ROLE PLAY

By Lisa Bubert

Sadie despised being alone, but she also despised most people, and thus led a life of conflict. When the pandemic came and everything locked down and locked out, this conflict bloomed. She was happy; she was not happy. She was lonely, so, so lonely. And yet, the empty streets exhilarated her. The sounds of other people behind closed doors saddened her. When her period was late by two days, she rejoiced. They would be alone together.

             It didn’t matter what the internet said, that two days was nothing, that countless boyfriends had been terrified over a discrepancy of hours, that it wasn’t even worth it to buy a test until at least a week in. Her period wouldn’t be coming today, or tomorrow, or a week from now. She didn’t need a test to know she was pregnant. Besides, there was no boyfriend to tell.

             So who is the guy? her friends immediately asked. Their little windows on the computer like Brady Brunch squares accompanied by wine and cocktails made at home.

             No one you know, Sadie said, and it was true.

             Are you keeping it? they asked.

             Please. Sadie sipped her tea pinky up like a queen upon her throne.

             Sadie knew it would be hard for them to understand. She’d always been on a different plane than her peers, a little older in mind even if she was the youngest in the class. One friend, who is no longer a friend, accused her of acting older because she liked the superiority of it. So what if she did, Sadie thought. It was authentic, authentically how she felt.

             A previous doctor’s appointment had informed her that conception would prove to be nearly impossible—a combination of endo and cysts that would require a hysterectomy by age thirty. If she wanted to get pregnant, it needed to happen sooner rather than later. And she did want to get pregnant. It was one of the few things in life she actually desired.

              She had weighed her options, considered it wasteful to spend an exorbitant amount of money to conceive a child when bigger dummies than her downed a few shots of Jack and made it work for free. So that’s what Sadie had done; she downed the Jack, she met the donor in a hotel room. She barely remembered how it happened. An immaculate conception, just the way she wanted it. The world shut down that week.

~

             The baby was born, looking like a stranger. Sadie wished the little girl would have taken on more of her features. The eyes, the nose, the way the lips curved—all of it must have come from the father. She could hardly remember what he looked like. She should have taken a picture.

             Sadie named this girl Cassidy, the same name of the imaginary friend she’d had in preschool before a realer, meaner Cassidy joined the class and temporarily ruined the name for her. Reclamation. Just Sadie and Cassidy once again.

             Her friends were dying to see pictures. They hadn’t even seen a single one yet! They didn’t want to bother her, they said, because they knew this time could be difficult, taxing, made more so by lockdown. They would help if they could, of course they would, but they simply couldn’t leave their homes. But pictures, please. Pictures or it didn’t happen, they joked. What they didn’t say was that it was odd, how Sadie was so cagey about sending pictures, posting pictures, sharing this so withheld child. She’s protective, Sadie’s most preferred friend said. All mothers are protective. Another friend, Sadie’s worst friend, teased her. I bet this baby isn’t even real, she said. All the friends laughed with her. It was a joke; of course it was a joke! But the thought was out in the ether. There was a shift. Yes, they said. Pictures or it didn’t happen.

~

             Sadie couldn’t altogether explain why she felt the need to withhold Cassidy from the world. She loved the little cocoon of their apartment, safe and warm and uninterrupted by anyone else’s judgment. It was a brutal world, unfair, rotten to the core. It seemed cruel to expose something so new and blemish-free to all of it. Sadie imagined the wider world as a ravenous wolf, eyeing this baby with drool hanging from its jowls. Everyone always joked that they would like to eat a baby. Those plump cheeks, those crescent roll arms. A perfect croissant of a baby, perfectly done, not overbaked. Sometimes Sadie imagined taking a knife and fork to that chubby belly, discovering that there was no baby but instead a delicious cake this entire time. Sadie had never been one for sharing. It always seemed that she got the smallest piece, that everyone got to pick and choose before she had a chance. She played alone on the playground, pretended not to care that the clothes her mother gave her were ill-fitted hand-me-downs from a neighbor family, that everyone else she grew up around had two parents that paid for music lessons and attended all their games, a house with a second floor, a room of their own, a paved driveway on which to ride a bike. It didn’t surprise Sadie in the least when her doctor told her she likely wouldn’t be able to conceive. Always, the world looked at her, looked at the others around her, and for some reason found them far more deserving than her. She had never complained. She had understood this was the way of it, that some people are meant to come last. But on this, she wanted to come first. She wanted to put her foot down. She wanted to throw a massive, historic tantrum. The world would not have Cassidy.

~

             Eventually, Sadie caved; she stole a picture of Cassidy on a morning when she was drunk by breastmilk, sunken into a slumbering haze of sleep. She sent it to the friends. Oh wow! the friends texted back. They texted little emojis of babies and shooting stars, milk bottles and heart eyes. Look at that hair! they said, admiring Cassidy’s thick black tuft. It was a surprising sight; Sadie was blonde with baby fine hair, one of those who hadn’t actually grown hair until well into her toddler age. The father had that thick hair, Sadie said. One of his finer attributes, as if she knew anything about his attributes. I can see the resemblance, said the preferred friend. She is so precious. Just so divine.

