“Addie?” Long, lean fingers gripped the sheets. “Addie, you came.”
Dr. Reed’s smile came from relief more than joy. “Yes, it’s Addie. She came to see you.”
Janet’s gaze locked on me, not wandering toward the sound of the doctor’s voice. “Addie, I think I messed up again.” Her voice turned soft, and I remembered the ten-year-old girl who broke Mom’s crystal vase and begged me to help her glue it back together.
Suddenly, I craved a coffee and my old quiet routine of sitting, cigarette in hand, breathing in and out. “We do have a problem, Janet. You have a baby girl.”
Delicate eyebrows drew together in worry and confusion as her hands slid to her belly, still distended from the birthing. “A girl.”
“Yes. A girl.” I moved closer to the bed, wanting to stay mad and pissed and struggling to hold on to both.
She picked at her blanket. “I called you yesterday. You didn’t answer.”
“I was in meetings. I couldn’t take the call.” The lie tripped over my lips so easily I believed it. “I’m here now.”
She leaned forward, glanced from side to side, and whispered, “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to fix this.”
And on reflex I heard myself say, “You think I can fix this?”
“You can,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
“I’m not sure how to fix this, Janet. This is big.”
Tears welled in Janet’s eyes. “I thought I could deal with it. I thought I could make it all right. Thought maybe I could be a good mom this time around. And then the voices came back. And they got worse and worse.”
“Did you take your meds while you were pregnant?” I knew enough to know her kind of medications moved from the mother’s blood to the baby’s, and the effects weren’t good.
“I stopped before I got pregnant.”
And she spiraled out of control. How long before Janet lost her grip on reality? Days? Weeks? Months?
“Do you want to raise the baby?”
“I thought maybe I would if I were better. And then, when the baby really started kicking and moving, I freaked. I thought about how babies get bigger and bigger and they need, need, need.” Her fingers tightened around the folds of the blanket, her knuckles turning as white as the sheets. “Addie, I don’t have anything to give.”
“I know.”
“Will you fix this?”
You’d have thought seven years away would have created new habits and different ways to cope, but old habits do indeed die hard. I had mended problems and smoothed the waters since preschool. I heard myself say, “Yes.”
Janet relaxed back against the pillows and her grip on the sheets loosened. “I knew you would. I knew you would make it all better.”
Dr. Reed slid his hands into his white lab coat. “I have a bed for Janet at the mental hospital. We can admit her for three days right now based on circumstance, but better to keep her there for thirty days. However, she’ll have to agree.”
My mind jumped from today into the future thirty days. The launch party would be a memory and the Willow Hills wine would be launched. The grapes would have ripened and, if not ready for harvest, on the verge of perfection. Scott would be clearing the north property and readying it for planting.
The baby’s life would also change in thirty days. While Janet struggled to regain control, the baby’s life would move forward. Weren’t the first months critical for bonding? Didn’t their little brains grow or not grow based on outside stimuli?
“I’ll go to the hospital for as long as necessary.” Janet’s voice was small and quiet as she looked at me, expecting approval. “That’s what you want, isn’t it, Addie?”
The enormity of this made me dizzy. In the span of twenty hours, Janet reached into my life, tugged on a critical thread, and unraveled the fabric. I wanted to leave this room, find a waiting room, and sit. Smoke a cigarette. Drink coffee. Figure a way to get my life back.
“What do I do?” she whispered.
Thirty days. Gone. “You need to go into the hospital for as long as they’ll keep you.”
She closed her eyes, nodding. “I want to go. I want the voices to get quiet. I want to sleep.”
Fingers gripping my purse strap, I faced the doctor. “When can she go?”
“She can go tomorrow. According to the OB she’s healing quickly.”
“Her first birth was very easy. She was running days after her son was born.” At the time, her resilience impressed Zeb, who didn’t see the storm on the horizon.
“You’ll have to make arrangements for the child,” Dr. Reed said.
