35. Heidi
HEIDI
On Ivy's first birthday, she wakes before us and spends several minutes telling the crib exactly what she thinks of being left to begin the day alone.
Beau opens his eyes at the first loud syllable.
“She has an agenda.”
“She has had one for a year.”
“Consistent leadership.”
I push back the blanket, still smiling. He gets up with me, and we go down the hall together in the pale October light.
Our daughter is standing in her crib, gripping the rail, hair sticking up in a dark halo. When she sees us, her face opens into delight so complete that I stop in the doorway.
“Hello, birthday girl,” I say.
She bounces at the knees and reaches for me.
I pick her up. She is heavier now, solid against my hip, one hand going straight to my hair as if checking that I have brought all the usual parts of myself.
“A year,” Beau says softly.
I look at him over her head.
“Yes.”
For a moment the hospital is there: the hot weight of her on my chest, the furious first cry, my own astonishment. Then Ivy grabs Beau's nose, and the room fills with his offended protest.
I laugh with her pressed against me.
I chose an evening gathering at home because it is a Tuesday and most of the people we love have jobs. I have taken the day off. Beau has too. We have a cake, a few balloons kept well out of Ivy's reach and more small presents than a person who prefers a wooden spoon can reasonably appreciate.
Mom comes after lunch to help me make the food. She tries not to rearrange the kitchen and succeeds for almost twelve minutes.
“The bowls were easier to reach before.”
“For you.”
“I am a frequent visitor.”
“A cherished one. With no constitutional authority.”
She laughs and leaves the bowls where they are.
Beau takes Ivy into the living room while we work. I hear him telling her the wrapped gifts are not a challenge she has to solve with her teeth. She answers at length. He listens as though she has made several compelling points.
Mom looks toward the sound, then at me.
“How are you today?”
I put down the knife before answering.
“Happy. A little sad in places.”
She nods.
“I was worried I'd wake up and only remember the bad part.”
“Did you?”
“No. She was standing there looking so pleased with herself. It was hard to think about anything else.”
Mom smiles.
I look at the cake waiting on the counter. One candle. A whole year of learning what my daughter looks like when she is delighted, bored, hungry or determined to commit an act of household destruction.
“I don't want to make today about forgiving him,” I say.
“Then don't.”
“I've already chosen him. I don't need the birthday to prove it again.”
“Good. The cake has enough responsibility.”
I pick up the knife.
We work side by side. I tell her about the clinic wall, painted during the summer in the soft yellow Beau said looked like morning.
The child who loves the quiet chair put her hand against it on the first day back and said it looked warm.
My colleague and I had stood there smiling like people who had accomplished something far greater than painting a wall.
Mom listens, asking about the children she knows only through the stories I can tell. I like that the conversation belongs to my work as easily as it belongs to my marriage or my daughter.
Before the guests arrive, I go upstairs for the little cardigan Ivy wore in one photograph.
The blue one with the wooden buttons. It has been too small for months. I have kept it in a box with the hospital hat and the first pair of socks that would not stay on Ivy's feet.
I sit down on the bed with it in my lap.
The sight brings the first days back sharply: the oversized cuffs, Mom's guest room, Beau arriving on the porch with the cardigan while both of us were still learning our daughter. I run one finger over a button and let the memory come.
He knocks lightly on the open door.
“Everything all right?”
I look up. Ivy is downstairs with Mom. He has come looking because I have been gone longer than he expected.
“I found this.”
He comes closer and sits beside me.
“She was that small,” he says.
“I know. It seems improbable.”
His hand rests on the bed between us. I put mine over it.
“I remembered the hospital just now.”
He turns toward me.
“The nice parts too. Her little ear. The way Dash cried. How proud I was.”
He nods, listening.
“And the rest,” I add.
“I know.”
I lean against his shoulder. He puts an arm around me, and for a little while we sit with the cardigan in my lap.
After a while I lift the cardigan.
“I was going to take a picture of it beside her. Show how much she's grown.”
“She'll attempt to wear it as a hat.”
“She has artistic range.”
He smiles. I kiss him, briefly, then stand.
“Come on. Mom has been alone with the bowls too long.”