             Two friends, one of which was the worst friend, did not respond at all. Later, Sadie learned of a rumor brewed among them in a separate group text of which she was not a part. The baby looked fake, the worst friend concluded. It looked like a doll, one of those realistic ones they use in birthing classes and movies. She knew because she worked on a movie set where they used one that looked just like Cassidy. In fact, the doll prototype was even called “Cassidy” on the box. Dark murmurs abounded, lines of quantum air, phone to phone, DM to DM, that Sadie couldn’t see or vet.

             This was exactly why she’d wanted to keep Cassidy to herself. The world didn’t have their best interests at heart, neither her’s nor Cassidy’s. She removed herself from the group.

             The most preferred friend texted a week later. She agreed it was wrong of the group to speculate on Cassidy’s existence. How insulting that must be, how unconscionable. And yet… Sadie could solve this entire problem if she just posted some pictures of Cassidy online. She didn’t have to text them to the group. She could just post them on Instagram and then everyone would see and perhaps the group would apologize.

             Sadie ignored this advice, at first. It was maddening, this idea that she had to offer Cassidy’s proof of life and somehow this proof involved Instagram. She scrolled through her feed. Babies, babies everywhere, and none of them held a candle to Cassidy, as far as Sadie was concerned. She did hate the idea that others couldn’t see what she saw—that there may be endless cute babies in the world but her baby was the apex baby.

             She snuck a picture of Cassidy burping a smile in her bassinet, her eyes lit wide, her lips curled into an indelible smirk. Her hair had thickened into a round bowl on her head. She looked like a Beatle, early 60s. And that was what Sadie put as the caption—“I’m the Linda to this Paul”—and posted.

             People raved. Oh, they loved it! Comment after comment rolled in. Oh, how sweet! How precious! She’s getting so big!! She has your smile, the most preferred friend commented, coupled with a heart emoji. It wasn’t quite accurate. Sadie felt Cassidy had her eyes, if anything.

             The worst friend only commented later, after everyone else already had. Cute, she typed.

             The effect was immediate. Cassidy became instantly real. Doubt evaporated—there had never been any doubt in their minds, if you asked certain people. All a funny joke. These lockdowns had everyone confused. Nothing seemed real. Other mothers also lamented the fact that no one else could enjoy the speed at which their children grew, could see their day-to-day interactions. One woman reported that she left the office pregnant and by time her next evaluation was due, her boss was alarmed to see the baby on screen babbling in her lap, as if she’d stolen her. No one knew how many kids anyone had any more. The Instagram feeds were filled with strange babies of unknown origin. A magic trick unique to lockdown.

             Sadie posted another photo and then another, the flood gates now splayed open. A picture of Cassidy in her bouncy chair. A picture of her rolling on her blanket surrounded by toys. In the hi-chair, her face covered in chocolate. Likes and comments flowed in, some from people Sadie didn’t even know. No matter; everyone could see now. She’d been wrong to hold back. Sadie beamed with pride.

~

             The next morning, Sadie awoke to a cascade of notifications. She logged into Instagram, her notifications exploded in a sea of red numbers. One of the pictures of Cassidy, the one with her face covered in chocolate, had gone viral.

             This isn’t your baby, one of the comments said. What kind of sick person would do this.

             More comments from people she didn’t know all saying the same thing. That she was sick. That she had stolen. That she was a liar. That she deserved to die and then to burn in hell.

             In her notifications, she saw she’d been tagged in another post by a woman she didn’t know.

             This woman has been stealing pictures of my baby and passing them off as her own, she said. A picture of a baby that looked strikingly similar to Cassidy glowed back at Sadie as she read the caption.

             This is a picture of my child, Tara, on her first birthday. I love sharing pictures of my baby for all my friends and followers to see (she had over sixty-five thousand followers) but I will be amending my policy after this latest invasion of privacy. I try to keep this space a positive and open forum for mothers who have struggled with fertility. I post pictures of Tara so others can see that there is life beyond IVF. To know that my pictures of Tara are being used by a stranger and passed off as her own child are disturbing. Please report this woman. Going forward, I will be removing all images of Tara from my feed for an indefinite amount of time.

             Is this Cassidy? one of her friends commented on the post, tagging her in it. The picture was not the same as the one Sadie posted. Yes, there were an alarming amount of similarities between her Cassidy and this Tara. But there were subtle differences, if one was willing to look. The kitchen in the background wasn’t the same. Their hair was parted on a different side. A terrible coincidence. And one impossible to prove in the court of Instagram, not that she could if she wanted to. All other photos of Tara had been removed; Sadie’s account was banned the next day.

