The spacecraft crashed when I was taking my six-year-old son to what had to be the most chaotic soccer organization north of Sacramento.
While I was in the school pickup line, Carrie texted that the league scheduled a game for 4:00PM and I was snack mom. Some half-eaten PB&Js and a handful of Ritz crackers later, we piled into the van with a storage bin of brown paper bags stuffed with boring, healthy snacks I kept in case of emergencies.
I drove down Lower Springs, a road bordered with dried grass and thistles. My girls, Ella (eight) and Madison (ten), fought over the tablet in the backseat, even though they each had their own, while my son, Braxton, shouted at maximum volume because he couldn’t hear Ninjago.
A beam of light ricocheted off my rearview mirror. A dark shape sped across my peripheral vision followed by a boom that vibrated the windows. I slammed on the brakes.
What the hell?
In the middle of the grass and weeds, a disk like the top of a giant tuna can smoldered in overturned dirt. The kids hadn’t noticed, thanks to headphones and an otherworldly ability to concentrate on gaming screens that rivaled chess players in the Candidates Tournament.
Something uncoiled itself from the wreckage. Gray-green limbs, slender torso, angular head. My mouth gaped at the poster visual of every alien graphic I’d ever seen, and there it was, stumbling toward me with blackened eyes the size of whiffle balls.
Help, it said. Not aloud or with words, but like a picture-feeling inside my head.
Help us.
She—because I got she vibes—carried something in her arms. She sent me another picture-feeling, this time of my children but also not my children, and I knew what she was holding.
I stepped out of the van, not even thinking about it. Before kids, I probably would’ve slammed on the gas, dialed 911—did literally anything else—but since kids, the idea of self-preservation disappeared along with my waistline.
Weird noise in the house. Me.
Giant spider. Me.
Alien. Also, me.
She moved through the brush with Help, Help, Help buzzing around my skull. Goo ran down the front of her body. Blood, I guessed, but it wasn’t red or even a color, just a shimmer, like the hair gel I used to buy. She stopped at the edge of the road with a miniature version of herself in her arms. Baby-size latex-green skin. Baby-size dark eyes. Baby-size pencil-arms. No goo.
Please, she said, or didn’t say. Whatever it was, it meant the same. She wanted me to take the baby.
I shook my head. “I can’t.”
Please. No time.
The ooze smelled like rust.
Please. She said again.
I stared at her. This was ridiculous. I couldn’t take her baby. What would I do with it? And while I thought these things, instead of moving away, I extended my arms. A weird purring noise filled my head.
They’re coming.
A vision of helicopters, armored vehicles, and men in hazmat suits flooded my thoughts. I hurried to the van, cradling the baby in my arms. I didn’t have a car seat. How was I supposed to drive away without putting it in a car seat? Then again, my mom never used one for me and I made it.
I slid in the driver’s side, the baby tucked in the crook of my arm like a stuffed sock, and sped for home. My kids, who for some unknown reason hadn’t realized I’d brought an alien with us, whined that I’d promised them Kona Ice at the soccer park.
The purring lingered, even when I pulled into the garage.
Madison popped her head over.
“What’s that?”
Then came Ella and Braxton.
“Out. Out. Out,” I said to them.
I took the baby upstairs into the family room. The kids clung to my heels.
“Get back,” I said.
Madison whined, “We want to see.”
I didn’t want them near it. I had no idea what it was capable of. Did it have laser beams for eyes? Could it melt their brains with a thought? I would’ve felt safer with a coyote listed as “Free Dog.”
I placed it on the couch.
Ella, Madison, and Braxton gathered around, trying to launch past me. The purring noise grew louder as it turned its shiny black eyes to each of my kids in turn.
“What is it?” Ella asked.
“A baby.”
Braxton said, “It doesn’t look like a regular baby.”
“Where’s it from?” Madison asked, all innocent and sweet.
What could I say? How could I explain aliens from outer space when we’d barely had the God conversation.
Ella chimed in. “Another country?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Another country.”
“Which one?” Braxton asked.
“Uh…”
“Greenland?” Madison offered.
“Sure.”
Braxton asked, “Is that why it’s green?”