“Yes. I know.”
Janet relaxed back against her pillows, and her eyelids dropped as exhaustion washed over her. Her face was now serene—as if she didn’t have a care in the world. Which, of course, she didn’t. They all now rested on my shoulders.
“The social worker should be here any minute,” Dr. Reed said.
I straightened, preparing much like a weightlifter did before hefting a record-setting weight. “I’ll go find Ms. Willis.”
“Thank you, Addie.” Janet’s voice sounded far off, childlike. She drifted to her peaceful place.
I moved out into the hallway, assailed immediately by the bright lights, the rattle of carts, and the chatter of nurses and patients.
“Ms. Morgan.”
I turned to see Ms. Willis headed my way. Her sensible shoes clipped on the white tile floor and her pageboy bangs brushed the top of her dark eyes.
“Have you seen the baby this morning?” she asked.
“No. I was in to see my sister.” I recapped Janet’s decision. “Is the baby all right?”
“She’s still very fussy. Didn’t have a good night. The nurse said she was quiet yesterday when you held her. She was wondering if you could give her a bottle.”
“Any luck with a foster family?”
“I’m looking but, so far, not yet. Can you keep the baby for a day or two?”
That delayed leaving until Thursday. I could do that, couldn’t I? “Okay.”
“If I get a line on a family I’ll call you.” The social worker smiled, as relieved as Janet. Another brick on my chest. “I have papers for you to sign. And then you two can go home.”
“I don’t have anything for the baby. Grace can scramble some kind of crib, but I don’t have a car seat or bottle or formula.”
“I have it all in my car. I was hoping we could work something out and I wanted to be prepared.”
“Am I that predictable?”
“I saw someone that I believed would step up.”
We walked to the nursery and at the nursery window I saw Baby Morgan crying, her fists balled. Her little pink stocking cap was askew and I imagined she’d tried to pull it off. I didn’t like hats much, either. “If there’s anyone in this show less happy than me, it’s Baby Morgan. She is not a happy camper.”
“She’s waiting for you to bust her out.”
Nodding, my fingers touched the nursery glass as I traced the baby’s outline. “You said you have baby stuff?”
Ms. Willis adjusted her glasses. “I do. I’ll be right back.”
As her determined footsteps clicked on tile floor, I rested my head on the thick glass. “How am I going to do this?”
The nurse in the nursery spotted me and smiled. She indicated that I should move to a side door, which she promptly unlocked. I washed my hands, donned a gown, and before I sat in the rocker the nurse put Baby Morgan in my arms. She handed me the bottle and instructed me to rub the nipple against the baby’s lips. When I did, she cried.
“Come on, kid. I know you want it. Give it up and latch.”
At the sound of my voice the baby’s cries eased and she began to root for the nipple. I tucked it between her lips and she immediately suckled. She
snorted, sucked, and snorted again, reminding me of a little piglet. She smelled fresh from clean blankets and gentle baby soap.
I leaned my head back against the rocker, all the while keeping a careful gaze on the baby’s face. Feeding her today didn’t feel as awkward as yesterday, but I was not a pro at this baby thing.
“Baby Morgan,” I whispered. “We’re in a pickle. Aunt Addie is kinda freaking out here.” The baby gurgled. “Your mom has to go away for a month, and you and I are stuck together for a few days. Then Ms. Willis is going to find you a nice home where you’ll be so happy. And Aunt Addie can return to her real life.”
The baby relaxed, her face as serene as Janet’s minutes ago.
Addie to the rescue.
* * *
Driving home with a baby in the backseat for the first time was an unnerving task that stretched my nerves to breaking. The baby carrier was in the center of the backseat, buckled in tight by Ms. Willis, who had shown me how to jam my knee into the base as I hooked the seat belt through it. “For an extra tight fit,” she said.
She’d settled Baby Morgan’s seat into the base and snapped it in place with practiced ease. She’d armed me with a box filled with bottles, pre-mixed formula, a pack of diapers, and a couple of onesies—my starter kit.
