms and her light brown hair spreads across the pillow and comforter in greasy, limp strands. My stomach does a slow flip as I spy the belt around her upper arm and a needle on the bed by her elbow. She’s alive but clearly unconscious, floating in a drug-induced haze. She doesn’t even stir as her daughter continues to scream from the playpen set up next to the bed.
Horrified pity swells as I look at the child, standing up in the pen. She grips the fabric edge as she wails for her mother, chubby hand grasping and reaching for the prone figure only six feet away. She has her mom’s hair, hanging in a tangled mess around her tear-streaked face, red with exertion. She’s wearing nothing but a diaper that I can see from here is soiled. Her pen is bare, only a ragged blanket and a small stuffed giraffe to occupy her as she waits for her caretaker to return from her intoxicated trip. Evidence of what her mother prefers to spend her money and time on surrounds the child – a sea of multi-colored glass, discarded clothes and pill bottles cover the floor between us. Only a few bare spots of beige carpet remain, creating a path from the bed to the pen and the door.
When she sees me her cries quiet slightly, soft sobs escaping her tiny body. Though my first instinct is to go to her I hesitate, knowing I have not fully recovered since my last outing. But one glance at her mother, still passed out and unresponsive, makes the decision for me.
Resolved, I make my way over the piles of detritus to reach the baby, thankful the broken glass and needles hiding in the mounds pose no threat to me. She stretches her arms out, obviously having decided an unknown adult is better than nothing, and I lift her up. She feels warm and solid against me but far too thin. Based off the state of her home and how often I’d heard her crying before this, it’s clear this is not the first time her needs have gone unattended. Guilt assails me at the realization. I should have come sooner!
I croon to her as I walk back out to the hall, snagging a pale pink baby bag from the floor on my way. It lifts off the ground with a clatter as it dislodges the myriad waste crowning it and adds it to the adjacent piles.
I clear the kitchen table off with a sweep of my arm and pull a cracked and faded changing mat out of the side pocket of the bag. The mat seems dirty but it’s certainly better than exposing her to whatever sticky substance coats the cracked linoleum. I spread it out across the table’s worn surface and lay her down.
I open the bag and find a soft yellow blanket on top of what I hope is changing supplies. I tuck it around her so she won’t roll off the table and kneel down to dig through the rest of the bag. There’s almost nothing left in here – obviously the shopping is also being neglected. Still, I manage to find just enough to change her diaper. Laying the items on the edge of the mat, I get to work, thankful my sense of smell is practically nonexistent. I begin to feel weak but I ignore it, concentrating on the task at hand.
The child is quiet as I toil, with only an occasional sniffle to break her silence. I talk to her softly, telling her that she’ll be alright. I don’t know that it’s true but I can’t bring myself to say anything else. Anger fills me at how completely her mother has failed her. I had made mistakes with my own children but even in my darkest moments I had never allowed my desire to escape to overpower my need to provide for them. I would have never abandoned them – I only left because I had to.
As I smooth down the last tab of the diaper, her stomach grumbles loudly. She whimpers again, sniffles threatening to become sobs, and I shush her soothingly. I check the fridge for a bottle and find one that thankfully appears to be fresh. Pushing through the looming fatigue, I set about warming it up. The little one lays on the table silently, watching me with eyes far too old for someone so young.
The garbage in the corner of the kitchen is overflowing, skittering movements along the edges suggesting it’s home to some kind of creature. A shudder of disgust runs through me at the thought of how long it would take to grow a pile that large. As I stand in the middle of the room trying to conserve my strength, I contemplate adding the dirty diaper to the mound. But I’ve already expended much of my energy and I still have to feed her, so I leave the make-shift changing table as it is.
Worry fills me as I think about the little girl. Clearly no one but her inept caretaker lives here and from the state I’d found them in, it’s unlikely that she’ll be receiving proper care going forward. What am I going to do? My options are very limited but I know I have to do something. I can’t leave her like this! I am filled with guilt at the thought of what she’s already suffered through. How much of that is on my hands? I think to myself as I shamefully consider my past indifference to her cries.
A soft beep indicates the bottle is ready. I test it against my wrist, judging it cool enough for the fussing baby. Summoning my strength, I lift her back into my arms and tilt the bottle down towards her. She latches on, sucking greedily as I stroke her leg with my thumb, urging her to drink slower. I cast a look back into the hallway but there’s no movement – her mother has slept through the entire process.
I burp her when she’s drained the bottle and leave it on the table with the rest of her supplies. What’s one more empty? I think wryly as I rock her fragile frame against me. Happy little coos emanate from her as she drifts off into sleep, her needs finally sated. I press my lips to her head and whisper my apologies to her. Apologies for the cards she’s been dealt, for the life she’s been born into. Apologies for the mother she has been entrusted to and what I must do to give her any hope of a future.
Though I’m no fan of the foster system, having grown up in it myself, I know a child as young as her has a good chance of being adopted. So, I use my waning strength to call the police from the landline in the kitchen, cradling the neglected baby against my chest as we wait.
