Chapter 12
Baby’sfirst night in a new place. It could be filled with screaming.
Instead, Livvy falls asleep in the car, sleeps the entire ride home, wakes up when we take her out of the car just long enough for a feed and for Brenna and Mac to coo over her, then falls asleep in Logan’s arms. He manages to settle her in her crib without waking her, which shows he has parenting-superpowers already. Whenever I tried to put Gracie’s son into his crib after he’d fallen asleep, he’d wake howling.
Following Gracie’s sleep regime, I wake Livvy at ten. I introduce her to Sable, who sniffs her and then runs away to hide. It may take a little while for them to be best friends. I play with her, introducing two of the sensory toys I got her, then prepare the baby bath. Daddy’s so good at giving me baths that I encourage him to give Livvy her bath while I get everything ready for what Gracie calls “the big bedtime” in her schedule.
When I hear him singing the Rubber Duckie song to Livvy and her magical giggle, I know I’ve made the right call. Daddy’s uncertain about his ability to care for Livvy but the things that make him a great Dom will make him a great parent. He just needs to relax and not worry about making mistakes.
Wailing from the bathroom tells me Daddy’s tried to end Livvy’s bath without giving her something to divert her. I don’t blame her for crying. Who wants bath time to be over?
When I enter the bathroom, Daddy’s trying to wrangle a wiggling, wailing baby into a onesie while not dropping her back into the bath. I dump out the baby tub, then line it with a dry towel so Daddy can put her down. All the things I’ve prepared for Livvy are in baskets above the toilet, so I grab the “after bath” basket and put it beside the sink.
“Before we dress her for bed, let’s give her a massage, Daddy. That always helped calm Gracie’s son after his bath.”
“Oh, that’s a good idea,” Daddy says, looking relieved. He lays Livvy on the towel and tugs off the onesie he was trying to get over her kicking legs. He managed to get a diaper on her but I bet she’s still chilly. I fold up a baby blanket and lay it over her tummy. Then I tip a little baby oil onto my fingers and start at her shoulders. Daddy follows my lead, starting at her feet. The vein that was throbbing in his forehead goes down with each stroke. Livvy quiets, looking up at us and hiccupping.
“You needed some transition, didn’t you, Livvy?” I ask. “It’s double-tough to be made to stop something warm and fun to do something cold and not-fun. But this is nice and then we’ll get you fed before night-night.”
She blinks up at me with big, wet eyes and coos hesitantly.
“So many changes but you’re a trooper, Livvy-bit,” I croon to her. “And your very own bunny, Little Peter, is waiting for you in your crib. You’re going to love cuddling up with him.”
I finish with her hands. Babies hold their hands in fists but when I rub the baby oil in circles on the back of her hands, she uncurls her hands and flexes her tiny fingers.
“There you go,” I say encouragingly. “That feels good, doesn’t it? Daddy, do you want to pull the onesie up her legs now and I’ll pull it up the rest of the way while you put her legs in the sleeping sack?”
Daddy grunts. “I can do that.”
Livvy’s quiet and unresisting as we dress her in a long-sleeved onesie and the sleeveless, sleeping-bag-like contraption that Gracie swears by. I encourage Daddy to pick her up so he gets more comfortable carrying her. He scoops her up and begins singing “Scarborough Fair” to her, which makes my eyes prickle. Daddy has a lovely, deep voice. He should sing more often.
Daddy’s sitting in the rocking chair in Livvy’s room when I follow them in. I put the bottle warmer at his elbow for when he’s ready to give her a feed, toss a pillow by his feet, and curl up on it.
“Do you want to feed her, baby doll?” Daddy asks once he’s finished the song.
I shake my head and prop my chin on his knee. “Should we dial in to Storytime while you give her the big bottle?”
“Sure.”
I take out my phone and join the voice channel Max set up for us. It’s Daddy Jack’s turn and we’re a little late joining. He’s already well into the story. Tonight, he’s reading The Little Mermaid.
