Chapter 19
Trace
"We need to get the cabin ready," I announce to Gage over coffee at the hospital cafeteria.
It's another day of Brooklyn's NICU stay, and Patrice just spent twenty minutes explaining that our daughter needs approximately four thousand items to survive outside a medical facility. The list she gave me is three pages long. Single-spaced.
Gage looks at the list, then at me. "This can't be right. A Boppy? What the hell is a Boppy?"
"No idea. But apparently we need one."
"And why does a four-pound human need seventeen different types of bottles?" He flips to page two. "Onesies, bodysuits, sleepers, gowns—aren't those all the same thing?"
"According to Patrice, no. They're very different and we need multiples of each." I drain my coffee. "How hard can this be? It's shopping. We've done harder things."
Gage snorts. "We've survived combat. This is baby supplies. Completely different skill set."
"We're intelligent, capable men. We can handle a shopping trip."
Famous last words.
Our first stop is Anchorage Sports & Outdoors because, as I brilliantly reasoned to Gage, they sell gear. Baby gear must be a subset of gear in general, right?
Wrong.
We end up in the camping section, staring at tiny sleeping bags.
"These are infant-sized," I say, holding up what's essentially a sleeping bag for a doll. "That's baby gear."
Gage reads the tag. "It's rated for thirty degrees. Your daughter is going to be indoors."
"But what if we go camping?"
"She's four pounds and currently in a NICU. Camping is not in her immediate future."
"You don't know that. Maybe we'll be adventurous parents."
"Trace." Gage takes the sleeping bag from me and puts it back. "We're in the wrong store."
A sales associate approaches, probably drawn by the sound of two grown men arguing about infant camping equipment. "Can I help you gentlemen find something?"
"We need baby supplies," I say.
He blinks. "Like... a baby backpack carrier?"
"No, like diapers and bottles and—" I consult the list. "Something called a wipe warmer."
The sales associate's face does this thing where he's clearly trying not to laugh. "Sir, you want a baby store. This is a sporting goods store."
"But you have baby sleeping bags."
"Those are for toddlers on family camping trips."
Gage grabs my arm. "Come on. We're leaving."
"But—"
"Now."
We retreat to the truck with zero purchases and one bruised ego.
"Fine," I mutter, starting the engine. "Next stop."
Next is Anchorage Hardware & Home because the list mentions a crib, a changing table, and something called a diaper pail. Hardware stores sell furniture. This is logical.
We find ourselves in the fasteners aisle, staring at approximately nine thousand different types of screws.
"How many screws does a crib need?" Gage asks, holding a packet of what might be the right size.
"I don't know. Enough to keep the baby from falling through?"
"That's not helpful."
I pull out my phone and start Googling crib assembly. The results are terrifying. Videos of grown men weeping over instruction manuals. Forums dedicated to "surviving IKEA baby furniture." A Reddit thread titled "Marriage-Ending Crib Assembly Stories."
"Maybe we should hire someone," I suggest.
"We're Army Rangers. We can assemble a damn crib."
An older man pushing a cart stops beside us. He's wearing overalls and has the kind of weathered face that suggests he's seen some things. He glances at the screws we're holding, then at Patrice's list which I've unfolded on top of a display of power drills.
"First baby?" he asks.
"How can everyone tell?" I mutter.
He chuckles. "Because you're in the wrong section of the wrong store. You boys want Baby World. It's off Highway 1, about ten miles from here. Big pink building. Can't miss it."
"There's a whole store just for babies?" Gage asks.
"Son, there are entire warehouse chains dedicated to baby supplies. You're gonna want the one with staff who know what they're doing." He pats my shoulder sympathetically. "Good luck. You're gonna need it."
He walks away, and Gage and I stand there, surrounded by industrial screws and power tools, processing this information.
"A whole store," I say slowly. "Just for babies."
"We're idiots."
"Yep."
Baby World is, as promised, impossible to miss. The building is enormous and aggressively pink. There's a giant cartoon stork on the roof. The parking lot is full of minivans and exhausted-looking parents.
"I feel out of my depth," Gage says, staring at the entrance.
"Same. But we're committed now."
We walk in. Rows upon rows of baby items stretch in every direction. Things I didn't know existed. The store is playing soft lullaby music that makes me want to take a nap. Everything smells like baby powder and new plastic.
A saleslady appears beside us like she materialized from thin air. She's wearing a name tag that says "Yvonne" and a smile that suggests she's seen this exact scenario a thousand times.
