CHAPTER 34
Brenna started fishing the bottles out of the water and stuffing them in her jacket pockets.
“Hey, Bren?” Grace appeared in the kitchen doorway behind her, still cradling Squeak. “You wouldn’t have wipes, would you? We should at least clean their faces before they eat, so they won’t be swallowing poop.”
Brenna touched the toe of her boot to one of her bags on the floor. “Center compartment.”
Grace squatted and opened the bag. She was a natural with the baby, and Brenna wanted to warn her about getting too attached but she didn’t have the heart to deprive her of the moment’s pleasure.
Squeak squirmed and mewled piteously as Grace dabbed her face. “I know, Squeak,” she cooed. “These are chilly, aren’t they?”
Brenna held up a warmed formula bottle. “Any time.”
Grace tossed the dirty wipe into the waste can. “Much better,” she declared, holding Squeak so Brenna could see her.
The miniature details of her were exquisite—a little rosebud mouth, and alert dark eyes with a delicate fan of eyelashes. When Brenna looked up, she was surprised to find that Grace was watching her, not Squeak, with fascination.
“Here,” Grace said. “If you feed Squeak, I can prop up Heckle and Jeckle and feed them simultaneously. Then we’ll feed Grub, and wrestle with Mr. Fierce last. He’s going to be the challenge.” She didn’t mention Dying Boy. She was reading at least that much of the writing on the wall.
Brenna stared with dismay at the minuscule infant Grace was holding out. She looked too breakable. Brenna sputtered. “Uh… me?”
Blue eyes smiled behind her scratched eyeglasses. “She won’t bite,” she said. “She promised. Didn’t you, Squeak? Plus,” she leaned over the baby and whispered conspiratorially, “she has no teeth.”
“But,” Brenna croaked, “she’s so tiny.”
“Take her.”
“I… I—” She trailed off.
“You?” she prompted.
She didn’t know what to do. She’d never held an infant before. She wasn’t a woman that people offered babies to.
“Come on,” Grace said, and led her down the shadowed corridor to the nursery. Using one free hand, she pulled the scarred rocking chair away from the wall, then guided Brenna backwards until her knees touched the chair. “Sit.”
She sat.
“Make a cradle with your arms. That’s it.” Grace lowered Squeak into the nest. “The important thing is to support their heads. There. Just let her rest on your arm. Good.”
The baby felt so light. Oh. Brenna’s insides dissolved. She gazed down at the dark eyes, already transfixed on her face. Oh.
“Nice, hm?” Grace hovered over her, beaming.
She looked up and nodded, suddenly feeling shy and exposed.
“As for the bottle,” Grace said, easing one out of Brenna’s jacket pocket, “Squeak knows what to do. Just keep it tipped up so she doesn’t suck air.” She put the bottle in Brenna’s hand, helping her get a comfortable grasp on it.
Brenna tentatively touched the nipple to Squeak’s lips. The baby’s pink mouth opened and hungrily circled it. The little suckling noises foolishly delighted Brenna. She looked up, excited. “It’s working!”
“That’s my girl,” she said.
Brenna wasn’t sure which girl Grace meant, but she liked the smile crinkling the corners of her eyes.
“Okay. Let me get that chair from Roza’s room, and feed Heckle and Jeckle.”
She brought out the chair and placed it directly across from her. “Bottles,” she said.
Grace lifted her elbow so Grace could reach into her pocket for them.
She leaned over her. Before Brenna realized what she was doing, Grace kissed her on the mouth.
It stole her breath. Heat raced across her cheeks like a prairie fire.
“Well, well,” Grace said, backing up enough to see her clearly. “Brenna Rease blushes.”
“It’s the light.”
“No.” Grace tucked her chin down for a clearer view.
“Not the light.” Chuckling, she sauntered over for Heckle and Jeckle.
Deftly, she scooped the two boys out of the crib and settled in across from her, with the boys propped in her elbow.
Their heads bobbled like car ornaments. Once they began suckling, they leaned comfortably against her and stayed put.
Squeak wriggled contentedly into Brenna and tossed an arm over the curve of Brenna’s breast while her little mouth eagerly worked the bottle. Brenna rocked her, mesmerized, feeling unexpectedly at peace.
Grace finished feeding the boys and put them back in their crib. She reappeared—with the camera, aimed it at Brenna, and pressed the record button, mumbling something about astonishing beauty.
Brenna hardly noticed, she was so entranced by Squeak, so taken by her miniaturized perfection, the way the baby stared up at her. She leaned down and planted a long soft kiss on her forehead, completely smitten.
Grace set the camera down and came back with Grub on her shoulder.
“You know,” Grace said, settling down with the baby, “I could find homes for these kids back in the States.”
“Americans are too law-abiding to take a kid with faked papers.”
“Why would they have to be faked?”
Brenna held Squeak’s foot in her palm and stroked the tops of the raisin-sized toes, reluctant to answer. “Grace,” she finally said, “These children are the product of rape.”