It doesn’t take long. Flashing blue and red lights cast a strobe-like pattern across dingy cupboards as I stare out the grimy kitchen window to the police cruiser below. Two officers – a blond man in his mid-thirties and a younger man with dark hair. The older one seems familiar to me but he’s too far away to be sure. As they begin to ascend the stairs into the building, I quietly make my way back into the bedroom with the sleeping child.
With the last of my energy, I lay her down in the pen. She stirs, blinking up at me sleepily, then reaches for me as I tuck the worn blanket around her and place the stuffed giraffe at her side. Sadly, I shake my head and stroke the soft skin of her cheek.
“I’m sorry, little one. It’s time for us to part ways.”
“Police! Is anyone here?” The officer’s voice, coming from the front door, confirms my initial suspicion. I remember him coming to pay my own home a visit once, long ago. It’s a good thing – I recall his kindness as he carried my girls from the building when I could no longer look after them.
I hear the noises of disgust from the cops as they enter the filthy apartment. The sound of bottles clinking and the crunching of wrappers signals their progression through the front room and down the hall. I step behind the playpen and up against the far wall as they finally reach the master bedroom.
The horror and sadness on their faces as they take in the scene before them is an echo of my own. The dark-haired officer immediately goes to the baby as his partner kneels on the bed next to the mother, feeling for a pulse. I stand in the darkest corner of the room, an invisible witness.
The next few minutes are a flurry of activity as they radio for an ambulance and social services. The younger officer carries the quietly-fussing baby out into the living room while the blond remains with the mother. My exhaustion urges me to return to my own home but I’m determined to see this through.
At some point before the paramedics arrive, the mother wakes, immediately becoming belligerent and demanding they give her the child and leave. Rage fills me at her lack of remorse, her slurred insistence that she is what’s best for her daughter. Despite how weak helping the baby has left me, I feel myself becoming more solid as my anger grows.
Feeling seeps into my numb limbs, the sensations stark in comparison to the cold nothingness that usually suffuses me. I am acutely aware of the smooth surface of the wall behind me, the feel of fabric and broken glass beneath my feet. But these perceptions are dim background noise in comparison to the hatred I feel for the woman before me, neglecting a gift that I had been robbed of. The strain of holding my physical form weighs on me, burning up the fuel of my anger like gasoline in a hungry fire. I know the moment the mother becomes aware of my presence. I hiss at her, my voice cold and inhuman, audible only to her.
“You have failed her!” Her eyes widen and she begins to scream with primal terror, pointing behind the officer to my corner. I fade back into the shadows, dizzy with exertion and numb once again, as he attempts to calm her.
“It’s just the drugs! There’s no one there – you’re safe.” The blond officer repeats his words over and over as the paramedics finally arrive. The mother is quickly sedated, her body strapped to a gurney and wheeled out to the waiting ambulance. I watch her go without a trace of pity or remorse for her state.
I follow the blond officer back to the kitchen, where his partner stands in the middle of the room with the baby, his back to the door. She’s crying again, distressed by the sound of her mother screaming and the strangers all around her. I feel guilty for my part in that and float up behind the dark-haired officer to stroke the child’s tear-stained cheek.
She reaches out for me again, seeking the comfort of familiarity, but I can only shake my head. I sing softly to her instead – an old lullaby I used to sing my own girls long ago. She quiets, tucking her little face against the officer’s shoulder. He rubs her back soothingly as he confers with his partner, both men oblivious to my presence.
“Social’s on the way. About 15 minutes.”
The blond nods in acknowledgement, running a hand through his hair with a tired sigh as the younger officer continues, “I found something while you were in the other room. Take a look.”
He nods down to the kitchen table, where the changing supplies and empty bottle sit discarded. “Someone fed and changed her recently. Probably the same person who made the call. What did they say to the operator?”
“Nothing – it was dead air. Most likely a concerned neighbour who didn’t want to get too involved.” The blond combs through the baby bag as he responds, searching for supplies as I had. The social worker would want to take whatever was available when she arrived.
“Should we knock on some doors? Ask around and see if we can find out who made the call?” The younger officer inquires, gently rocking the baby like someone who’s used to holding one.
The blond shakes his head. “No point. This is the kind of building where people mind their own business. We’re lucky anyone even cared enough to call. Without them, this poor little girl probably would’ve died of neglect.”
Though it’s a horrible thought, I feel validated by the older officer’s opinion. My actions had been necessary, no matter how heart-wrenching it is to see the little one so distressed. At least she’s a little calmer now, I think to myself, watching her lie passively against the man’s shoulder.
The younger officer looks similarly disturbed by his partner’s comment. “Have you been to this building before? Is it known to be this ... shady?”
The blond nods as he begins packing what little supplies remain into the bag. “Yeah, many times. The worst one was about nine years back, when I was a rookie. I’d only been on the force for about a year when we got the call. Domestic disturbance, shots fired.”