“Uh huh.”
“Green’s my favorite color,” he said. “I want to go to Greenland.”
Ella asked, “Where’s its mom?”
“Sick.”
“Where’s its dad?”
Good question.
The baby reached out its long-fingered hand toward Madison. She jumped at the invitation. Before I could pull her back, she already wrapped her hand around the baby’s and smiled.
We couldn’t have been home for more than ten minutes when the doorbell rang.
In that time, I’d sat on the couch with the kids and the alien—who so far seemed safe enough—trying to simultaneously process the existence of extraterrestrials, what the hell I was going to do with one, and how I was going to explain this to Tom when he got home. I got a few texts from Carrie, wanting to know if I was there yet and what snacks I was bringing because the other moms didn’t want anything sugary. I ignored her.
I pulled myself off the couch and peeked out the blinds. A black Suburban with government plates sat in my driveway.
Shit.
I flinched at the pounding on the door.
“Not a word,” I turned to the kids and whispered. “If anyone finds out this baby is here, I will take away all tablets, TVs, gaming systems and never, NEVER, give them back. No more sleepovers, no more birthdays, and…” for added measure “…no more Christmases. Got it?”
“Yeah, Mom,” Ella said. “We got it. Geez.”
I went downstairs to the front door and flicked open the blinds. Outside stood two men in black sunglasses and black suits. They clasped their hands at their belt buckles in identical poses, their faces as blank as the whiteboard in the kitchen. One had blondish-brown hair, the other brownish-blond. Same haircuts.
My hand shook as I opened the door.
“Can I help you?”
“Sorry to bother you, ma’am,” the one with the brown hair said. “We had a technical equipment failure nearby and we’re canvassing the area.”
My mind circled around the spacecraft. “Equipment failure? What happened?”
He ignored my question. “We believe an individual removed classified material from a restricted zone. Possession of such material is a federal crime and carries an extensive prison sentence.”
Prison? I tried to read their faces. With three kids, I’d gotten savvy at spotting BS, but these guys gave me nothing, not even a facial tic. It was like searching for tells on a Barbie.
My stomach churned. If I went to prison over this, every mom at Lincoln Elementary would say I was running kilos of cocaine out of my garage, because the Feds sure as hell wouldn’t advertise I stole an alien.
As I thought this, the mom’s plea rattled around my head like a marble.
Please.
“Try the Millers,” I said. “They walk their dogs a lot. Maybe they picked up whatever it is you’re looking for.”
They stared at me, not uttering a word. I waited for some kind of a reaction, but after an uncomfortable ten seconds passed, I realized one wasn’t coming.
“Okay, well,” I said, stepping backward. “Bye.”
I shut the door, standing by the panel window, and watched them get in their SUV.
As soon as they were gone, I unplugged all the Alexas, powered down my phone, and disconnected the WIFI. I sat upstairs with the kids, who took turns entertaining the baby, showing it toys, and holding it while I thought about what kind of food they served in prison and whether federal prison was better or worse than regular prison.
As Braxton started his third episode of Ninjago, the baby’s purr began ratcheting upward.
Madison waved a stuffed dog over it. “It’s a puppy…Puppy wants to say hello…. Can you say hi to puppy?”
The baby turned its black eyes toward me.
Eh, eh, Ehhhhh. Eh, eh Ehhh.
I picked it up and started rocking it back and forth. It arched its back and cranked the purring up an octave. I adjusted my hold, and my hand pressed into something pudgy. I turned the baby around and stuck my finger into a bulge.
This wasn’t its skin, but a latex onesie that went from scalp to piggy toe.
I lifted its arms, hunting for a zipper or a snap, and found a raised dot just behind its neck. When I got my fingernail underneath, I felt it give a little but then hesitated. What if it’s not supposed to come off? As I started to lay it down, the purring lurched into a squeal.
Screw it.
If this went sideways, I’d grab Tom’s duct tape and flag down Men and Black 1 and 2. It might not be what the mom wanted, but it was better than the baby dissolving into a blob.
