by Beverly Farr
Here she was, practically on his doorstep and he wasn’t going to make a single move.
She’d seen the look he gave his mother when she wanted them to hug.
Olivia sighed
Perhaps Thornton should be her role model. After Margaret rejected him, he focused on his own life, his own goals.
She needed to do the same.
Michael was never going to be anything more than a friend, so she should accept that.
Heaven knew she’d accepted worse realities, so this one shouldn’t be so hard.
After all, it wasn’t as if she was giving up something real. They’d spent time together, talking, nothing more. But she’d felt an emotional connection and thought that there were possibilities for more.
He and those babies had made her want to live again, to hope again. And that meant being vulnerable.
I hurt, therefore I am.
Olivia turned off the DVD player. Happily-ever-after was good in fiction, and rare in real life. She glanced at her watch. It was before midnight. Maybe tonight she’d finally get enough sleep. At least that would make work better.
#
NOVEMBER
Michael sat back in his chair. There was no use crying over it. If the number crunchers thought it was going to be cheaper to buy a commercial CPU flash memory chip rather than design it, so be it. He just wished the decision had been made before he'd spent so much time on the project.
“Maybe the next revision will be able to use what we’ve developed,” Brent had said.
Right. Technology advanced by leaps and bounds, and although he was a competent engineer, Michael wasn't vain enough to think himself a genius. In six months, someone else would come up with a similarly advanced product and make it available. It was all a matter of timing and marketing.
Michael sipped a soft drink and stared at the carpeted walls of his cubicle. There was something innately satisfying about following a design from its creation to completion. And that was difficult to find when he was a small cog in a huge corporate wheel. Maybe I'm in the wrong job, he thought. Maybe he'd be happier in a smaller company, with more creative freedom and control over his work.
But with a smaller company, there would be more risk. And right now, he didn't want risk. Not with five children. He wanted a stable, steady paycheck and excellent medical benefits. He was lucky to have found a good position so quickly after losing his last job. He'd be foolish and shortsighted to leave it now, just because they weren't going to build a chip he'd designed.
His cell phone vibrated. “Claiborne,” he said as he picked it up.
“Claiborne,” the voice on the other end of the line said.
“Dad?”
“I saw that you called me earlier. I hope it's okay to call you during work.”
“Yes, it's fine,” Michael said quickly. His father had never called him during the day before. “Thanks for getting back to me.”
“What's the problem?” his dad asked.
“Mom. She needs to go home.”
“I thought she was helping.”
“She is, but she’s running out of things to do and getting bossier.” Ever since Miss Kate had returned from her two week vacation, there had been a subtle power struggle over who was in charge of the kitchen. They each spent hours baking, trying to outdo each other. He'd enjoyed the food, but it wasn't worth losing a great caretaker.
There was silence on the other end of the line for a few seconds. Finally, his dad said quietly, “I’ve asked her when she’s coming home, and she says she wants to stay longer.”
Michael said, “That’s woman code, Dad.”
“What are you talking about?”
“She wants you to tell her that you miss her.”
“I do miss her.”
“Did you tell her that?”
“Not in those exact words.”
Michael smiled. “You were probably trying to be nice and give her what she wants, but the truth is, she needs to be needed.”
“Since when did you become an expert on women?”
Since I screwed up with Mary Ellen. “All the best players are in the stands.”
“Ok,” his dad said. “I’ll call her and beg. I’ll get her out of your hair.”
“Thanks”
“Anything else?”
“No.”
“Work?”
“Fine.”
“Kids?”
“Fine.”
“Everything’s fine here, too,” his dad said briskly. “But it will be better with your mom back.”
“Good bye, then.”
“Good bye, son. I love you.”
“Love you, too, Dad.” Michael disconnected the call.
He looked at his computer screen. Back to work.
#
“Can't you make him stop crying?”
Olivia looked at Trish. That's what she'd been trying to do for the past hour. She sat in a rocking chair, holding a screaming month-old Caleb in her arms. His face was red and he held his body stiffly as if he couldn't stand having her touch him. “You're the baby expert,” she said. “What do you think I should do?”
“When he gets this bad, Mom always nurses him.”
Olivia smiled weakly. “Sorry,” she told the screaming infant. “I have the right equipment, but it's not in working order. Believe me, I'd help you if I could.”
Still he cried.
How could a baby cry for more than an hour? He didn't even calm down long enough to take a full breath. “Give me that bottle again,” she said to Trish.
Olivia brought it to Caleb’s mouth, but he refused to take the nipple. Shannon had left three eight ounce bottles of expressed breast milk to feed Caleb. “We'll be gone less than four hours,” she had promised. “He should be fine.”
Famous last words. Caleb had awakened ten minutes after she left and started screaming. Olivia changed his diaper, offered him a bottle, wrapped him tightly in a blanket, then loosened it, just in case he wanted to wave his arms. She sang to him, rocked him, even danced with him around the living room. She let Trish hold him; she shook a rattle at him.
Nothing worked.
“I guess he just wants Mom,” Trish said philosophically. “I'll be in my room if you need me.”