I smile happily and wrap my hands around Daddy’s firm thigh, listening to Daddy Jack’s deep voice, the baby’s quiet sucking, and Daddy’s slow breathing. Hearing that Miranda’s coming to New York was a nasty surprise and cast a pall over the day. But sitting at Daddy’s feet, in the peace of the house, filled with love for my Daddy and his daughter, everything settles.
I’m exactly where I should be.
I don’t feel quite as serene the next day. Livvy’s finally balked at all the changes and fusses from the moment she wakes up, although she does sleep until almost eight a.m., only waking once around two a.m. and going back to sleep after a little cry but without even needing a feed. Gracie’s awesome schedule at work.
Breakfast doesn’t go too badly. Everyone passes the baby around and she’s quiet for a while in the rocking swing I’ve set up in the corner of the dining room while we eat and clean up. But by the time I’ve showered and dressed and take her from Daddy so he can wash up, she’s in full melt-down. She spits out her pacifier every time I offer it to her. Walking her around the house doesn’t help. Knowing Daddy will try to take her off my hands if he feels she’s giving me trouble, I decide it’s time for our first outing.
After clipping the last of the asters from the garden and making a small bouquet, I wrap Livvy up warmly, pop her in the chest carrier, and sling her baby bag on top of her stroller. One great thing about having a baby is that no one will question me about carrying around piles of stuffies. I load up with Peter Aloha Bunny, Little Peter, and a horde of Little Larrys. Then I head out into the November sunshine.
The chilly air makes Livvy sniffle and fuss, so I tuck another blanket around her and pop a soft, crocheted cap that Mistress Maude made over her dark curls as I walk the fifteen minutes to Maman’s nursing home. Livvy quiets and gurgles around her fist, looking around. Even though I know she can’t see very far, I can’t help pointing out the community garden and my favorite café, Konk, as we pass.
When we reach the covered porch of my mother’s nursing home, I pause and take a deep breath to steel myself. Maman doesn’t recognize me anymore. She hasn’t for some time but the move to New York from Syracuse made her worse. Something Frances keeps blaming me for, even though Maman’s carers all tell me her decline is inevitable. I hope seeing Livvy will engage her, since not much else seems to. The fluffle of therapy bunnies now housed at Blunts were a big hit with the other residents when we brought them but Maman didn’t even pick one up.
Straightening my shoulders, I push the stroller through the front doors and into the reception area.
My phone goes off. Daddy knows where I am but I check it anyway, stepping out of the way of the doors.
Daddy: Your heart rate is high, BD. All okay?
Instead of responding by text, I tap a video call.
Daddy picks up, looking surprised as he holds his phone up so I can see his face. He’s sitting in his office. “I keep forgetting you can do that.”
“Twenty-first century,” I sing-song. “Are you catching the thief?”
He pulls a face. “I’m distracted.”
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah, everything’s fine. How about I meet you on the way back? It’s a sunny day. We could have some time in the park.”
Poor Daddy. He’s clearly desperate to play hooky.
“We like that plan,” I tell him.
“Good. Anything you need me to bring?”
I shake my head. I’m equipped for anything short of an asteroid crashing into Manhattan.
“Your heart rate’s come down while we’ve been talking,” he says. “If seeing your mum’s too stressful, make it a short visit, okay?”
I nod. Visits with my mother are never anything other than stressful now. But connecting with Daddy makes everything better. “Meet you at the park in forty minutes?”
He blows me a kiss and then blows another. “See you in forty minutes, my little loves.”
Smiling, I end the call and sign in at reception. They direct me to where Maman is in the orangery. There’s no outdoor garden at this home the way there was at the home in Syracuse but they have a lovely greenhouse. Maman’s always loved flowers.
My mother’s sitting in a wheelchair between two palms. She can walk but the lesions on her brain give her vertigo, so she’s prone to falling. She’s always been small like me but sitting in the chair she looks birdlike. So very fragile. Not at all the woman who dominated my childhood.
I park the stroller and pull a chair near to her. She looks at me incuriously. Her eyes are like the ones I see in the mirror, except there’s no spark in them.