I worked my nail around the edge of the dot until I jumped at the sound of a pop like from a Ziploc baggy. The material split down its back, revealing smooth greyish skin. It didn’t blister or bubble or whatever alien skin did. Other than its nonverbal pinging thrumming against the fatty folds of my brain, the baby seemed okay.
Its grey flesh felt warm to the touch as I managed to get one arm out, pausing at the sight of its little hand that appeared so much like my own—except for the missing fingernails—before I wiggled its butt free. When I did, a mustardy yellow sludge with a smell like burnt fish gurgled out—the mother of all blow outs.
“Oh, God,” I said, gagging. “Oh God.”
I sprinted into the bathroom with the baby.
“Ella,” I yelled, “Ella! Bathroom. Now.”
She followed me in and held a hand to her nose.
“Is that the baby?”
“Hold it over the tub.”
I got the water running and dug into the drawers where I found an old bottle of baby shampoo with dried bits around the top. With Ella holding the baby up, I got its other leg out. More yellow sludge plopped into the tub and washed toward the drain. I rolled the suit up over its stomach, revealing a little penis. It wasn’t an “it.”
Inching the suit upward, I freed his other arm and then got it to his neck. I wedged my fingers underneath, worried that I might be pinching him a bit, and half peeled/half yanked until it came off with a thwap. He watched me with soft orange eyes and his translucent lips puckering into a pout.
So, this is what an alien looked like.
I took him from Ella.
“Aww.” Ella leaned over my shoulder. “He’s kind of cute.”
He kind of was.
Then he peed on me.
With alien urine soaking into my shirt, I gave him a bath, which he seemed to enjoy. He kept slapping his hands in the water and gurgle-purring. When I had him out and dried, I grabbed an old box of Braxton’s pullups from under the bathroom sink and, with a little bit of engineering, managed to fit him into them.
Wrapped in a blanket, I situated him between Madison and Ella, who took turns holding him as I pilfered though a bin of old baby clothes meant for the Goodwill years ago. With his long legs and arms, no matter what I picked, it would hang like a burlap sack. I laid him on the couch and dressed him. The baby gazed upward with those soft orange eyes and “Daddy Did My Hair” in looped lettering across his chest.
After I changed, I rinsed out his suit and waited for Tom to get home. I wanted to call him, but he’d know something was up in my voice and then he’d start to ask questions. Besides, I didn’t want to risk turning my phone on.
As Braxton worked on his sight words, the baby sucked at his bottom lip, purring in a monosyllabic wave. He stuck his little fist in his mouth. I knew that motion all too well.
I went downstairs and opened the refrigerator.
The only mushy food I had was some yogurt, cheese, and eggs. It might be okay for a human baby, but an alien? It wasn’t like I could ask Alexa “What do you feed an alien?” If I had some formula, I’d feel better about it, but that would be assuming alien babies took some kind of milk. I couldn’t assume anything.
Digging around the junk drawers, I found some old baby spoons and bowls, a faded bottle, and a rubber teething ring. I took it all upstairs with the yogurt in one bowl and a scrambled egg in the other.
I held the baby with a dish towel tucked under his chin and started with the egg. Each bit that went in, he spat back out until he had a slobbery yellow rainbow around his legs. So, eggs, no good. Check. Next was the Go-Gurt. I wasn’t sure how dairy would affect an alien baby’s stomach, but I was hopeful. The first blow out happened less than three minutes later. And then another, and another until all we could do was observe in wonder and cover our noses. Ella restarted the bath and I mentally scratched dairy off the list.
Bananas did the trick. I used a food processor to purée them into mush, added some malt-o-meal and water (dairy was off the table), and put it in a bottle. I rubbed the nipple on his mouth, and he took it. At first, I only let him have a few swigs before I pulled it away. When I did, he unleashed such a high-pitched purr that I flinched and shoved the bottle back in his mouth. He sucked the whole thing down in about 30 seconds, and then we waited. No blow out.
He fell asleep with his head back and lips parted. I stared down at his alien face and wondered what he saw when he looked back at mine. I thought of his mom and my children and what if it were them in his place and the thought tugged at my insides so much, I had to hand him to Madison before I broke down in tears.
The garage chimed. Tom was home.
