13. Dulcie
DULCIE
My father carries the empty suitcases into the house I thought I would bring my baby home to.
Magnus holds the door for him. They exchange a greeting so brief it barely disturbs the hall. Then my husband looks at me, at the coat I have buttoned over my belly, at my bare left hand.
“You could have asked me to pack.”
“I wanted to do it myself.”
I sent him the time yesterday. There is nothing unexpected about our arrival, but I still feel like someone who has come to take things that belong to him.
Upstairs, the guest bed is made. My slippers stand beneath it. The glass I left on the bedside table has been washed and returned upside down on a little tray.
Dad opens a suitcase on the bed. “Where do you want to start?”
“The closet.”
He takes the hangers I hand him and folds the clothes badly, with great concentration. I let him. At the bottom of the closet is the tote with my notebook and the green duck book. I put it beside the suitcase.
In our bedroom, my shampoo still stands beside Magnus’s. I take it without looking at the bed. The cap is sticky. Such a small, stupid thing to have to bring away from a marriage.
When I come downstairs, Dad is carrying the first case out. Magnus waits beside the boxed crib.
“You won’t need this if you listen to what I’m offering.”
“It’s mine.”
“I know whose it is.”
“Then let Dad take it.”
He moves aside. There is no struggle. Somehow I expected one; I have prepared for a scene and not for the ordinary efficiency of leaving.
Through the sitting-room door I see the pale blue spine on the shelf. Benedict. Still beside the novels I brought here, as though my refusal has been filed away and the book is the part worth keeping.
My throat closes.
Magnus follows my gaze. “We’re not discussing that now.”
“No. We aren’t.”
I take my novels. The gap left beside the godmother book is wider than the book itself.
At the door, he asks for the rental address. I give it to him on my phone because we will have a child to make arrangements for, and because concealing where I live is not the life I want.
“Call before you come,” I say.
He looks at the screen, then back at me. “I’ll speak to you later.”
Outside, Dad shuts the trunk. I get into the car before I can turn the simple act of shutting a door into a question for Magnus to answer.
The new key catches on its first turn.
I try again, lifting the handle as the owner showed me. The blue door opens. Inside, Mom has put a loaf of bread on the kitchen counter and a clean towel beside the sink. She leaves shortly afterward to fetch the sheets she washed for me. Dad carries the crib upstairs.
I stand in the little living room with the key in my palm.
The room is too small for the furniture I used to look at in catalogs. I can see a scuff where somebody’s chair rubbed the wall. When I sit on the secondhand sofa, one cushion slips forward.
I push it back. Mine to be annoyed by.
A firm bump lifts the side of my belly. I stop with my hand over it, and Dad pauses on the bottom stair.
“What is it?”
“He kicked. Just there.”
“Did I miss it?”
I nod. Then the pressure comes again, slower this time, and I reach for Dad’s hand.
“Wait.”
He stands absolutely still. His palm is broad and warm through my dress. The baby moves against it.
“Oh,” Dad says.
He says nothing else for a while. I look at his bent head and begin to smile. My son has no idea how easily he has stopped this man in the middle of carrying something.
Upstairs, Dad spreads the crib pieces on the floor. He asks where I want it. I point to the wall away from the window, and he lays out the first side there.
“Do you want me to help you find a lawyer?” he asks.
I sit on the bed in the next room, where I can see him through both open doors. “Kit first. I want to have my baby and get through that. A lawyer can come afterward.”
“Kit,” he repeats, softly.
“If it still feels right when I meet him.”
“It’s a good name.”
He opens the bag of screws. He does not ask whether I am sure about the marriage, or tell me how long I can postpone deciding anything else.
For a while, I read the instructions aloud while he works. We disagree about which end a rail belongs at. I am right. He acknowledges this with the solemnity of a man making a considerable concession.
“You can tell your mother,” he says. “She’ll enjoy having company.”
I laugh, and the laugh becomes a shaky breath I can’t quite finish.
Dad keeps working until I can speak again.
When the crib stands, I put my palm on its smooth wooden edge. No one has chosen a better one for me. No one has explained why this one is inadequate.
I put the green book on the little shelf beside it.
Mom returns with the sheets while Dad puts away his tools. We make my bed together, smoothing the fabric from opposite sides as we used to when I was small. She takes the empty laundry bag home.
The doorbell rings downstairs.
Magnus fills the doorway in a coat that costs more than the sofa.
“You didn’t call.”
“I was nearby.”
Dad appears behind me. Magnus looks past him into the room.
“May I come in?” The courtesy sounds like something he has remembered to bring.
“For a few minutes.”
He walks to the foot of the stairs, then turns back. I can see him measuring the narrow passage, the kitchen beyond, the distance between the sofa and the wall.
“This is what you’ve taken?”
“Yes.”
“There’s barely room to turn around.”
“I’ve managed it several times.”
Dad makes a small sound behind me. Magnus does not smile.
“I’ve found an apartment. There’s an elevator, a room for help, proper space. You wouldn’t have to carry the baby up these stairs.”
“I don’t want your apartment.”
“You haven’t seen it.”
“I’ve heard enough.”
He takes out his phone anyway. A bright room fills the screen. Pale floors, glass, a view that makes my own window seem like an apology. I hate the part of me that responds to its beauty before I have even decided to look.
“I can arrange overnight help,” he says. “We could have a schedule that makes sense for both houses.”
Both houses. His, and the one he would give me.
“Who chooses the help?”
“We would discuss it.”
“Like we discussed my recovery room?”
His jaw tightens. “You’ll need support.”
“I have support.”
Dad stands quietly by the kitchen door. Magnus glances at him, then puts the phone away.
“The name is not an obstacle. I’ve told you that.”
“You told me I could choose another name. You haven’t told me why I should put my life in your hands again.”
“You are still my wife.”
“I know what you intended that to mean.”
He looks toward the stairs again. My bedroom is above us. A plain bed with sheets my mother washed. I can see him finding fault with that too, and suddenly I want him out before he can make me see every inch through his eyes.
“The rent is paid,” I say. “My things are here. I’m staying.”
For a moment he says nothing. Then he steps closer, lowering his voice.
“This doesn’t have to be difficult.”
I smell his soap. The same clean warmth I used to lean into at night. My body knows him before it remembers anything he has said.
“It already is.”
He waits for more. An argument, perhaps, that he can take apart. I walk to the door and open it.
Dad stays by the kitchen. I am the one standing here when Magnus leaves.
Afterward, I turn the key in the lock. It catches again, then moves beneath my hand. I leave it there while I breathe.