"Vonda N. McIntyre-Only At Night" - читать интересную книгу автора (McIntyre Vonda N)

Only At Night
by Vonda N. McIntyre
This story copyright 1979 by Vonda N. McIntyre. This copy was created for Jean Hardy's personal use.
All other rights are reserved. Thank you for honoring the copyright.

Published by Seattle Book Company, www.seattlebook.com.

* * *


At night, when I'm here, all the babies lie quiet with their eyes closed. The ones that have eyes.
At night, covered with sheets against the whisper of air in the wards, the children begin to look almost
human. I walk between the cribs of deserted newborns and the railed beds of the older ones, sometimes
trying not to burst into tears. I touch them, gently, trying to soothe them. Most of them aren't capable of
being soothed. They're all waiting to die. Sometimes one awakens and lies there helpless and immobile,
staring up. They never cry. I hold them and wonder if they think the dull pinpoints of light on the ceiling
are stars.
Tonight most of the children are awake. It might be the heat, which is too much for the air conditioning.
I do what I can, touch them, change diapers (I am reprimanded if I use too many), offer water. I wish I
weren't here. It's too quiet and the air is too heavy and no one's here to talk to. On other wards someone
will awaken and need the reassurance of companionship to go back to sleep. Or I'll whisper a story to a
child and he'll correct me if I change a line until we both begin to giggle, try to stop, and just laugh harder.
But these children don't need bedtime stories. A record of gibberish would do as well. They don't need
me. Maybe if they had always had love they would be able to want it and accept it now, but all they need
is food and cleaning and a place Out of the rain. To them I'm an automaton, wound up and set to take
care of them.
I wish I weren't here at night, but the others have been here longer and choose to come during the day.
While drab sunlight seeps in they put the children on the floor to drag themselves around with stumps of
limbs, like mindless invertebrates making their first foray onto the land.
I pick a child up, gently, because her skull has never grown together. There is a soft depression at the
top of her head, like skin on cooled soup. I sing, more for myself than her. She is deaf.
She is watching me. My voice trails off and she blinks as if disappointed that I've stopped. Do all
babies have blue eyes? I know I'm putting my own thoughts and sadnesses and fears into her gaze. She
does not think; she can't. None of them can. But there's something behind her eyes that's more than
complacent blankness. I put her back in her crib and move on.
I wonder if all their parents have forgotten them. They must have. They hardly ever come... If I
believed that I'd be a fool. Their parents remember them too well, every instant of every day, and that's
why they don't come. They've spawned monsters that they're afraid to try to love. They're perfect people
who hide their mistakes. If they see their deformed child before it is taken away (I've seen the parents;
they can't resist one guilty peek between meshed fingers, as if they were at a freak show), they cry "Oh,
God, why me?" and then they leave.
The children are restless. The ones that can move rustle their sheets. Those with limbs wave them.
Twisted fingers clutch handsful of air and discard it again. I know I shouldn't be afraid, but it's very
strange.
One of the larger children (I can only think of him as a large child) is strong and dully mean. Sometimes
he has to be restrained with soft straps and buckles so he won't hurt himself or us. I hear him begin to
beat his head against the backboard, over and over. I run down the ward. He's supposed to have an
injection every night to make him sleep; they don't want me to have to handle him alone. I gave him a
name because his parents didn't. He's perfectly formed and beautiful, but he has no mind and no control
over bladder or bowels. I call to him, *Peter!* but he doesn't stop. He doesn't know me; he has never