Dash arrives carrying a present so large it catches on the doorframe.
“No,” I say before he speaks.
“You haven't seen it.”
“I can hear the future noise from here.”
His wife comes in behind him with a much smaller bag and an expression of patient amusement.
“I tried,” she tells me.
“It encourages movement,” Dash says.
“So does taking her to the park.”
“Less wrapping.”
Beau helps him maneuver the box inside while I take the smaller bag. The present turns out to be less offensive than its packaging, though Dash has clearly selected something he intends to enjoy as much as Ivy. She is immediately more interested in the empty box.
“An excellent choice,” Beau tells him.
“I know my audience.”
Mom laughs from the kitchen. More family arrives in small groups, coats over arms, voices filling the hall.
Beau's aunt asks me about the clinic before she asks to hold Ivy.
We talk about the yellow wall, and she tells me she still remembers the nurse at her own school knowing which children needed an extra minute before going back to class.
It is an ordinary conversation. I enjoy it.
The house gets warm. Beau opens a window, then finds me across the room to ask whether I want the cake now. He has a smear of something on his sleeve and the look of a man who has been asked to assemble a toy while being supervised by three relatives.
“Surviving?” I ask.
“Opinions were offered.”
“Did you accept them?”
“I acknowledged their existence.”
“Diplomatic.”
He kisses my cheek as he passes. I catch his hand for a second, then let him go to the kitchen.
Ivy studies the candle with deep suspicion.
We keep it safely away from her reaching hands while everybody sings. I hold her on my hip, Beau beside me, and watch her look from one familiar face to another. Halfway through the song she begins to laugh, delighted by the absurdity of all these people making noise at once.
I laugh too. I can't help it.
Beau looks at us, and I see the happiness on his face without needing to find remorse beside it.
We blow out the candle together before bringing the cake near her. She gets a small portion on her own plate and proceeds to examine it with both hands.
“Careful technique,” Dash says.
“She's establishing composition,” I tell him.
Ivy tastes a little icing and looks astonished by the discovery.
Beau laughs so hard he has to put down the serving knife. Mom reaches for her phone. Somebody asks us to stand closer for a picture, and I put my arm around my husband's waist.
He looks down at me.
“Ready?”
“Yes.”
The photograph catches Ivy looking at her sticky hand, Beau laughing and me looking at him. I know because Mom shows me afterward, apologizing that none of us faced the camera properly.
“Don't delete it,” I say.
“I wasn't going to.”
I take the phone and send the picture to myself.
Later, while everyone talks and Ivy explores the empty box with Beau beside her, I put it in the album with the rest of her first year.
The first photograph is still there. So is the river, the cake, the soft yellow clinic wall with my daughter's face smiling from the little frame on my desk.
I scroll once through the life we have made, then put the phone away and sit on the rug beside my family.
By the time the last guest leaves, the living room looks as though a small, cheerful storm has passed through carrying wrapping paper.
Beau closes the door behind Dash and his wife. I stand in the hall holding an abandoned bow.
“Your brother offered to take the box home,” he says.
“Generous.”
“Ivy objected.”
“He'll have to get his own.”
We look at each other and start laughing with the tired helplessness of people who have been sociable for several hours beyond their natural capacity.
Upstairs, our daughter is asleep after a bath, milk and a final indignant argument about whether a birthday should end simply because the adults have run out of energy. The monitor in the hall is quiet.
I lean against Beau's chest. He puts his arms around me, chin resting lightly on my hair.
“Good day?” he asks.
“Very.”
“Even with the box?”
“Especially with the box. It kept Dash occupied.”
He laughs and kisses my hair.
For a while we do not move. The house is warm, the evening dark beyond the glass. His hands rest at my back.
I tilt my face up.
“Kiss me.”
He does. Slowly, with no one tugging at his sleeve or asking where the cake knife has gone. I slip two fingers under his collar and find the warm skin at the base of his neck.
The kiss grows deeper. He draws me closer, and I smile against his mouth when he makes the small rough sound I know so well.
“What?” he asks.
“I like you.”
His eyes warm. “An encouraging development.”
“Don't let it affect your character.”