             The harassing messages migrated from Instagram to email once she was removed from the platform. They accused her of lying about her own child. They said she was sick, that she needed help. A few were kinder, saying that they too had engaged with role play on Instagram. That they too had struggled with miscarriages and failed conceptions and they too had used pictures of other babies as a way to cope with their losses. They too had built a world where their child did exist; they too had pretended. It was a natural thing for grieving mothers to do, their therapists assured them. But for god’s sake, don’t post about it online. Don’t pass off these pictures as your own. They gave her the names of their therapists.

             But Cassidy was real! Sadie wanted to scream back at them. Look at her. Alone in her home, there was no one else there to see.

~

             All of her friends kept their distance, even the most preferred friend. The most preferred friend insisted she knew it was all a strange mistake, one of those weird internet stories that gets blown out of proportion. Still, she texted less and less.

             Sadie would build a new community, one that knew nothing about all this. A fresh start. She joined a local mom’s group on Facebook and was startled to see that the Tara story had already infiltrated there and the gossip was not in her favor. She left. Instead, she decided, Cassidy was old enough now that she could go to a playground. The case counts were receding and outdoor spaces, at least, seemed safe enough for the risk. Sadie would meet other mothers and Cassidy would meet other children. In real life. Real, breathing people. Three-dimensional.

             The first playground she went to was empty. It seemed that even though cases were receding, the other parents had collectively decided that it was still unsafe and had stayed home. Sadie instantly felt like a terrible parent.

             But then another person did arrive. A dad with two little girls, one four and one a toddler a little older than Cassidy. The toddler ran with her tongue splayed out of her mouth, her face constantly screwed in concentration. She looked exactly like her father, who looked at Sadie and waved when he caught her eye. He didn’t come over on his own. She had to wave him over. Please, she thought. Talk to me.

             He sidled over, keeping his distance like everyone else these days. He placed a mask over his nose and mouth as he edged closer. Pandemic baby, he pointed at the toddler. Half of my friends don’t even know she exists.

             Same, Sadie said, pointing off toward wherever Cassidy had run. She couldn’t see her, but she could hear her, laughing with the other toddler.

             How many do you have? the dad asked, looking for Cassidy.

             Just the one. About the same age as yours, she pointed to the toddler. She takes after her father, Sadie said. Did she? She couldn’t recall his face any longer. All of it happened pre-pandemic and none of it seemed real anymore.

             None of it seems real, Sadie said.

             Totally, the dad agreed. My friends joke that the second one is fake. They remember Carla very well. He pointed at the older child, swinging alone. We had a whole baby shower for her, birth party, first year party. By time Suz came along, the pandemic was in full swing and we were cocooned at home. He used that word, Sadie noticed. Cocooned.

             We announced the pregnancy on Facebook but then everything went to shit and it was just easier to stay offline. Besides, he said. There’s some weird shit out there. He was referring to the disinformation, the deep fakes, the anti-truthers. She knew he didn’t mean it personally. Still, she felt attacked.

             Anyway, he said. The world’s so fucked up. I’d rather just keep them to myself for a while longer.

             That’s me, Sadie said. That’s exactly what I think. I don’t post any pictures. She left out the disasters of the past. People act like they’re so entitled to it.

             I hear that, he said. Now, Sadie felt seen, for the first time in a long time.

             The playground had gone quiet. Too quiet. Carla, the older girl, swung high and free on her own. But Cassidy and Suz were out of sight. Sadie could no longer hear her daughter babbling along with her friend.

             Suz, the dad called, his voice not yet panicking. Where are you baby.

             They scanned the perimeter of the playground. The whole thing was fenced in, meant to keep the babies safe from wandering. There was no way they could have gotten out. But they looked and looked and neither of the children were anywhere.

             Suz! His voice called now, insistent and loud. A cry from the bush near the back of the playground. They rushed over. Suz laid belly down, crying over a skinned knee and cut lip. She’d fallen, tripped over a rock and then cut her lip on another rock. Cassidy was still nowhere to be seen.

             Cassidy! Sadie called. The dad preoccupied with his own baby. Carla, still swinging away.

             Sadie ran around the playground checking the tunnels, checking all the little nooks and hiding spots. She stopped and listened. All sound of crying had ceased. The dad was off somewhere else, comforting his children. Sadie stilled herself. She listened, she listened.

             She could hear Cassidy breathing. She went back to the bush where Suz had fallen and found Cassidy suddenly there, curled up on the ground, fast asleep. Sadie couldn’t believe she hadn’t seen her there before. She grabbed her and pulled her close.

             She was here the whole time! she exclaimed to the dad. He didn’t answer. He was gone, he and his girls. The swing set still and empty. The rocks ruffled and disturbed where Suz had fallen. Or had she fallen near the other bush where those rocks were also all scraped up?

             Sadie held Cassidy close. I’m here, you’re here, she said. She rocked and rocked, grateful to be alone.

—

About Author

Lisa Bubert is a writer based in Nashville. Her fiction, essays, and journalism can be found in Cream City Review, Northwest Review, Longreads, Catapult, The Rumpus, Texas Highways, and more. She is currently at work on a novel in stories. You can follow Lisa on X and Instagram, or find her at her website.