"First baby?" she asks brightly.
"Does everyone just know?" I ask.
"It's the panic in your eyes," she says kindly. "And the fact that you're both standing in the entrance looking like deer in headlights. What can I help you find?"
I hand her Patrice's list. She scans it, and her eyebrows climb steadily higher with each line.
"This is... comprehensive," she says diplomatically.
"Is it too much?" Gage asks hopefully.
"Not at all. You'll need everything here. Let me get you a cart—actually, two carts. And I'll walk you through the essentials."
Two carts. We need two shopping carts worth of baby supplies.
Patrice is going to kill me.
Yvonne leads us through Baby World with terrifying efficiency.
First stop: bottles. There's an entire aisle dedicated to bottles. Different nipple flows. Different shapes. Anti-colic. Anti-gas. Glass. Plastic. Wide mouth. Narrow mouth. Some that claim to reduce reflux, others that promise to prevent ear infections.
"Why are there so many?" I ask weakly.
"Every baby is different," Yvonne explains. "Some prefer one style, some prefer another. Since you don't know what your daughter will like yet, I recommend getting a few different types to try."
"How many is a few?"
"Six to eight different bottles should cover your bases."
Gage starts loading bottles into the cart. All different types. All different brands. We now have approximately twenty bottles.
"That's more than eight," I point out.
"Better safe than sorry," he mutters.
Next: diapers. Newborn size, size one, size two, different brands, some with wetness indicators, some with extra leak protection. We buy twelve boxes because, as Yvonne explains, babies go through ten to twelve diapers per day.
Per day.
Brooklyn's going to cost more in diapers than I spend on food.
Then: the Boppy. Which turns out to be a nursing pillow shaped like a horseshoe. There are multiple styles. We get three because why not? At this point I've lost all sense of reason.
Onesies versus bodysuits versus sleepers—Yvonne explains the differences, but it all sounds like the same thing with different buttons. We buy twenty of each, in multiple sizes, because Brooklyn's apparently going to grow at an alarming rate.
Wipe warmer: purchased. Diaper pail that claims to seal in smells: purchased.
Changing pad, changing pad covers, burp cloths, swaddles, pacifiers in three different sizes, bottles of gripe water I don't understand, nail clippers that terrify me, and a thermometer that takes the baby's temperature through her forehead.
The future is weird.
"What about furniture?" Yvonne asks.
"We need a crib and changing table," I say. “I was going to build one myself, but the baby came earlier than expected.”
"Excellent. Follow me."
The furniture section is overwhelming. Cribs that convert into toddler beds. Cribs with storage underneath. Cribs in every color imaginable. Price tags that make my credit card weep.
"This one," Gage says, pointing to a solid wood crib that costs roughly what I paid for my truck.
"That's expensive."
"It's sturdy. And it'll last through multiple kids."
"We're not having multiple kids. We're having one kid and barely surviving that."
"We need quality," he says, signaling to Yvonne that we want it.
We add a changing table, a dresser, a rocking chair that costs more than my monthly cabin mortgage, and a mobile that plays classical music because apparently babies need cultural enrichment.
By the time we're done, both carts are overflowing.
"Your total is five thousand, three hundred and forty-seven dollars," the cashier announces cheerfully.
Gage and I just stare at her.
"For baby supplies," I say numbly.
"Yes sir. And this is actually quite reasonable for a first-time parent shopping trip."
My credit card smokes as she runs it through the machine.
"Patrice is going to kill me," I say again.
"She's going to kill both of us," Gage corrects.
Getting everything into the truck takes twenty minutes and strategic Tetris-level packing. The furniture boxes are strapped down in the bed. The smaller items fill the cab until there's barely room for us to sit.
"This seemed more manageable in the store," Gage says.
"Everything seems manageable until you're actually doing it."
We drive back to Ashwood Falls in silence, both of us processing what we've just done. When we pull up to my cabin, Tessa's truck is there. She and Patrice must have come back from the hospital.
Perfect. Witnesses to our shopping disaster.
Tessa appears on the porch, takes one look at the truck, and starts laughing.
"Oh my god. What did you do?"
"We went shopping," I say defensively.
"Shopping? You went to war with a baby store and lost."
Patrice joins her on the porch. Her eyes widen as she sees the overflowing truck. "Trace. How much did you buy?"
"Everything on your list."
"My list was a suggestion, not a mandate."
"You said Brooklyn needs things!"
"Not all the things in the entire store!"