I rushed downstairs.
“Hey,” he said, setting his phone and keys on the counter. “I called a few times. Why weren’t you answering? Carrie said you didn’t show up to soccer.”
“Really don’t care, Tom,” I said, powering his phone down.
He gave the black phone a curious glance. “What’s going on?”
I waved him over to the stairs. “Up here.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Okay…”
I led him up to the family room. The baby sat wedged between my two daughters as Braxton entertained him with Disney Junior.
He stopped. “What the fuck?”
Madison shushed him and adjusted the baby’s blanket.
Tom turned to me, pointing. “How…what…what is that?”
“An alien,” I whispered. “A spaceship crashed when I was taking Braxton to soccer.”
He gawked at me, wide-eyed. “A…spaceship?”
“Lower your voice, Tom. They might be listening.”
“Who…who’s listening?”
I went to the window and cracked the blinds.
“They already came by the house. They didn’t show me a badge or anything, but they were government.”
He ran his palm across his face. “This is crazy. You sound crazy. Do you even hear yourself?”
“Yeah, I know how this sounds, but the mom was dying. She gave me her baby. What else could I do?”
“You could have refused. Left it. Drove away.”
“It’s a baby, Tom.”
He shook his head. “Seriously, of all the stupid shit you’ve done. This…this… I don’t even have a word for it.”
“I wasn’t going around looking for aliens,” I snapped. “It just happened.”
“I’m getting a drink.”
“You can’t. I need you to run to the store for bananas. And keep your phone off.”
That evening, we ate upstairs. Tom kept glancing at the baby. Madison offered to let Tom hold him, but he wouldn’t.
I went through the usual bedtime routine. Baths, showers, reading, Melatonin. But I didn’t know where to have the baby sleep. Madison offered her play cradle, and I moved it to the family room. She helped me layer it with blankets and a stuffed llama. He seemed cozy enough and wasn’t making that noise in my head, so I figured he was okay. I stayed there until he fell asleep.
A few hours later, the baby started making his pitching sound.
“Mooommmmmm….” I heard Ella’s sleepy voice call from the next room. “The baby’s crying.”
The pitching quieted with Ella’s voice. Maybe all he needed was to know we were still there. I drifted back to sleep, but it came again, louder this time.
My husband groaned and turned on his side. “Hon…”
That was my cue. For all three kids, whenever they woke up at night, it’s what he did. The only thing he didn’t do was get up himself.
I went into the family room. When the baby saw me, the purring in my head grew to a squeal. I got the mashed-up bananas/water/malt-o-meal concoction and tried to feed him, but he spat it out after every attempt. I cradled and bounced him up and down like I did when the kids were little. The purring calmed to a steady flow, and he grew quiet. I tried to set him down in the crib, but he opened his eyes and took the brain-purr up an octave. I laid with him on the couch and turned on Bluey.
I started calling him Alby, short for “Alien Baby.” The kids picked it up right away, but it took Tom a little longer. I couldn’t take Alby downstairs because three days ago, a drone flew by when I was getting coffee and the “construction” crew by the crash site doubled in size. Tom said it’s the talk of the neighborhood.
“They think some celebrity is building a house there,” he said.
Alby remained confined upstairs with the blinds drawn. The kids stayed home from school. I told the office they’d all gotten the stomach bug. I didn’t know what I was going to keep telling them when they didn’t go back by next week, but I couldn’t risk them blabbing. I didn’t expect anyone to believe them, but it wasn’t the school believing them that I was worried about.
I didn’t go to the gym, and I canceled my pickleball matches. That created more of a kerfuffle than I expected. A lot of texts shot back and forth about getting a sub until I told them my lady botched my filler, which garnered a lot of sympathy texts and “don’t worry about anything, we got it” replies. I powered down my phone and left it off.
The kids entertained themselves with Alby. Madison loved baby dolls and a real-life one, alien or not, was the making of her dreams. She played Peek-a-Boo with him, and he’d do this purr-gurgle that was something of a laugh. Ella brought him books and helped glide his hand over the pages of Pat the Bunny. Braxton wasn’t as impressed, but he’d sit beside him and play Nintendo. Whenever the kids started arguing, Alby would screech in our heads until they stopped. At least that was something.
