P Kettleburn

Vish looks adorable, as always. His parents dress him like a little man, and with the exception of the spider man underwear sticking out of the top of his jeans, he looks like one. At almost three years old, he’s already lost a surprising amount of his baby fat. From the impeccable state of his checkered green shirt, no one would suspect that our lunch had been spaghetti and meatballs. We’re neat eaters, both of us. 

My shirt, too, is immaculate. The way my parents dress me is much more hit or miss. Today it’s a miss, with my yellow lemon shirt clashing garishly with pink, hot air balloon patterned pants. I’m still a baby, so I shouldn’t care. That’s what I tell myself.

Vish’s black curly hair bounces as he walks, framing his brown skin and brown eyes. He reminds me of the star of an Indian film I once saw, though I can’t remember the name of it. My parents don’t let me watch TV. 

I bring my attention back to the present: a dusty exhibit with large boulders. We’re at the zoo for the millionth time, watching the rhinos.

“Carrots, please.” Vish points to the snack bag, and my mother obliges, reaching for the zipper.

Vish looks at me, and I give him a half nod.

“Olivia wants some too.”

My mom isn’t surprised that Vish has spoken for me, and pulls out enough carrots for both of us.

I tap Vish’s arm, twice. Thank you. My mom sees the gesture, but doesn’t know what it means. Two taps can mean a lot of things between us.

I don’t speak much. Words are still hard for me, and since Vish understands almost everything I need, there’s no reason for me to try as long as he’s around, which is often. I’m one and a half, and appease my parents with the basics for my age: “Mama, dada, cup, et cetera.” If I can’t say the word reasonably well, I don’t attempt it. My parents aren’t concerned because I’m an excellent communicator otherwise. I point to what I want, stand near the fridge when I’m hungry, and hand them my shoes when I want to go outside. And I do want to go outside, often. My baby toys are not terribly interesting. I hit the xylophone or hold my stuffed animals, but I’d much rather be out in the yard, watching the birds and the wind in the trees. The only toys that actually hold my interest are my board books. I flip through them constantly, willing the characters on the page to mean something to me. Unfortunately, the ability to read did not translate over from my previous life. I know this is the case with Vish, too. He taught himself to read, and is now teaching me, discreetly, when the adults aren’t around or aren’t paying attention.

“White rhinos,” Vish says quietly to me, pointing at the words on the sign. I can’t quite see them, and he steps behind me, wrapping his arms around my middle and heaving me upwards so I can see. 

I furrow my brow at the letters. I can recognize most of them, but the sounds are hard to figure out. I’ve gotten good at the simple words – cat, rat, bat, or ball, wall, tall – but words with long letter combinations are hard.

My mother turns away from the exhibit to look at us. “That’s sweet of you to help Olivia read the sign, Vish.” She smiles at him. She doesn’t have to tell him to be careful putting me down.

“Yes, Mrs. Wilson.” He’s probably the most articulate three year-old in the world.

He lowers me back to the ground, and my feet hit the concrete. I stumble, but catch myself. I’m getting better at this walking thing.

When Vish turns away, I notice a line of wetness on the seat of his jeans. I reach out and touch his side where it’s dry, and he twists where he stands, his gaze following my touch. “Sh . . . oot,” he says.

He wants to say “shit,” but of course he can’t around the adults.

“Oh, Vish,” my mother says, looking down and seeing the wet spot. “Let’s get to the bathroom.”

–

Vish and I share a common problem. We’re both adults (probably?) stuck in babies’ bodies. I say “probably” because neither of us remembers our lives before our births. At the very least we were teenagers, because we both remember being able to drive. Occasionally I’ll get a glimpse of my old life, and a vision that I’ve seen many times is that of a tan car. The car doesn’t have power windows or power locks, because I feel myself leaning across the passenger seat to unlock the door and crank the window.

Vish is 100% Indian in this life, but he’s pretty sure he wasn’t before. He can say anything he wants in English, although of course he tries to use short words to avoid freaking people out. But he barely says a word in Malayalam, much to the chagrin of his parents. He tells me he’s only now beginning to understand most of it.

Both of us remember as far back as being in the womb. It was dark, and simultaneously loud and quiet. It was peaceful enough, and since I couldn’t remember my old life much, I didn’t feel panicked. 

Being born was the most traumatizing thing that has ever happened to me. Then I had to spend the first few weeks of my life practically blind, and almost completely unable to control my body while other people moved me around and wiped my butt. As time went on I came to accept my situation, but I still tried to get my parents to realize that I knew what was going on.

“Look how serious!” my father cooed at me.

My plea for help came out as gargles.

“Oh, she’s talking to me!”

I met Vish when I was three months old. My parents had just moved to the new neighborhood, and they took me out for a walk along with the dog. Vish and his mom were playing in the front yard, and without any hesitation, he ran unsteadily up to my stroller and poked his head in.

“He loves babies,” Mrs. Mani said in apology, trying to pull him away.

“He can look at her if he wants,” my mom said in her incredibly kind voice as my dad held back our dog.

I hadn’t started daycare yet, and had little interaction with other kids up until that point, but I wasn’t scared. Vish looked at me intently, as if waiting for something. That something, I realized later, was for our parents to start talking so he could interrogate me.

Eventually they did, first introducing themselves, then moving on to the neighborhood and what they liked about it.

“You unnerstan?” he asked in a quiet baby voice. At the time he wasn’t yet two, so his words still came in slurs.

I try to nod my head and my whole body spasms.

“She likes you!” my mom said to Vish.

He nodded somberly, waiting for the adults to resume their conversation. He placed his hand near mine.

“Two hits if you unnerstan.”

It wasn’t pretty, but I managed to flail my arm towards his hand twice. His eyes widened in delight and shock. Later, he told me I’m the only other baby he’s found like him.

Our first conversation, if you could call it that, was cut short when my parents continued their walk. I nearly cried. My one chance at communication, thwarted. But I didn’t have long to be disappointed. Vish began a regular vigil, setting up camp in the front window of their house and dragging his mother outside whenever it seemed we might go walking. After a time our parents became good acquaintances, and Vish was able to solicit visits to our house by telling them he wanted to see the baby. My mother went back to work after six months, and by then Mrs. Mani had suggested that, rather than send me to daycare, that she watch me instead. “It’ll be less expensive, and after all, Vish and Olivia are both so easy.”

We kept it that way, and even now, a year later, we never do anything but make it easy on them when we are together.

After we finish our trip to the zoo, Vish stands patiently next to the car while my mother straps me into my car seat. She hands me a stuffed animal. “Can you say, ‘teddy bear?’” she asks me.

“Tee tee bee.” I frown, because in my head, I said it right.

My mother claps at me. “Very good! Teddy bear!”

I scowl all the more. It is not very good. It is an embarrassment.

Vish’s seat faces forward and mine faces backward, so when we’re both in the car, it’s difficult for us to look across at each other. I want to ask him about his accident, but I’ll have to wait.

“Hi, Annamma.” My mom is talking to Vish’s mother, as she pulls out of the parking lot. “Yes, we’re on our way. Probably twenty minutes. Uh-huh.”

We can’t hear what Mrs. Mani replies on the other line. “It was good, but Vish had another accident,” my mother reports.

A pause.

“I know, he was doing so well. I wouldn’t worry, though, since the doctor says it’s normal to have a regression.”

I lean as far to the side as I can to look at Vish. He glances my way, worry in his eyes. He was fully potty trained as soon as he could properly walk. I was no different, although the adults attribute my success to time spent with Vish. But lately Vish has been having accidents. He can’t explain to me why they happen, but we’re both starting to realize why. 

He’s starting to forget.