My son, Mark, was a very easy baby. My husband Julian, who was my boyfriend at the time, were only twenty when we found out I was pregnant. He used a condom and I was on the pill, but despite this, the astronomical odds of me getting pregnant happened. We were obviously in a deal of shock, but decided to go forward with the pregnancy anyway, after all, with the chance of pregnancy being so low, this baby is a miracle… Isn’t he?
Fast forward eight months, and I’m in the delivery room. A bit earlier than most babies, but the doctor assured me that a month early wasn’t anything to get in a fuss about. After thirty-seven hours of pain and labor, my son popped out. He was a beautiful 6lbs, 8oz. bundle. But the strange thing was, he didn’t cry. The doctors and nurses were concerned at first, but after checking his airway and seeing that everything was fine, they just wrote it off as one of those “rare” instances of a quiet baby.
Little did I know, that he’d be a quiet baby his whole life. Mark hardly ever cried, in fact, he didn’t even cry to tell me he was hungry. From birth until he was old enough to talk, I had to set up a timer on my phone to let me know when it was feeding time again. And as for diaper changes… Well, we didn’t have to worry about those for too long.
As soon as Mark had enough physical strength to start walking, around 10 months old, he’d marched himself into the potty. It sounds far-fetched, I know, but honest to God, it happened. And we supposed it made sense, Mark always had an aversion to using diapers. I can still remember the day we came back from the hospital, and my husband was trying to change Mark’s diaper.
“Uh… Babe?” my husband called warily.
“Hm?” I hummed to him, preoccupied with setting up the baby’s clothes.
“He… Hasn’t gone.” Julian stated confusedly.
I turned to his direction, “What?” surely he didn’t mean what I thought, “What d’you mean he hasn’t gone?”
“He’s dry,”
I was a bit worried about this, so I called up the doctor who’d delivered Mark and asked for his help. He told me that perhaps the baby was just dehydrated and that I should feed him more often until he could set up a time to see Mark tomorrow. I felt awful hanging up the phone without proper assurance that Mark would be fine, but I suppose the doctor was right, and it was about time to feed the baby anyway. I took the doctor’s advice and gave him a bottle right then and there.
He fussed at first, not wanting to take the bottle’s nipple, but eventually started suckling after realizing that I wasn’t going to let up. Mark fell asleep while drinking, and when he woke up, his diaper– much to his chagrin, was wet. And it was weird, he almost looked annoyed that we had to change him, too.
We’d soon picked up on the pattern that Mark would hold in his urine for as long as he could manage, and then wet his diaper while napping. It was odd, but the doctor said he was physically fine otherwise, so we just accepted it.
And life went on for me, my husband, and our quiet baby boy. It was at Mark’s first birthday when we noticed his affliction to fire. We had put one small candle on his cupcake, and after lighting it, Mark covered his eyes. He didn’t cry, no, Mark never cried, but instead, he covered his eyes and started shaking his head, repeating “No!” over and over. Julian and I exchanged a look of concern before blowing out Mark’s candle, and cooing to him, “It’s alright, baby, it’s gone.” I assured.
Mark slowly lifted his hands from his eyes and looked up to us. His eyes were glossy, like there may have been tears present, but none fell. We scooped him up and hugged him, “No more candles, okay?”
He squeezed me back, and I took it as an okay.
And everything else about that day went fine. He happily opened his gifts, a small boy rabbit, and a lego set, smiling and thanking us in his tiny, lisp-cased voice. His speech was remarkable well for his age, well, everything about Mark was remarkable, really. All of our friends were jealous when they started having babies, “Oh, my Molly keeps me up all night with the crying!” my friend Liz said, and she seemed irritated when I told her I couldn’t relate. “Really? Mark sleeps through the night, hardly ever cries.” Which was true. He never had an issue sleeping, but he did toss and turn, like he had been having some type of wild dreams.
Yeah, needless to say that we lost a few friends down the line. You’d never think it, but mommies are the most cold-hearted bitches when it comes to anyone but their own kids.
But we got new friends as Mark got older. Around age two, when he was big enough to run around with other kids, we’d taken him to the playground. There, we met Stacy and her daughter Kayla. They were the same age, but Mark seemed disinterested in her pleas to play. Kayla tugged his shirt, begging him to build a sandcastle with her, but he just stared to me with a bored expression. I called him over and tried to reason with him.
“Just go and play with her, even if you find it boring, okay?” He sighed and went off to build a castle.
By now, I pretty much knew what Mark was. He was an old soul. A kid who thought he was a grown up, and very much lacked interest in things kids his age would normally like.