Tom started warming up to him too. I’d catch him looking at the baby in a sweet way, instead of shock and revulsion. He’d hold Alby as he watched TV and pat his back when he did a pitchy-purr that meant he was gassy.
Within two days, we’d gotten into something of a routine. Alby had his, and we had ours that became his. I’d sleep on the couch in the family room, Alby cradled in my arm with the teething pacifier nuzzled between his small lips and the kids in their sleeping bags on the floor.
On the fourth day, Tom came home from work, took Alby, and blew raspberries at him. Whenever Tom did that, Alby made a tinkling sound in our heads.
The house was a mess. Laundry hadn’t been done, I’d barely changed my clothes since the crash, and I’d only gotten a few hours of sleep each night. Alby didn’t like to be put down or be alone. Ever. And in the few moments he was adequately entertained, I was too stressed to do anything but check the windows, the doors, and the lightbulbs on the front porch for listening devices.
I restarted the washing machine since I’d put the clothes in yesterday and forgot to move them to the dryer.
Tom asked, “When do you think, you know, they’ll make contact?”
“Do I look like I work for Area 51?”
“I’m just asking.”
“Sorry.” I sighed.
“I got him, Babe. Get some rest.”
I shut the light off in the laundry room and went to bed. I stared at the ceiling.
That night, I got the numbers. A series of them filing through my mind on repeat. It was a rare moment when exhaustion had finally put me under, and the interruption pissed me off. I went back to sleep.
In the morning, I thought I’d dreamt it, but then the numbers started up again. I wrote them down on Braxton’s sight words list with a crayon.
I ran downstairs to Tom. “They’re here.”
“Who?”
I pointed upwards.
“Here?”
“No. Coordinates. 40.73283, 122.455355. You still have your old maps?”
He went into the garage and came back with a stack he’d kept in his old Air Force duffle bag in case of “the event.” Asteroid, power grid failure, zombie apocalypse, not sure. He placed them out on the counter and followed the trail. The numbers intersected at a spot near Shasta Lake.
He grabbed his keys. “I can take him now.”
“No,” I said, feeling self-righteous. I’d been the one caring for Alby. Rearranged my whole life and faced a possible prison sentence. If anyone was delivering this baby, it was me. “I’ll take him.”
“We’ll go together.”
I shook my head. “If anything happens, what about the kids?”
“I don’t like the idea of you being out there, alone, with them.”
“I have to do this, Tom. The mom chose me. Besides, it’s Alby they want, right?”
“Let’s hope so,” he said, staring down at the map.
We had to finagle our departure a bit. I couldn’t leave in my van without someone from the “construction site” noticing . We had parked our cars in the garage, so getting him into a vehicle wasn’t the issue. The problem was leaving. It was one thing to keep Alby hidden away in the house with curious neighbors wielding Ring cameras and iPhones, but it was another to be out in the open like a gazelle with a bum leg in the Serengeti. What if the Feds had something that registered heat signatures or heart beats? Or what if Alby purred in their minds too?
At this point, I didn’t have a choice. The kids had to go back to school. Braxton had missed two soccer games. How much longer until the police stopped by for a welfare check?
After the kids went to bed, I sent out a mental telegram.
4AM.
I didn’t know if it was received, but the numbers stopped coming.
With the lights off, I began prepping. Banana mix, blankets, pullups. I dressed in one of my husband’s old FedEx shirts and put on the blond Taylor Swift wig I wore last Halloween. From the garage, I grabbed a box, stabbed a bunch of holes along the sides and top, and nestled Alby inside with his teething ring and blankets.
At 3AM, Alby and I hunkered down in the backseat of Tom’s truck. He drove to the hub and parked in the warehouse, and Tom left us in hiding while he went to clock in. A handful of people were already there, sorting the day’s deliveries.
After a while, Tom pulled up alongside us in a FedEx van and handed me the keys. I shut the top of Alby’s box and situated him around some other boxes in the back of the van so he blended in. If anyone pulled me over, he’d be hard to find.
