THE BABY

TRIGGER WARNING: The following story contains depictions of filicide.

It was awards season. I had world-premiered my film at Toronto, then flew to Venice to show it there just in time for closing night and to accept an acting award on behalf of one of my stars who was at Telluride with another movie. I came home to New York for just enough time to eat an egg, cheese, and bacon bagel and repack my bag, then I was off again, this time to do press in Asia: Mumbai, Busan, Seoul, and Tokyo. Now, I was heading to LA for meetings and an industry-only screening at CAA, where I'd introduce the movie, do a question and answer session hosting by Paul Thomas Anderson, then glad-hand Academy voters in an attempt to garner support for an Oscar campaign the studio was putting a lot of money into. We were getting boffo buzz.

I arrived in LA on an overnight flight, exhausted. I never sleep well on planes, so I used the time to catch up on screeners of other movies in the awards season hunt. I'd be seeing these people at parties this fall and winter and I wanted to be familiar with their work.

The customs line was long at LAX, snaking through a doorway, and I checked by phone continually. I had lived in LA for about a decade, back when I was trying to be an actor and was putting myself up on the chopping block that is pilot season ever year, going on auditions and assisting casting directors the rest of the year, making espressos and serving muffins at The Village Bakery in Atwater when I could spare shifts. Tired of waiting around for someone to give me my break, I started writing scripts myself, got an A-list star interested, and got my first film financed. We shot the movie, an indie drama, in New York, and I loved the city so much I stayed there. Now I was an established writer/director, my next film already set up with my recently-signed first-look deal.

I was so sleep-deprived I felt like I was dreaming as I took a shuttle to my rental car, got the keys and saw the bags under my eyes in the rear view mirror. I drove east in what felt like a fog, and pinched myself on the wrist over and over to make sure I stayed awake.

The studio wanted me to stay in Century City, near the agencies and studios, and closer to the private parties in the Palisades and the old folks home in Encino where I'd need to shake hands with Academy members who do the voting, and whose median age hovers around 100. But I used to live on the east side, right near the Silverlake reservoir, and felt more comfortable there, so I told them to get me an Airbnb, which they reluctantly did.

One reason to stay over there was my old friend Damian, who lived in Glendale, had just had a baby with his partner Bella over the summer. I got off the 5, turned right, drove Los Feliz Blvd. to a side street off Brand.

Damian welcomed me into his sparse apartment, tying a necktie as he opened the door. I realized I had never before seen him wearing a suit.

“Since when do you wear a tie?” I asked, laughing a little.

He didn't laugh back.

“Can I get you a cup of coffee?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “I could use one.” I rubbed my eyes, yawned.

He nodded, went into the kitchen, counted beans to put in his machine.

“I should tell you, I have to head out in a few minutes. We can meet up later tonight, after work.”

“I've got my screening tonight, remember?” I said, sitting down.

“Shit, that's right.”

“You can't come?”

He shook his head, brought me a cup, the steam rising from it.

“You still take it black?” he asked. I nodded, took a sip. I looked around the apartment: it was small, with only a lone black leather couch and a big screen TV in the living room. No family pictures, no baby toys.

“Where's Bella?” I asked. “Where's the baby?”

He took a long drink from the travel mug that he had poured his coffee into.

“Well, I guess now is as good a time as any to tell you: Bella and I split up.”

“What?” I blurted out. I almost did a spit take.

My mind raced then and I realized how I hadn't gotten return texts from either of them in the past few months, how they had both been dark on social media, hadn't posted many pictures of their baby, had just seemed to have disappeared. I figured they were nesting, were just busy and in love with their new children and were trying to live in the moment.

“I'm sure that comes as a surprise but it's been awhile in the making and is really for the best.”

“I thought the two of you were...well...”

“That's what I thought, too,” he said. “Something about having the baby just changed her. I don't know if it's post-partum depression or what, but she's not the same person you remember. I barely recognize her anymore, honestly.”

“Don’t be a bitter divorced dude,” I said.

“Trust me, I’m not. And I'm sorry if I made things weird. I can answer any more questions you have, but right now I have to go, I'm running late.”

“Wait,” I said. “Where are you working now? You're not still acting?”

“I got a job as a realtor.”

I let out a laugh, more of surprise than anything. He shot me a look.

“I know it must be hard work boarding all those private jets,” he said. “But some of us have to get real jobs.”

“I didn't mean to laugh,” I said.

“It's all good,” he said. “But I really do have to go. I know you're tired, so you're welcome to hang out here and take a nap, whatever. I'll see you after.”

I thought for a moment about how nice it would be lay my head down, to sleep, even for a little bit. But I knew I would regret it if I didn't ask Damian something that had been on my mind ever since he told me he and his wife had separated.

“Where does Bella live now?”

**

I parked out front of the address Damian had texted me, on the south side of Los Feliz Blvd., just west of Griffith Park Blvd. Her apartment was number 3, up the stairs and to the left. I had texted her when I left Damian's place, but I didn't hear back, and based on her behavior lately, I didn't figure she would. So I would be surprising her.

Damian's coffee was good, but I was still dead tired. I pinched myself on the wrist again to perk up.

I knocked on the door.

Nothing.

I knocked again.

Muffled from the other side of the door, I heard her voice:

“Who is it?”

“It's me, Auggie,” I said.

She opened the door. She was wearing a dark blue bathrobe, her hair askew.

