“Kit,” I say. He jumps a little, and then shakes his head like he’s coming out of a dream.
“Do you want to meet Annie?” he asks softly.
“Yeah, I do.”
He leads me to the back bedroom. The house smells of fresh paint, and before he opens the door to Annie’s nursery, I already know Della’s had the room painted pink. It’s bright, not the soft color I was expecting. I stand there for a minute, blinking at the color before my eyes focus on the crib against the wall. It’s black. I can hear rustling from inside it, like she’s just deciding to wake up. Kit stands next to the crib and waits for me to come over. It feels … weird. My feet sink into the carpet. My hands are stupidly clutched together. I see her hair first, poking out from her swaddling. It’s troll hair, a tuft of black against creamy white skin. Her eyes are open, glassy like newborns usually are. Her mouth opens to let out a cry, and I’m surprised by how soft and gentle it is. I pick her up. I can’t help myself. She’s the most perfect thing I’ve ever seen.
“Annie,” I say. “I’m your Aunt Helena.” I sniff her head, and then I kiss it. I carry her to the changing table and unwrap her. I want to see the rest—the little bird legs, and the perfect tiny fingers and toes. I’m so engrossed that I forget Kit is in the room.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Did you want to do this?”
I feel so bad. I just jumped in without asking. Kit smiles, shakes his head. “Go ahead,” he says. “You should get to know each other.”
That’s all he has to say. I’m a bonafide baby lover. Kit goes to get her bottle while I change her diaper. Halfway through I start to cry. Della. She hasn’t even held her little girl. This all feels like my fault. I have to stay to help them. At least until Della gets well. I have to do the right thing by all of them. Especially after everything I’ve done.
Kit and I take turns with Annie for the rest of the night. I’d take all of the shifts and let him sleep, but Kit says waking up with her makes him feel like he’s doing something, and he needs to feel like he’s doing something or he’ll go crazy. I sleep in the office across from Annie’s nursery, and each time she wakes up and I hear her little cries, I want to rush into the room. When it’s Kit’s turn I roll onto my side so I can hear them. He sings to her. It’s so tender it makes me feel the same way Christmas does, like there’s so much good and so much hope. It feels so wrong that I’m getting to hear what Della should be hearing. It’s like I’m eavesdropping on someone else’s life.
Della’s brother comes to take care of Annie the following day. He brings us paper cups of coffee and mushroom frittata that Annette made. We clutch our coffee and make small talk until Kit suggests we beat the traffic and go. I don’t like leaving Annie with Tony; in high school he smoked a lot of pot and lit things on fire. It’s been seven years, but he doesn’t seem like the responsible choice. I mention it to Kit when we’re in the car.
“How old did you say he was when he did that?”
“Sixteen,” I say.
“I think he may be past that stage,” he offers. “It’s been ten years.”
“He’s hairy,” I say. “If he tries to kiss her, it’ll scratch her face.”
“What exactly do you have against Tony?” He turns onto the freeway, and I start to panic. Once we’re on the I-95 we’re going to be stuck in traffic, unable to get off if something happens.
“I don’t have anything against him; I just don’t want him to be the one watching Annie.” I unbuckle my seat belt. I don’t know what I’m planning to do … maybe jump out of the moving car and run back. Surely I’m not crazy enough to—
“What are you doing?” Kit says. “Put your belt back on.”
“One of us has to be with her,” I say. “You or me. The other can go to the hospital. We can work in shifts.”
“You’re serious?” he asks. “You do realize Tony is Annie’s blood?”
“I don’t care. Take me back.”
He doesn’t say anything. He gets off at the first exit and takes a different way back to the house. Tony doesn’t look surprised to see us; he seems relieved when we tell him that he can go.
“See that,” I wave my finger in Kit’s face. “A non-excited babysitter is a non-attentive babysitter.”
He grabs my finger, and I laugh.
“You want to go first, or you want me to go?” he asks.
I look at Annie, who is asleep in her swing, and bite my lip.
“You stay,” he says, smiling. “You can go to the hospital tomorrow when some of your anxiety has eased up.”
I nod.
I watch as he walks down the driveway to his truck, and before he gets in, he looks back at me and raises his hand to wave.
It’s only then that I remember how much I love him.
I’ve never taken care of a tiny human before. It’s all movement: running to get this, running to get that. Washing things, washing the tiny human, never washing yourself. It’s a labor during which you are given very little time to think about you. You. You who are still heartbroken. You who are managing your feelings even as you wrap, and wipe, and feed. Feelings you have no right to have. You do not think about these feelings or put a name to them. Live, live, live. Wipe, love, sleep. They all help me, but somewhere in the first week it becomes clear that I am Annie’s caretaker. Helena knows what she needs; Helena knows what type of formula she eats; Helena, where are the diapers? Helena, she’s fussy; Helena… It’s all true. Annie and I have a system. I figure out that if you rub her back counterclockwise twice, then pat up from her lower back to between her shoulder blades, those difficult burps will be worked out. She has a protein allergy. I notice the bumps on her skin and take her to the pediatrician Della chose, an Iranian woman named Dr. Mikhail. She is stern and gives me the stink eye the whole time.
“Most new mothers are nervous and hovering. You must have done this before.”
“I’m not her mother,” I say. “Should I hover more? I trust you, should I not trust you? Do you think I’m too trusting?” I walk to the table where she is examining Annie, and I pick her up. Dr. Mikhail gives me another searing look and takes the baby back from me and returns her to the table.
