Page 1 of The Archer and his Rosebud

ChapterOne

WILLA

Music,laughter, and the sugary aroma of apple blossoms tease my nose, my soul light and mouth smiling. Until she screams, and the warm serenity of lying on a blanket along Lake Michigan in late spring morphs into drawn curtains and a worn beige couch in a small Burlington, Vermont apartment on a July afternoon.

No. No. No. Dreams return to me. I bury my face into the sunshine yellow throw pillow Mom bought.

My pleas remain unfulfilled as her screams continue. I suppose I could classify her outburst as a pitiful wail over a scream. A soft cry is a fitting description. But to my weary mind, her mewling grunts fill the room, mimicking the shrieking winds of a Michigan winter storm.

I rub my blurry eyes and flop off the couch Aunt Patty donated to me last fall onto the floor, wincing at the stabbing pain below my waist. Embarrassment should burn my neck that I’m too exhausted to force my prone limbs into a sitting position like an average human, yet I have no will to care. My eyes were closed for minutes. I swear no time passed.

Releasing a yowling whine to rival hers, I push to my feet and stumble from the living room into the bedroom, stumbling over an unpacked box of clothing as I move to where her pack n’ play rests beside my unmade bed.

The room is dark, and white noise plays from my cell phone. “What’s the matter?” I ask the red-faced peanut flailing her arms. “I fed you. I changed you. Sleeping for an hour or two seems easy enough.”

As if the word fed is magic, my breasts throb, my body preparing for another feeding. Swiping my hand up my forehead, I pluck her from the bassinet, tug down my tank top, and watch as she latches on like her falling asleep at my boob twenty minutes ago was a dream. Did she not drink her fill the first time? Infants should come standard with feeding gauges like a car’s gas tank. How are sleep-deprived parents supposed to figure out when their child is full? Will a baby overstuff itself? I’m a full-time cow. Hook me up to one of those fancy machines the dairy farms use and free milk for life, kiddo.

I’m adjusting pillows with one hand and preparing to ease up on my bed when a crash on the opposite side of the wall behind my velvet headboard jolts me. The tiny leach at my breast stirs when muffled laughter bleeds through the uninsulated barrier between my neighbor’s apartment and mine.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

“What in the….” Another Thump, some laughter, and… was that a scream?I swing to my bare feet in horror. Are my neighbors having sex on the other side of my wall? In the middle of the afternoon on a workday?

How nice for them.You do know where activity like that leads? Take a look at the appealing picture I present.I look at Clem pawing at my breast like a whiny puppy, sucking then detaching and flailing with every abrupt noise on the other side of the wall.It leads to this tiny creature who sucks the life from you. Is that what you want?I yell at them in my head.Is it?

After a few minutes, my horny neighbors quiet, and the latch around my tender nipple loosens as she falls asleep.About time. I remain propped against the headboard, ensuring she’s fast asleep before making any sudden movements. Never wake a sleeping baby. That’s the first piece of advice I was given, and after my hour of accumulated sleep over the last week, I intend to follow that rule.

Shifting my legs over the side of the bed, I take my time standing, my lower body still sore and hard to maneuver, especially after throwing myself to the floor. Without a single fuss, I lower her into the bassinet of her portable crib and breathe a sigh of relief.

Why does no one warn new parents about the after-birth part? Everyone talks about the pain of labor and how exhausting newborns are. What about the tearing? And bleeding? And adult diapers? The witch hazel wipes and the spray bottles. The leaking boobs and night sweats. No wonder it’s hard to adjust to a brand new baby. My insides were flipped inside out and shoved into an unrecognizable body. This is me, living the glamorous life. After everything I’ve learned over the last seven months, the prospect of my giving birth in the future is slim to none.

As I sink onto my queen-sized bed and my head hits the pillow, the wall behind me rattles like someone lobbed a body into it. I swear, if they have sex against that wall… A pterodactyl screech bursts from beside me.

Tears prick my eyes as I pinch them shut. “No. This isn’t happening. I can’t. I can’t live like this.”

My brain foggy with sleep and fury, I march out of my one-bedroom box of an apartment, leaving my door cracked and head left. Today is as good a day as any to introduce myself as the new occupant of apartment 3C.

Banging on my neighbor’s door, I shuffle from foot to foot, awaiting my prey with righteous indignation. The building’s interior corridors are air-conditioned, but the unprecedented July heat seeps through the large windows across our doors, making the hallway sweltering. Sweat speckles my skin, my tank top and loose shorts sticking to my back within seconds.

The door opens, and I’m stuck between a poised breakdown and full-blown hysteria when a man with dark fringed blue eyes and hair with unrestrained waves verging on full-blown curls from a one-inch barrel stands at the threshold. He inspects the strange woman at his front door, and I refuse to imagine what he sees.

Tucking a greasy lock of flat blonde hair behind my ear, I take a deep breath. “I’m sorry to disturb your mid-afternoon mattress dance, but I have to ask you to try to control the volume.”

His curls fall over one eye and he shoves them back. “Come again?”

“Our shared wall.” I point at the long wall between my door and his. “I can hear you like you’re in my bedroom.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.” He tilts his head, and something about his tone flips a switch.

“You’re sorry? You’re laughing and screaming and banging against my wall. And, I mean, don’t get me wrong, you don’t get knocked up at nineteen disliking sex,” he retreats a step, and I carry on, “but being that noisy is rude when your new neighbor is trying to steal fifteen minutes of sleep. Fifteen minutes! Is that too much to ask?” I toss my hands in the air like my question is for the power above. I want some sleep!

My neighbor seemingly doesn’t have a heart as his gaze falls down, then over my shoulder. “Umm…” He gestures to my body, keeping his stare averted. “You, uh…”

What? He’s the one performing an audible porno, and he struggles to lookmein the eye? I realize my week-old postpartum appearance wouldn’t turn heads on the red carpet, but the least he can do is give me his attention while I’m in the middle of a breakdown.

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