“Hi Auggie, come on in.” She opened the door and beckoned me inside.

She was burning Nag Champa incense, had a whole coffee table filled with lit candles, all scented, the curtains closed, no other light in the living room. She gestured for me to sit down, then went into the kitchen where she was baking. I thought it must have been coffee cake or something for breakfast, since it was still only 9AM, but then she came back into the living room with a chocolate chip cookie that was burnt black, crumbled in my hand before I could take a bite. She didn’t seem to notice.

“What are you doing back in town?” she asked, not quite looking at me.

I was confused by this question, since I had specifically texted her about my movie and my trip to LA. Plus, back when I lived here, Bella was the one person I knew who saw every movie that came out, was always reading the trade blogs and social media. She used it know it all, and now it seemed she didn't.

“Oh,” I said. “I’m showing my film.”

“You made a movie?”

“Yeah,” I said, shifting in my seat. “It’s getting some good buzz.”

“What's it about?” she asked.

“It's a holocaust drama,” I said. “I'm showing it at CAA tonight, if you want to come, I'm sure I could get you in.”

“That’s nice,” she said. “I like movies. I used to go see them.”

“You don’t anymore?”

“No,” she said. “Not since our daughter was born. She’s become my whole world.”

She smiled, but there was no smile in her eyes. She looked to the back room, and when she looked back at me, her smile was gone, her face no neutral.

“Are you OK, Bella?” I asked.

“Would you like to meet her?”

“Of course,” I said.

She stood up and walked robotically to the back room. I followed.

The hallway was dark, and then she opened the door, light pouring onto us from the open windows.

I fell down, silent film star style, an actual prat fall right onto my butt.

It was the smell.

I had never smelled something that bad before, but somehow I knew exactly what it was.

I knew I needed to get out of that apartment as soon as possible, and something in me said I should get the baby out as well. I stood up, plugged my nose as best I could.

“It's time for her feeding,” Bella said.

“Bella,” I said.

“You can stay and visit while I feed her,” she said.

“Bella,” I said again.

“What?!” she screamed suddenly. “I'm trying to give my daughter my milk, what do you want?!”

“I just wanted to ask you a question,” I said.

“What is it?” she asked, picking the blue baby up in her arms.

I didn't know what to say next, was surprised to hear myself ask:

“Can I take her for a walk?”

She stopped unbuttoning her maternity bra, snapped it back shut.

“Oh, sure,” she said, now calm. “Why not?”

**

Taking a stroller down a flight of stairs was harder than I thought. The baby was inside the basket, an old Lakers blanket over her. I felt the wheels clanking on each step, louder than I would have liked, but eventually I got to the bottom and pushed the stroller to the sidewalk.

I needed to do something, go somewhere. But what? Where? I got out my phone out of my pocket on instinct, unlocked it, and clicked on my Chrome app. But then I stopped.

What was I going to search for? I didn't want “What to do with a dead baby” on my search history.

I just searched for the word “baby”. I'm not sure why.

A bunch of photos of smiling children popped up. As did an old Justin Bieber song, the video had a play button ready for me to click on it. I didn't.

I looked around. Unlike other parts of LA, and especially unlike every part of New York, people actually do walk along Los Feliz Blvd. They also jog, poop their dogs, and whizz by on bikes. Also, Los Feliz Blvd. is a major through-fare for the city, and parking is prohibited from 3-7PM due to so much rush hour traffic. So after leaving Bella's apartment, I was surrounded by people in the middle of the second biggest city in the country, and I've never felt more alone in my life.

No one looked at me. No one did a double take at the stroller. No one knew my secret.

Not knowing what else to do, I just started walking. I thought I remembered a hospital at Vermont and Sunset, maybe I could get some help there. They'd know what to do. Or maybe the walk would clear my head and I would be able to figure out a better plan.

Sweat poured down my back as I pushed the stroller up the hill in the autumn sun, which had burned off the morning fog. When I got to just before Hillhurst Ave., I saw it for the first time: a bus stop advertisement for my movie. There it was: the key art of a Nazi, Luger in hand, two young Jewish lovers clutching each other. The tagline. My name, right next to “A film by” in slick silver letters.

For just a second, I forgot about the horror of the morning and just stared at it, stood in the middle of the sidewalk and thanked my good fortune.

And that's when a teenager wearing a school uniform on an electric Lime scooter rode towards us. I saw him coming, distracted on his phone. I cried out and tried to push the stroller out of his way, but I was too late. He hit the stroller and fell off the stroller, sprawled out onto the grass.

From the nearby gas station, I heard people gasp.

They came over to make sure everything was all right, and that's when they saw Bella's baby laying on the ground, lifeless.

A woman screamed. The uniformed teen called the cops. Some buff guy tried to do CPR on the baby, to no avail. Another guy in gym clothes pined me down so I couldn't escape. A group of girls filmed the whole thing on their phones.

I sat there, thinking about Damian, finding out later today that his baby was dead, thinking, I suppose, I had something to do with it. I thought about how distraught Bella would be once she came to her senses, if she ever would. I thought about my PR team, the studio, and how they would try to spin this. I thought about how I would probably miss my screening tonight, which was a shame.

When the EMTs came, they put the baby on a tiny stretcher and into the ambulance, the sirens off. When the cops came, they put me in handcuffs, cinched. This time, I didn't have to pinch myself, I knew I was wide awake.