Baby Morgan’s seat faced away from me so I couldn’t see her face. She was so quiet that once I pulled to the side of the road to make sure she was still breathing. She was sleeping, clearly falling for the lull of the car.
As I drove, five miles under the speed limit, I avoided my customary rolling stops and optional yellow lights, which now seemed dangerously reckless.
I slowed for my third yellow light and a brown SUV behind me honked. “Baby on board, asshole,” I muttered as I glanced in the rearview mirror, hoping he saw I was more angry and frustrated than he ever could be. “Baby Morgan, don’t cuss. It’s a bad habit. And stay away from the cigarettes. And men, until you’re thirty.”
We reached the warehouse parking lot before noon. The sudden stillness of the car startled the baby awake and within seconds she drew in a deep breath and began to cry. I now knew two facts about Baby Morgan: She was quiet when I fed her and she liked driving in the car.
Grace came out to meet us. Her face was stern, and her crossed arms unwelcoming, but to her credit she was there as promised. She peeked in the backseat at the crying baby and then stepped back as if she spotted a snake or a large spider.
“You actually brought the baby here.”
I got out, slung my purse over my shoulder, and very quietly closed my front door. “I did.”
“I wasn’t sure you would.”
“That makes two of us.” Aware of the rising heat, I opened the back door and reached for the baby seat. I fumbled around the base for the release button that Ms. Willis pointed out. She’d removed the seat easily, without a bit of effort. And what looked so simple twenty minutes ago was now frustratingly complicated. I smoothed my hand over the base but couldn’t find the button. “Damn.”
“What?”
“I don’t know how to get this car seat out.”
“There must be some kind of release button.”
Baby Morgan cried louder and the midday heat beat on my back. Sweat trickled along my spine. “That’s what the social worker told me, but I can’t find it. I don’t suppose you have a set of bolt cutters.”
“You’re gonna need that seat. You can’t go hacking into it.”
The baby cried louder. My fingers skimmed over the base, searching. “For the love of God, release.”
Sweat dripped. Finally, I found the button and pushed. The seat loosened and I was able to lift it and Baby Morgan out of the backseat.
Baby Morgan looked at me. She cried louder.
“Shoot me now,” I muttered.
“What?”
“Never mind.” I handed Grace the bag of bottles and formula and diapers. “This should get us through until Thursday.”
She inspected the bag. “What if we need more?”
I shook my head. “Grace, the social worker said she’d try to have a home for the baby by tomorrow.”
There were calls to make for the vineyard, and I needed to touch base with Scott, but none of that was going to happen with a crying baby. The first priority shifted from much-needed work to getting the kid settled.
“I made up a bed for her in your room,” Grace said.
“So you knew I’d cave.”
She shrugged. “I hoped.”
“Great.” Balancing the baby seat, we climbed the front steps to the second floor. I dropped my purse on the couch and settled the baby on the kitchen table as Grace unloaded the supplies on the counter. “Do you know how to make a bottle?”
Grace held up a jar and, eyes squinting, studied the directions. “No.”
I unhooked the kid and, supporting the back of her head with my fingers like Ms. Willis showed me, I lifted her out of the seat. Her diaper, tripled in size in the last hour, sagged. “I think she needs a diaper change.”
“I can’t help you with that.”
“How about you spread a blanket on my bed?”
Grace hurried to the bathroom and returned with a clean towel, which she spread out on my bed. I laid a wailing Baby Morgan on the towel. “Chill, kid. Chill.”
She kicked and flailed her arms.
Grace produced a bag of disposable diapers and wipes. “Here you go.”
I opened the diaper. “Are there instructions on the bag?”
She flipped it over and pointed to a small diagram. “It says the wide part goes in the back for girls. Front for boys.”