Olivia watched as Trish walked down the hall to her bedroom and shut the door behind her. She couldn't blame Trish. It wasn't her job to take care of Caleb. If Olivia could have escaped to another room, she would have, too. Fortunately both Eric and Katie were spending the night at different friends' homes, so she didn't have to hear them complain, too.
“Poor sweetie,” she said to the baby, and smoothed his tiny hairless head.
He screamed louder.
How had she gotten herself trapped into this? She'd called Shannon from work to get some in-put on a brochure she was finishing, and Shannon had told her about a special awards dinner at Dan's office that she was supposed to attend. “I'd love to go,” Shannon confessed. “Just to have a few minutes alone with Dan, but Trish isn't comfortable taking care of a newborn yet, and I don't have any babysitters I trust.”
“How about me?” Olivia had volunteered.
That was stupid. She’d thought “how hard can it be?” She'd taken care of her brothers and sisters, and she'd done a lot of babysitting in high school. And going to the quintuplet's birthday party and helping with baths had given her additional confidence.
But her imagined worst case scenario had never included this. Olivia brought the bottle toward Caleb again. She squirted a small stream of the milk into his open mouth. He coughed for a second, surprised, and she held her breath, hoping he would start sucking. But instead, his angry face grew white, then red, and he screamed more.
Could this be colic? She'd heard tales, but surely it wasn't this bad. If colic were this bad, the human race would have died out thousands of years ago. No parent would agree to have a second child.
She stood up and carried Caleb around the room, rubbing his back. �
�You're okay,” she whispered. “Mommy and Daddy will be home in --” she glanced at her watch. “Two more hours.”
Two more hours? She'd be insane by then.
She’d tried texting them, but Shannon’s phone must have run out of battery or been turned off. Olivia put Caleb down carefully in his lacy bassinet, and said a silent prayer. What do I do now, Lord?
She picked up her cell phone.
#
Three down, two to go. Michael was looking for Linc's pacifier when his phone vibrated. He had a text message. He’d read it later. He reached under the couch and pulled out a bright blue and green pacifier. But as he washed the pacifier at the kitchen sink, he glanced at the message. “Michael? This is Olivia. I’ve got a question for you. Please call.”
Olivia.
He hadn’t talked to her in weeks, although he’d waved at her a few times as they passed each other’s driveways. He called her.
“Michael?”
It was good to hear her voice. “Yes.” He picked up Linc, popped the pacifier in his mouth and carried him down the hall to his room. “What do you want?”
He inwardly cringed. That sounded rude. “How can I help you?” he corrected.
She hesitated. “This is going to sound silly.”
Michael put Linc in his crib and covered him with a flannel blanket. “No, go ahead.”
She let out a deep sigh. “Okay,” she said finally. “I'm babysitting my friend Shannon's baby, and I can't get him to stop crying. I've tried everything.”
Oh, a baby question. He was momentarily disappointed, then told himself not to be foolish. Why else would she call him? “Does he have any pins poking him?”
“No. Disposable diapers.”
“Have you fed him?”
“He won't take the bottle.”
“Did you warm up the formula?”
“It's breast milk, and yes, I warmed it up. I even tested the temperature on my arm.”
“Have you tried rocking him, rubbing his stomach, loosening his clothes?”
“Yes, yes, and more yes.”
Michael smiled. Even though she was upset, she hadn't lost her sense of humor. “Let me put Grant in his crib, and I'll think some more.”
“Oh, I'm sorry,” she said, sounding contrite. “I don't want to mess up your bedtime routine.”
“We're fine,” he assured her. He picked up Grant, carried him to his crib and put him down. Instead of lying down, Grant just sat there, looking at him with eyes half closed. “It's time to go to sleep,” Michael said calmly. He wrapped a blanket around Grant's shoulders, patted his back and walked quietly from the room. “Good night,” he said from the doorway.
He spoke into the phone. “I'm back.”
“You make it sound so easy.”
He laughed. “I'm keeping my fingers crossed. But, to get back to you: is the baby's throat red?”
“Everything's red.”
Michael thought for a moment. “Amelia had an ear infection right after she got home from the hospital, and we didn't find out for nearly a week. We thought it was colic. Colic sometimes starts at two or three weeks. Do you think it's colic?”
“I don't exactly know what colic is.”
“Neither do the doctors. It's just a convenient way to say, 'we have no idea why your child is screaming.'“ He added, “Grant was colicky. His stomach was always sour. I found the best thing for him was to put him in his car seat, put the car seat on top of the clothes dryer and turn it on. The noise and vibration of the dryer distracted him and comforted him. That was the only way I could get him to sleep.”
“It's worth a try.” Olivia paused. “Do you hear that?”
“What? I don't hear anything.”
“That's what I meant. It's quiet.” She was silent for a few seconds, then whispered in awe, “He's asleep.”
“Great.”
“I wonder what did it.”
“Sometimes babies get over-stimulated and crying is their way to release tension,” Michael said.
“Well, whatever it was, I don't want to wake him by talking any more,” she whispered. “A thousand thank yous.”
“Any time.”