“Far too late.”
We clear enough of the room to make tomorrow manageable and leave the rest.
I stack plates while Beau folds the blanket. He finds the little blue cardigan beside the sofa and brings it over, holding it between two fingers as if it has become even smaller during the evening.
“Where does this go?”
“In the box upstairs. The one with her first things.”
He nods. I stop him before he goes.
“Leave it here a minute.”
I put it on the table beside the photograph I sent myself from Mom’s phone. Not printed yet, just the phone propped against a glass. Ivy at a year old, icing to the wrist. The cardigan that fit her before she knew how to smile.
“I can't believe we get to know her,” I say.
Beau looks at the picture.
“I know.”
“I used to think about having a baby as if the baby were the whole idea. But she's going to become a person who tells us we're wrong about things.”
“She has made a strong beginning.”
“She'll have favorite books. Friends. Some terrible haircut she'll insist looks good.”
He glances at me.
“Your mother showed me the bangs.”
“Betrayal everywhere.”
He laughs, and I push at his chest with one hand. He catches it and kisses my fingers.
I look at our daughter in the picture again.
“I want to enjoy it while it's happening,” I say. “Not spend all of it getting ready for the next part.”
“Then let's leave the dishes.”
I look toward the kitchen.
“There is a persuasive argument.”
“I've been saving it.”
We leave them.
In the living room, I curl into the corner of the sofa while Beau brings the last two small pieces of cake. He gives me the larger one without comment. I exchange the plates because his has more icing.
“Fairness,” I tell him.
“I see.”
We eat with our knees touching.
“Your aunt caught me while you were upstairs.” He pauses over his cake. “My aunt.”
“I'll claim her when she's behaving,” I say.
“Flexible jurisdiction.”
“Essential.”
He laughs and takes my empty plate.
The room is quiet after the noise of the party. I can hear the old floorboard settle near the archway and a car passing outside. The lamp throws warm light over Beau's hands.
One finger brushes the inside of my wrist.
I take his hand and put it against my cheek.
“I was scared to choose you again,” I say.
His expression grows still and attentive.
“I know.”
“I don't mean I wish I hadn't.”
“I didn't hear that.”
“I wanted you so much that I didn’t trust myself.”
He waits.
“I’m glad I chose you.”
I glance toward the photograph on the table. He follows my gaze, then turns back to me.
“You don't have to be certain every day feels easy,” he says.
“I know. We had the chair.”
His laugh is surprised and warm. “A severe episode.”
“We survived.”
“We did.”
I lean forward and kiss him. The conversation has taken us somewhere tender, and I want to meet him there with my body as well as words.
He puts down his plate and draws me into his lap. I settle against him, my arms around his neck, feeling the strength I have always loved and the ease we have had to learn again.
“I love you,” he says.
“I love you.”
I can love him with my eyes open.
Before bed, we look in on Ivy.
She sleeps sprawled in the safe untidy posture of a child who has spent a full day being adored. One hand is open beside her face. I stand at the doorway while Beau bends to make sure everything is as it should be, then comes back to my side.
“She'll be up early,” he whispers.
“Birthdays are exhausting. Surely she'll reward us.”
He looks at me.
“I admire your optimism.”
We close the door softly and go to our room.
I take off my earrings at the dresser. Beau comes up behind me and puts his hands on my shoulders. In the mirror, I see the two of us together: my brown hair loose at my shoulders, the little silver at his temples, his face turned toward mine with an expression that is entirely private.
“Still a persistent condition?” I ask.
“Looking at you?”
“Yes.”
“Worse than ever.”
I smile and turn in his arms.
He kisses me, and I let the earrings lie where I put them.
Tomorrow there will be work, a child to feed, something somebody has misplaced, an ordinary disagreement about the best way to do a small thing.
Tonight there is his mouth and the warmth of his hands and the pleasure of knowing we’ll wake up together.
I take his hand and lead him toward the bed.
When we lie down, he reaches for me. I move close enough that my knee finds his ribs, and he makes a familiar, offended sound.
“Structural concern,” he murmurs.
I laugh into his shoulder.
“Then come closer.”
He does.