I opened Baby Morgan’s old diaper, which was soaked. I tugged it out from under her and accepted a wipe from Grace. I swiped the kid’s bottom with a wipe and waved my hand around her to dry off her wet skin. Grace, her expression as grave as a surgeon’s, handed me the clean diaper.
I guess this stuff came naturally if you were a real mother, but I didn’t have a clue. Real moms got nine months of prep time.
I wrangled her little bottom into the diaper and pulled the edges close as I peeled back the adhesive tab. I secured the first tab mid-center of the front and the second too high, creating an awkward fit.
“Looks like a drunken sailor diapered the kid,” Grace said.
I tried to peel off the adhesive so I could straighten out the tabs, but the diaper’s plastic tore. Cutting my losses, I resnapped her little one-piece outfit. “Now no one will know that Baby Morgan was diapered by a drunken sailor.”
“I suppose as long as it doesn’t leak, it doesn’t matter.”
The baby’s cries now scraping against the back of my skull, I cradled her in my arms. “The nurse said she eats every three hours, and it’s been . . .” I checked my watch. “Three hours.”
“Kid has your sense of time. You liked your meals when you were a kid.”
“Yeah. Well, I learned early on with Mom to eat when the food was there. Never knew when the next meal was coming.”
Grace straightened. “A few of the bottles looked pre-made. Let me open one.”
“Thanks.”
She hurried out of the room and by the time the baby and I made it to the kitchen, she’d opened the bottle and screwed on a nipple. “Hot or warm?”
“I don’t know. Warm.”
“Should I put it in the microwave?”
“It’s got to be room temperature,” I said.
“Is that too cold?”
“I don’t know. Shit. What does warm feel like?”
Grace scanned the sheet. “No.”
“Damn.”
She unscrewed the nipple and put the bottle in the microwave for thirty seconds. As the bottle turned round and round, the bells on the door downstairs clinked. “I better go check,” Grace said.
“Ask them if they’ve ever fed a baby before.”
“We don’t know who it is.”
Baby Morgan turned up the volume on her cries. “As long as they know babies, I don’t care.”
As I rocked my body from side to side, the phone in my back pocket buzzed. I fished it out and read the display. Scott. With the baby’s cries bouncing off the rafters, I let the call go to voice mail.
Steady and quick steps hurried up the stairs. Zeb and Eric rounded the corner. Eric was grinning, carrying a pink teddy bear, and Zeb look solemn and resigned. As he took in the image of me holding the baby, his expression darkened. For some reason, I thought he’d be pleased I was doing this, but he wasn’t. Maybe it was because the baby anchored Janet to Alexandria, his son, and his life.
Baby Morgan cried louder. The noise, coupled with my fatigue and frayed nerves, reinforced that I was not good enough to do this. God, help us all! Unshed tears clogged my throat as I sniffed and pointed out the bottle to Zeb. “Can you tell me if the milk is too hot?”
He crossed, took the bottle out of the microwave, and screwed the nipple back on. His tanned, calloused fingertips barely missing a beat, he upended the bottle on the underside of his wrist. He skillfully drizzled a few drops. “You shouldn’t feel hot or cold. If it’s as warm as your skin, you won’t feel it. That means it’s just right.”
“Is it too hot?”
“Yes. She’s gonna have to wait a minute.”
I cradled Baby Morgan closer. “She’s not good at waiting.”
Zeb crossed to the sink and turned on the cold water. He put the bottle under the cool stream. “Surprised?”
“No, just desperate.”
“Can I hold her?” Eric asked.
I glanced at the sole cheerful, bright face in the room. “Eric, when she settles. Right now I need to feed her.”
“I can feed her,” he said a little louder, over the baby’s crying. “I bet I know how.”
Zeb placed his hand on his son’s shoulder. “Let Aunt Addie handle this feeding. You’ll have your turn.”
Eric frowned but accepted his father’s tone, which left no room for arguments. “Does she have a name yet?”
At the Corner of King Street Page 8