I slid into the driver’s seat.
Tom leaned through the window and kissed me. “Stay on the planet.”
I turned the key in the ignition. I’d never driven one of the FedEx vans before, but I figured it couldn’t be much different than my own. I rolled out of the Hub parking lot and onto the road.
With every car that got behind me, my heart fluttered like a whisk beating aga’
inst my ribs until they turned or sped past. The further I got from town, the fewer headlights I saw, and the more worst case scenarios of what was going on back home played out in my head. Braxton playing ninja with real knives. Ella making breakfast and forgetting to turn the burners off. Madison curling her hair in the bathtub. I gripped the wheel and forced down the panic edging up my throat.
Alby started to purr/cry about halfway in, and I pulled over and got him out of the box. I held him on my lap and fed him his bottle of banana mix. Then he pooped so I had to stop again to change him.
We got back on the road. Alby was happy and I was glad for the company. I stopped a few more times, checking over my husband’s directions, doubling back, until we found ourselves going down a potholed road alongside a giant field in the middle of nowhere. I passed a crumbling shed that gave off less “cute rustic” and more “slaughterhouse” and stopped at Mile Marker 8 where Tom had circled on the map.
Alby made a noise in my head, s omething kind of like a newborn’s whelping mixed with a sigh. I glanced out the windshield.
I’m here, I projected.
A giant revolving orb materialized overhead with lights circling its edges. From this perspective, it looked less like a tuna can and more like something from Star Trek.
I stared upward, terrified.
Aliens. Alien spacecrafts. Alien babies.
And here I was, alone in the middle of nowhere. The idea had seemed safe enough in my kitchen, but now that I was about to be possibly abducted or the first casualty in a planetary invasion, I realized: I’m an idiot.
Alby purred in my head, low and soft. Could he read my thoughts or just my dread? Our gazes met and sadness overwhelmed me, but I didn’t know whether it was mine, his, or a mix of both.
I gathered Alby and got out of the van, not wanting to, but knowing I must .
As I did, the craft descended from the sky with a Yoyo-like finesse and a beam of light exploded downward. A figure appeared. It was Alby, only bigger.
The Dad.
He came toward me, and I toward him. When he got close, I held out Alby in the “Nap time is my best time” onesie that Madison had picked out. He took Alby and cradled him to his chest. In return, Alby purred with staccato beats.
I gave Alby’s dad the folded space suit and hesitated a little when I offered the yellowed teething ring.
“He likes it,” I said aloud, though I doubted I needed to.
Alby’s dad gently plucked the ring with his long fingers and gave it to Alby, who immediately stuck it in his puckered mouth.
I didn’t know what to do then. Go home, I supposed, and I was about to offer a weak, “Okay, see you later,” because I was both terrified and choked up, and it was a weird place to be.
Before I could move, Alby’s dad reached out and touched my forehead. The synthetic feeling of his skin/suit felt like Alby’s when I first carried him home.
In the inner core of my mind, he showed me pictures of another world, pulsating lights, crafts pinging from place to place. His house, which looked a little like the modern style everyone raved about on Instagram, except more concave. Then a picture of his wife (mate, I believed was the better term) and him in what I could only guess was a kitchen, arguing about her having to go to work and her mother, who was supposed to watch Alby, canceling. The baby could come, she’d said. He’d sleep the whole time.
And that was why Alby was with her. No childcare.
He showed me an image of the crash site after I’d left. How the vans swarmed around his mate’s body. The men in hazmat suits zipped her in a bag and shuttled her away. Then came the despair of her loss, an expansive rift of sorrow that I felt within my cells, and his gratitude for caring for Alby, and keeping him safe.
When he removed his hand, tears seeped down my cheeks.
“Yeah,” was all I could say as I wiped my eyes. “Yeah.”
He moved backward with Alby into the beam of light, and they levitated upward. The craft shot into the night sky, disappearing among the stars.
HJ Ramsay holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Antioch University, Los Angeles. She writes offbeat speculative fiction with a dry wit and human core that blends the surreal with the everyday. Her work explores identity, memory, and unexpected wonder.
Translunar Travelers Lounge 