He sighs heavily, a look of weariness on his face. My throat is tight with grief as I listen to him recount an event that I still relive almost every night.
“We arrived on scene and came up to the third floor. I remember how fast my heart was beating as we made our way down the hall, to the last apartment on the left – 3A. There was a pool of blood leaking out from under the door. As soon as I saw it, I knew that whatever was inside would haunt me until the day I died.”
He shakes his head as he rises, his gaze distant. He leans back against the counter with the bag on the floor next to him, crossing his arms over his chest. His partner is silent, waiting for him to continue. In his arms, the baby’s eyes are beginning to drift closed again, lulled by the officer’s rocking and the silence of the house.
I watch the blond man from the kitchen doorway, my body bound to the present but my mind trapped in the past with his. Unbidden, I find myself recalling the loudness of the final gunshot, the coppery smell of Marcus’ blood filling the air. Or was it my own? There was so much blood… The officer takes a moment to compose himself and when he speaks again, his voice is thick with emotion.
“Two deceased when we arrived. A man – big, ugly bastard almost blocking the front door. And a woman – late twenties, working girl. The kids were hers. Best we could figure, she got into an argument with her pimp and her shot her. Right in front of her daughters. They were hiding in their bedroom when we got there. Some of the worst shit I’ve ever seen.”
His partner’s face is pale, his voice soft. Without meaning to, I find myself drawing closer to the older officer, wanting to watch his face as he remembers that night. As we remember that night.
“Fuck. And the pimp - how did he die?” The younger officer lays his hand on the back of the little girl’s head, as if his touch could shield her from my past.
The blond sighs and shakes his head, uncrossing his arms to rest them on either side of him, gripping the edge of the counter. “I wish I knew. The coroner could never figure it out. He said the mother would have been dead instantly so she couldn’t have killed him. It definitely wasn’t self-inflicted, so that leaves the girls or a third person in the house. But we didn’t find any prints but his and those girls were so young I doubt they could have even lifted the gun, let alone taken it from him and shot him.”
“Did they see anything? Another person in the house?” His partner presses, his expression curious.
Another shake of his blond head. “Nope. In fact, they said it was their mommy. That she protected them. They insisted she was still in the apartment and cried for her the whole time I carried them out.” A look of bewilderment and sadness paints his face as he stares off into the second bedroom, no doubt reliving the moment as I am. Such heartbroken sobs. Even the memory of them is enough to make my chest ache in a way that feels almost human again.
There’s a heavy silence as he finishes his story. I stand in front of him, ghostly tears pouring down my cheeks to evaporate before they hit the ground. I can see the burden of every case he’s worked etched in his very being – in the lines on his brow, the greying at his temples, the weariness in his eyes. I know better than anyone that there are some experiences that never truly leave you, just as you never really leave them.
“What happened to them? The girls, I mean.” The younger officer asks from behind me, his tone subdued.
I suck in an redundant breath and hold it, unexpected hope blossoming at the question. Though I’ve always known they must have ended up in a foster home, I don’t know the specifics of what had become of my children after the blond officer took them away. I had tried to find out where they went and if they were doing alright, but to no avail. My spirit is bound to this building – a prisoner of circumstance, even in death. I’ve long ago accepted that I’ll just have to live with the eternal uncertainty and take comfort in the knowledge that I had protected them from Marcus, even if I wasn’t able to protect myself. But now…
“They went into the system. Got adopted by a nice family just outside the city. The oldest one is in high school now. She’s doing good. Straight A’s, great soccer player – a real bright future. The younger one is going into middle school soon. She’s an artist and loves to draw. I still visit them every year on the anniversary. They’re good kids. Strong in spite of their rough start, or maybe because of it. Hell, I don’t know. What I can say is that their mother would have been proud.” He gives the younger man a bittersweet smile over my invisible head and I know the expression is mirrored on my own face.
His words fill me with a joy I haven’t experienced since my death almost a decade ago. Though it’s a poor substitute for being in their lives myself, the news is a precious gift. I am so proud of them. Always have been.
On impulse, I reach out and wrap my phantom arms around him, pressing my face against his broad chest. He can’t feel my touch any more than I can feel him in this intangible state, but his heartbeat is a steady thump in my ear, comforting after years of my own non-existent functions.
“Thank you for watching over them.” I whisper to him, for his ears alone. He stiffens and I know he hears me. His eyes dart around the room nervously but before he can react further, the spell is broken by the sound of footsteps in the outer hallway. The social worker is here for the baby. It’s just as well – this venture has taxed my reserves far beyond their normal limits and I’ll need a long rest to recover.
As the apartment is once again filled with activity, I make my way back to the front door. From across the living room, I can see the older officer looking around surreptitiously, his expression perplexed. The younger officer speaks to the social worker in low tones, explaining the situation as he continues to rhythmically shift his weight back and forth.
With a final wave to the baby sleepily watching me over the cop’s shoulder, I step back into the hallway and return to my home. For the first time since my murder, I think I’m going to have a restful sleep.