#
When she wasn’t working, Olivia kept herself busy with exercise, the paintings for Baby Tree, and lap quilts to give away for Christmas. She cancelled her membership with the dating service, because although she would still like to fall in love, she didn’t think answering questionnaires and emails was the best way to do it. She decided to relax a bit and see if God had any better ideas. After all, she was only twenty-eight, and she refused to make herself miserable, wishing she was married.
She tried not to think about Michael, but that was difficult with his house right next to hers.
One day as she was raking leaves in her front yard, Michael stopped to say hello. He wore a brown leather jacket and jeans. His hair had grown out some, and Olivia thought he looked healthier, happier. He asked briefly about her work and she asked about the kids.
This is good, she thought. They were talking calmly, casually, like friends.
She was comfortable and it seemed she’d gotten over whatever crush she may have had on him.
He asked if she had plans for Thanksgiving, and she said yes, she did. “I’m going to visit family. I’m flying out Wednesday night and coming back on Saturday.”
“That’s good,” he said. “You’ll get all those hugs.”
Olivia smiled, glad that he could joke about it. “Has your mother left?”
He nodded. “About a week ago.” For a minute, he looked at her yard with its small piles of leaves, then asked, “Do you have someone to take care of your cats while you’re gone?”
Olivia was surprised. He seemed to be going out of his way to be friendly, but she wasn’t going to misinterpret his behavior as any thing more than a neighborly gesture. “I was going to take them to a pet boarding place, but if you’re offering . . .”
“I am,” he said. “Just give me a list of what they need.”
She frowned. “Are you sure it isn’t going to be too much trouble with taking care of your kids, too?”
“No,” he assured her. “I’ve hired some more help and the kids are sleeping better through the night.”
“That’s great.”
He smiled. “Yea, I’m beginning to feel like myself again, instead of a robot.”
“Yes, sleep will do that.” She was glad Michael felt better, but was a little disconcerted. He’d been a very attractive robot. She wasn’t quite sure how she’d maintain her emotional equilibrium if he became even more human.
#
Pops met Olivia at the airport with a big hug. Mama Jean was at home taking care of some last minute disaster in the kitchen. Olivia sat in the car, enjoying the lights and the wintery scene as John’s father drove to their house. She glanced at him, thinking how much he reminded her of her lost love. She remembered the first time she met John’s family.
They had been wonderful, accepting her completely from day one. They had been an answer to her prayers: so welcoming, so kind.
“So, tell me everything that’s been going on,” Olivia said, and for a few minutes, Pops obliged, talking about his other children -- two older daughters, a younger son, and their families. He asked about her work, and she entertained him with stories about her cats.
She didn’t mention the quintuplets or her new neighbor next door.
Mama Jean hugged her as well, and for the first two days it was heart warming to be around good people who cared for her. But by Friday, everyone had run out of things to talk about, and Olivia began to be uncomfortable, feeling like the Grim Reaper at the celebration, reminding them of what they had lost.
When John died, his family had made her an honorary daughter/sister/aunt, and at first, Olivia had felt that the calls and visits had blessed them both, providing much needed comfort. Mama Jean had called her every day when she was in the hospital and rehab. Olivia would always appreciate that. But
over the three years, their interactions had become less frequent, and it was obvious that his family had emotionally moved on. Perhaps if she’d lived in the same town, they could have created new memories and built stronger relationships. But they hadn’t. Olivia was the girl John had loved and almost married, but she wasn’t an everyday part of their lives.
If she were honest, Olivia had to admit that she’d sensed some emotional distancing lately. She had hoped that her visit would rekindle what had been before, but it hadn’t. It was another of life’s bitter realities she had to accept.
So she would continue to love them and respect their limits. She would try not to expect more from them than they were able to give. She’d learned years before that if she were too needy, it turned people off. She didn’t want to be the emotional black hole that everyone avoided.
So she smiled at Pop’s jokes and helped Mama Jean in the kitchen. She played with her honorary nieces and nephews. On Friday night, she treated everyone to a barbecue dinner, and the older crowd went to the latest James Bond movie.
Saturday Olivia flew back to Dallas. When she got home, she removed the chain around her neck. She kissed the engagement ring and placed it in her jewelry box.
#
DECEMBER
Michael was underneath the kitchen sink when someone knocked at the front door. “I'll get it,” Alexis called.
“Don't bother,” Michael said, but she opened the door anyway. He heard her talk for a minute and then close the door.
“Who was it?” he asked.
He saw a pair high heeled boots in the doorway. Olivia. He quickly pulled himself up out of the cabinet and wiped his hands on his jeans. She stood, neat and clean in jeans and a brightly colored sweater. He felt grimy. It was mid afternoon and he hadn't taken a shower or shaved because he had a list of household repairs to do, and it was inefficient to shower twice. But now he wished he'd at least changed his sweat stained shirt.
She held a plate of cookies in front of her. “These are for you. My way of saying thanks for taking care of the cats.”
He stepped back. He didn't want her to get too close. He probably stunk. He looked down at the familiar golden circles. “Snickerdoodles? They're my favorite.”
“Your mother told me.”