After a few months of getting to know Stacy, she invited me, Julian, and Mark to eat at a restaurant her and her husband owned. We happily agreed and got dressed in our best outfits. Mark even had an adorable little bowtie, which he actually said he liked. But what we didn’t know, was that the restaurant was one of the kinds where they cook the food in front of you. By now, we had known to avoid fire at all costs. No longer using candles at birthdays, or taking advantage of the fire pit we had been given as a house warming gift.
We sat at the table, Mark places himself in Julian’s lap. Stacy and her husband Kev sat in a row beside us. Eventually, a man came out, took our orders, and began to cook. We watched in awe as he tossed an egg into the air, and caught it on the blade of his knife. Even Mark perked up and gave an amazed “woooow”.
Everything was going smoothly until the damn chef got out a bottle of oil, and doused it on the stovetop. It happened in slomotion. The oil reacted with whatever it was on the stove and created a huge flame. We watched as the flame shot up in the air, and Mark jumped back into Julian’s chest, giving an ear-piercing shriek. He grabbed onto Julian for dear life, he even soiled himself in surprise and fear. Then, for the first time in his life, Mark began to cry.
Not just any cry, no, Mark let out the most pained, most heart wrenching cry I’d ever heard. We were in shock or a moment.
“God, I’m so sorry!” the chef apologized.
“No, you’re fine!” I assured, “We should get him home,” I said to Stacy and Kev. They apologized profusely for upsetting Mark, but Julian and I assured them that it wasn’t their fault.
We got Mark in the car, and covered his soiled trousers with a blanket until we got home. He sat in the car seat, with his thumb in his mouth, and tears lacing his cheeks. Both of those things he’d never done. Up until tonight, I thought Mark would rather eat a bug than cry or suck his thumb.
When we got home, I drew Mark a bath. He was still giving little sniffs and whimpers while he bathed. I felt awful, wanting nothing more than to help my little baby boy feel better.
Julian and I laid with Mark in our bed after the bath, rubbing his back. I exchanged a look with Julian, and he knew what to do next. In the car, we had had a quiet conversation about talking to Mark about his fear of the fire. Julian was questionable at first, “He’s a baby,” he said, “How’s he gonna know why’s he’s afraid of such a silly little thing?”
I scoffed, “Do you really think Mark, of all kids, isn’t going to know something?” And Julian quieted at the question. Mark knew seemingly everything. He answered questions that even most adults would have to Google. Despite being so young, he was wise way beyond his years.
“Mark, buddy?” I asked as Julian continued to rub his back.
He didn’t make a sound, or even move, but I continued anyway.
“Why does the fire scare you so bad?”
Mark stopped breathing. His whole little body stiffened and he looked to me with fear in his eyes, “Don’t make me tell you.” he said in a small voice.
“Hey,” Julian comforted, “it’s okay, we won’t be angry or anything.”
Mark looked to him and back to me, “Really?” he asked, tears now falling down his face.
“Really,” I confirmed, “There’s nothing you can say that can ever make mommy or daddy angry, okay?”
Mark looked assured, but still tense. He took a breath, probably for confidence, and shakily told us his story, “I was here before. “ he sounded like he was trying to find the right way to say that sentence, but that’s the best he could do.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
He sighed in frustration, “It’s hard!”
“Calm down,” Julian said softly, “It’s okay, take your time.”
Mark sat quietly for a few moments. You could see the gears in his mind turning, trying to find the words to explain what he was thinking.
Finally, he spoke, “I… was here before. Lived before. A long time ago.”
I think my soul left my body, I mean, what do you say to that?
“When I was a kid, older than now, my mommy burned me. She threw gasoline on me and lit a match. It hurt, mommy, it hurt so bad! My skin boiled and fell on the floor, and, and!” Mark’s words broke off into deep, terrified sobs.
“It’s okay, baby, it’s okay,” I hugged him tightly.
He kept going, “I burned for hours, and back-then mommy laughed! She laughed while I screamed! I stayed there screaming until… Until I stopped.” He became less frantic now, and continued to hold me tightly.
Julian and I exchanged wild expressions, we were dumbfounded by what Mark had just described. I mean, Jesus, what kind of two year old thinks of that? Surely… It must’ve been true. We’ve never let him watch any kind of movie or show with any type of graphic, disturbing violence such as that.
We all sat in stunned silence until Mark passed out in my arms. All the trauma from reliving his memory must’ve tired him. Julian and I tried to rationalize what we’d just been told, but we just couldn’t.
And even now, ten years after the fact, we still don’t know if Mark’s story was just that, or if it was real.
He’s twelve now and doesn’t remember what he’d once told us. But even after all these years, he’s still afraid of fire.