“So?”
“In Kav?ak, a child can’t be adopted without the consent of the father.”
Grace stood beside Quiet Boy’s crib, looking down on the dying child, inwardly cursing Kav?ak. How did men so lose sight of their humanity that this became possible?
Brenna bent down and looked solemnly through the bars of the crib. Tch, she said. After a moment, she straightened up. “I’ll go fix the pears for Mr. Fierce.”
The antidote to despair was to work.
The boy jerked. Clear brown liquid trickled from his mouth.
Grace rested her hand on the baby’s back.
Roza had already laid him on his side so the vomit wouldn’t choke him.
Apart from that, there was nothing she could do except whisper false reassurances, just as she’d done for her own son, Joseph Alden.
“Grace?” Brenna reappeared with a plastic bowl of pureed baby food. “I think it’s going to take both of us to feed Mr. Fierce.”
She agreed, and turned away from the silent crib.
Mr. Fierce growled when they approached him.
Since he wouldn’t allow himself to be held and his crib was too filthy to eat in, they decided to set him in the tub and feed him there.
While Brenna distracted him, Grace snatched him up under the armpits.
Mr. Fierce’s face knotted in crimson fury.
Holding the squalling child at arm’s length, she carried him down the hall.
She didn’t give in to the temptation to hold that boy a little closer.
Nosiree. Mr. Fierce had teeth. “You know,” Grace told him, “if you don’t practice good manners, people won’t want to be friends with you. You need to think about that.”
Mr. Fierce, apparently, did not care for the advice.
He released a golden arc of urine and hosed Grace.
“Arrh, shit!”
Brenna, turncoat, laughed.
“Easy for you,” she retorted. “Your luggage isn’t charcoal.” She set the tot in the tub and slowly released him to be sure he was steady on his feet. Ducking under Grace’s arm, Brenna slipped the bowl down the edge of the tub. Fierce grabbed it and dug his fingers into it.
Grace noticed a container of hand sanitizer on the back of the toilet and grabbed it.
She and Brenna eased away. The child settled visibly with each retreating step. All he wanted, it appeared, was to be left alone.
Brenna leaned against the doorway watching Mr. Fierce push pear puree into his mouth.
Grace pumped the gel into her hands and smeared it generously over her shirt, pants, and hands. “Do you think an eighteen-month old can be a sociopath?”
Brenna shrugged.
“I’ll go strip his bed. I’m already full of pee—may as well sink up to my elbows in poo while I’m at it.”
While Brenna acted as warden, Grace stripped the crib, using the soiled linen to wipe up as much of the guck as possible. As she worked, she heard Mr. Fierce throw the plastic bowl across the bathroom. Hopefully, he finished eating before he gave vent to his spleen.
Half a minute later, Brenna reappeared beside Grace, holding the thrashing Mr. Fierce—facing outward. “Here.”
“Whoa!” she said, and jumped back. “Don’t point that boy at me! He might have re-loaded!”
Brenna burst out laughing.
The sound cut through Grace. Brenna’s laughter was beautiful—like a clear, bubbling creek.
More. Let me hear it again. She hooked her thumbs in her jeans, affecting a cowboy accent.
“Now, Little Missy—” she said, pointing at the naked boy.
“It ain’t fittin’ fer no lady to be operating one of them gizmos. That’s a job fer the fellers. They get special training, from childhood.”
Brenna guffawed.
Grace bent over, joining the giddy lunacy—needing the catharsis of laughter as much as Brenna did.
“Stand back!” Brenna swung the baby in playful threat. His dirty little legs swung forward as if he were on a swing. “He might go off any moment.”
Grace stepped forward, hand out in a calming gesture. “Put him down, Little Missy, and no one will get hurt.”
“Retreat, I said!”
“Here I come!” With the exaggerated manner of a cartoon character sneaking up on an unsuspecting foe, Grace advanced, stepping high, hands held out to catch her. One step, two steps, closer, closer—
Brenna screeched and ran, escaping down the hallway, turning around to swing the tot at her at intervals. “Now, Fierce! Pee! Pee-ee!”
Mr. Fierce was so taken aback he stopped flailing.
Grace gave chase.
Brenna ran into the bedroom and clambered onto the bed, using Mr. Fierce as a shield, holding him this way and that each time Grace tried to get close.
Suddenly, Grace pounced. Bending over them, knees on the bed, she tickled them both mercilessly.
Brenna rolled into a ball, clutching Mr. Fierce, laughing helplessly.
Oh, how Grace loved her laughter.
Then a miracle occurred. Mr. Fierce laughed, too—a long burbling laugh of sheer delight.
Brenna shot a look of amazement from Mr. Fierce to Grace.
“Aha!” Grace exclaimed, playfully jabbing the tot’s armpits. “You’ve been holding out on me. You’re not a lost cause after all.”
Mr. Fierce yawned, revealing his nippy white teeth. Two minutes of play had exhausted him.