“Bonjour, Violette. I’m Emily. This is Livvy. Nous sommes venus vous rendre visite.”
She smiles pleasantly. “Bonjour, merci d’etre venue.”
It’s funny how the mind works. She remembers how to speak two languages but can’t read either anymore and doesn’t remember her own children.
I fish out the bouquet of asters I’ve tucked among the stuffies and offer it to my mother. She takes it and turns it around in her hands.
“What are these flowers called?” she asks in French.
“Asters. Aren’t they a lovely purple? I thought you might like them because your name is Violette.”
I don’t mention that her favorite color has always been purple. She doesn’t remember and telling her things she doesn’t remember anymore just confuses and upsets her.
“They’re very pretty. Thank you for bringing them.”
“I thought I might read to Livvy while we’re here. Would you like me to read to you, too?” I ask in French.
Her brow wrinkles but I’m not sure if it’s because she doesn’t want me to read or because she doesn’t remember who Livvy is. After a moment, she nods.
I pull In the Night Kitchen out of my bag and hold it in front of me so Livvy can see the pictures. I read slowly, turning the book around so Maman can see the pictures after I finish every double-page spread, and put it away with a sad smile when I’m finished, remembering when the tables were turned and Maman was the one reading to me. Both Livvy and Maman are quiet. I can’t see Livvy’s face with the carrier hitched up high on my chest as I sit but from the list of her head and soft sucking on the paci, I think she’s fallen asleep. Maman’s looking meditatively at the flowers.
“I had a little boy,” she says.
She remembers my brother, not me. I swallow hard. “His name is Frances.”
Her eyes lift to mine. “Not Max?”
“No, Max is the boy in the story.”
She nods but I don’t see any spark of understanding in her eyes. “My little boy liked to play airplane, too.”
I don’t remember that. Frances is older than I am and must have been out of his airplane stage by the time I came along.
“My little boy’s dead,” she says.
My throat seizes. “No, Maman. Frances is alive. He has a little boy of his own. They’ll come visit after Thanksgiving.”
“My little boy’s dead,” she repeats.
I don’t know what to say. In my bag, my phone pings and I know it must be Daddy, worried about my heart rate, which I can feel thudding in my temples.
She thrusts the bouquet at me. “Would you put these flowers on my little boy’s grave? They won’t let me leave here to visit him.”
“I’ll buy a big bouquet for his grave,” I promise, feeling a hot prickle in my eyes. Am I doing the right thing, going along with her delusion? Or should I argue with her? I don’t know what to do. “You keep those. I brought them for you.”
She nods. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Will you go now and buy the bouquet? I don’t like to think of his grave without flowers.”
“Yes, I’ll go now. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it,” I promise, dashing wetness from my eyes with my fingertips. I stand jerkily and Livvy wakes with a wail. I try to shush her but she won’t be appeased and I hurry out of the building, just stopping to sign out.
Out on the street, I take a deep breath and try to pull myself together. I knew this was coming. Her doctors in Syracuse warned me. I just didn’t know . . . I didn’t realize how stupid and helpless I’d feel.
I blow out a long breath and say my mantra. It centers me and helps me block out Livvy’s cries for a moment. I’m no good to the baby if I’m falling apart myself. I repeat my mantra a second time, reminding myself that Daddy loves me and holds me in his hands. I’ll ask Daddy what I should have said to Maman, what I should have done. If he doesn’t know, he’ll help me find out. I’m not alone.
My Daddy has me.
Once my breathing’s normal and my head no longer feels a second away from exploding, I check my phone. The ping was from Daddy, so I send him a text to reassure him that I’m okay and am setting off for the park now. I check the time. It’s twenty minutes off when Livvy can have her next feed, according to Gracie’s schedule, so I open up the insulated bag I’ve brought and crack the heat pack to warm the bottle. Then I bounce on my toes to see if that quiets Livvy. When she settles from a wail back to fussing, I set off for the park.
Daddy’s waiting for us on the street. When he sees me coming, he strides to me and wraps his arms around us both.