“Do you want to meet Annie?” he asks softly.
“Yeah, I do.”
He leads me to the back bedroom. The house smells of fresh paint, and before he opens the door to Annie’s nursery, I already know Della’s had the room painted pink. It’s bright, not the soft color I was expecting. I stand there for a minute, blinking at the color before my eyes focus on the crib against the wall. It’s black. I can hear rustling from inside it, like she’s just deciding to wake up. Kit stands next to the crib and waits for me to come over. It feels … weird. My feet sink into the carpet. My hands are stupidly clutched together. I see her hair first, poking out from her swaddling. It’s troll hair, a tuft of black against creamy white skin. Her eyes are open, glassy like newborns usually are. Her mouth opens to let out a cry, and I’m surprised by how soft and gentle it is. I pick her up. I can’t help myself. She’s the most perfect thing I’ve ever seen.
“Annie,” I say. “I’m your Aunt Helena.” I sniff her head, and then I kiss it. I carry her to the changing table and unwrap her. I want to see the rest—the little bird legs, and the perfect tiny fingers and toes. I’m so engrossed that I forget Kit is in the room.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Did you want to do this?”
I feel so bad. I just jumped in without asking. Kit smiles, shakes his head. “Go ahead,” he says. “You should get to know each other.”
That’s all he has to say. I’m a bonafide baby lover. Kit goes to get her bottle while I change her diaper. Halfway through I start to cry. Della. She hasn’t even held her little girl. This all feels like my fault. I have to stay to help them. At least until Della gets well. I have to do the right thing by all of them. Especially after everything I’ve done.
Kit and I take turns with Annie for the rest of the night. I’d take all of the shifts and let him sleep, but Kit says waking up with her makes him feel like he’s doing something, and he needs to feel like he’s doing something or he’ll go crazy. I sleep in the office across from Annie’s nursery, and each time she wakes up and I hear her little cries, I want to rush into the room. When it’s Kit’s turn I roll onto my side so I can hear them. He sings to her. It’s so tender it makes me feel the same way Christmas does, like there’s so much good and so much hope. It feels so wrong that I’m getting to hear what Della should be hearing. It’s like I’m eavesdropping on someone else’s life.
Della’s brother comes to take care of Annie the following day. He brings us paper cups of coffee and mushroom frittata that Annette made. We clutch our coffee and make small talk until Kit suggests we beat the traffic and go. I don’t like leaving Annie with Tony; in high school he smoked a lot of pot and lit things on fire. It’s been seven years, but he doesn’t seem like the responsible choice. I mention it to Kit when we’re in the car.
“How old did you say he was when he did that?”
“Sixteen,” I say.
“I think he may be past that stage,” he offers. “It’s been ten years.”
“He’s hairy,” I say. “If he tries to kiss her, it’ll scratch her face.”
“What exactly do you have against Tony?” He turns onto the freeway, and I start to panic. Once we’re on the I-95 we’re going to be stuck in traffic, unable to get off if something happens.
“I don’t have anything against him; I just don’t want him to be the one watching Annie.” I unbuckle my seat belt. I don’t know what I’m planning to do … maybe jump out of the moving car and run back. Surely I’m not crazy enough to—
“What are you doing?” Kit says. “Put your belt back on.”
“One of us has to be with her,” I say. “You or me. The other can go to the hospital. We can work in shifts.”
“You’re serious?” he asks. “You do realize Tony is Annie’s blood?”
“I don’t care. Take me back.”
He doesn’t say anything. He gets off at the first exit and takes a different way back to the house. Tony doesn’t look surprised to see us; he seems relieved when we tell him that he can go.
“See that,” I wave my finger in Kit’s face. “A non-excited babysitter is a non-attentive babysitter.”
He grabs my finger, and I laugh.
“You want to go first, or you want me to go?” he asks.
I look at Annie, who is asleep in her swing, and bite my lip.
“You stay,” he says, smiling. “You can go to the hospital tomorrow when some of your anxiety has eased up.”
I nod.
I watch as he walks down the driveway to his truck, and before he gets in, he looks back at me and raises his hand to wave.
It’s only then that I remember how much I love him.
I’ve never taken care of a tiny human before. It’s all movement: running to get this, running to get that. Washing things, washing the tiny human, never washing yourself. It’s a labor during which you are given very little time to think about you. You. You who are still heartbroken. You who are managing your feelings even as you wrap, and wipe, and feed. Feelings you have no right to have. You do not think about these feelings or put a name to them. Live, live, live. Wipe, love, sleep. They all help me, but somewhere in the first week it becomes clear that I am Annie’s caretaker. Helena knows what she needs; Helena knows what type of formula she eats; Helena, where are the diapers? Helena, she’s fussy; Helena… It’s all true. Annie and I have a system. I figure out that if you rub her back counterclockwise twice, then pat up from her lower back to between her shoulder blades, those difficult burps will be worked out. She has a protein allergy. I notice the bumps on her skin and take her to the pediatrician Della chose, an Iranian woman named Dr. Mikhail. She is stern and gives me the stink eye the whole time.
“Most new mothers are nervous and hovering. You must have done this before.”
“I’m not her mother,” I say. “Should I hover more? I trust you, should I not trust you? Do you think I’m too trusting?” I walk to the table where she is examining Annie, and I pick her up. Dr. Mikhail gives me another searing look and takes the baby back from me and returns her to the table.