“What happened?”
I tell him. He kisses my eyelids and wipes his thumbs under my eyes. “We’ll call her doctors when we get home but I’m sure you did the right thing, baby doll. There’s no point in arguing with her. It would have agitated her and the doctors have told you that’s not good for her.”
I nod sadly. “It just felt like everything I could say or do was wrong.”
He strokes his hand down the fall of my curls over my shoulders. “I understand, sweetheart. I’m very proud of you. It’s not easy, what you’re doing.”
After comforting me for another moment, he wraps his arm around my shoulders and leads me down the street and into the park. There are people playing ball on the basketball courts, mostly men but seeing a woman among one group, her pigtails flying as she chases the ball down the court, makes me smile. We stop to listen to a busker singing Simon and Garfunkel. “Bridge over Troubled Waters” seems apropos for the moment and I smile up at Daddy.
“Are you relaxing, baby?” he asks, although I’m sure he can see that I am.
“Much better now. Can we find a bench and feed Livvy?”
“Sure.”
We walk until we find a bench in the sun, facing a copse of trees that have lost their leaves. I unclip the chest harness and pass Livvy to Daddy, who cradles her in his arms with the same tender expression as last night. I hope he never stops looking at his daughter that way. I check the temperature of the milk on my inner wrist before passing it to Daddy. Livvy stops fussing as soon as Logan offers the bottle to her and for a moment I doubt Gracie’s schedule. Maybe I should have fed her as soon as I woke her?
Trust the process, I remind myself. There’s a big-time difference between London and New York. Livvy’s system will be all out of whack. It’s a minor miracle she slept as long as she did last night.
When Livvy starts spitting the bottle’s nipple out, I put a cloth over Daddy’s shoulder and show him how to burp her. His deep laugh bursts out when she rips off an amazingly froggy burp close to his ear.
I check her diaper before I put her back in the chest carrier. It’s dry which probably means she’s dehydrated from the plane flight. It’s also warmer here than she’s used to. I make a mental note to give her an extra few ounces with her feeds. That could be why she’s fussy: she might just be thirsty.
Daddy encourages me to put her in the stroller after she’s fed and burped so that he can push her. I dig out the many stuffies that are occupying the seat and put them in the mesh carrier bag hanging off the back of the stroller, keeping a Little Larry to carry myself.
My chest feels cold and empty without Livvy’s weight on it.
I shake that thought off. Babysitter. I’m Daddy’s little babysitter. If he wants to push his daughter in the stroller, he should.
She falls asleep as soon as we start walking. Daddy suggests taking a longer route home and we walk around the East Village in the bright winter sunlight. Daddy tucks me against his side and steers the stroller with one hand, which he can do because he has huge daddy hands.
I slip my arm around his waist and turn my face into his jacket collar to get a hit of his warm, spicy scent. He kisses my temple.
“Baby, I know it’s easy to focus on other things to avoid facing how you’re feeling about your mum. Should we have another Knee Time tonight?”
“Another Knee Time!” I exclaim. “What is this fresh hot place you speak of?”
Daddy chuckles. “It’s not that bad.”
It’s not bad at all.
“Could we have a milk and cookies date tonight instead? I promise to tell you how I’m feeling.”
“Yes, my baby. We can definitely have a milk and cookies date instead. I’m thinking, sugar cookies.”
“I’m thinking oatmeal, Daddy.”
“Can we compromise and have oatmeal cookies with frosting?”
“Oookay,” I say, like it’s a hardship. Which it’s not. I’ll make half the cookies with frosting for Daddy—and probably for Brenna and Mac—and the other half without. Maybe I’ll double the recipe and drop off a box at Maman’s home tomorrow. That would be a good reason for a walk with Livvy. The home prefers visits on visiting days, three times a week but they don’t mind deliveries any day.
“That’s a date then, little girl. Our kitchen. Nine p.m. In your jammies.”
“Yes, Daddy.” I nuzzle into his jacket and enjoy walking under my Daddy’s arm.