Chapter Four Deanna
Okay, and maybe you don’t know until several months have passed. I’ve heard of that, too. But still. Most often—you get at least a couple of months’ notice.
Me?
I might not be crying, but I’m on an adrenaline high with racing thoughts that won’t keep silent.
I sit in Rory’s “nursery,” which was bare and clean to start with. Now, it’s fashionably minimalist. A rocker. A crib (already assembled). A changing table with dresser drawers in it. (Assembled by myself, with the help of a tiny screwdriver.) A diaper pail, wipes, and diapers.
My crippling fear.
It doesn’t help that I didn’t order a baby monitor. I have now, and it’ll be here tomorrow.
I rock, eyes wide open, listening for breathing.
Mine is fast. I need to slow it down. Rory’s is there. So faint, you have to struggle to hear it.
I put him on his back. Swaddled. You’re supposed to do that.
That’s what all the moms and pediatricians say. Their kids don’t have wings.
What if I’m breaking his wings? What if he never flies because I didn’t know to put whatever kind of child he is on his side, or upside down like a bat?
I smother a semi-hysterical laugh and rock faster.
Okay, Deanna. You can do this.
You have the money from Dad. That put a big chunk down on the house. That put a big chunk of your worries about a tiny salary—but still a livable wage—aside.
Yes. When I was single, not a single mom. Yes, when I was “co-habiting” with Aaron, who had a decent paycheck and who said all the right, comforting things about me working part-time.
All the right, comforting things. So good on paper. Just not in love. Either of us.
He would have been a good dad.
If he finds out, he’ll think he is the dad.
No, no, we cannot do that. Okay, new story.
Once upon a time, there was a perfectly competent organist named Deanna, who had a perfect mother and a dad who was much better than perfect; he was amazing.
He was funny. He took her out on the lake, and sat up with her late at night when she had a broken heart after prom, and he took her to all the big cathedrals and churches and always asked if she could play the organs there—and sometimes he even got a yes.
He made the mother’s perfection much more bearable, and Aaron’s good-but-it’s-still-not-quite-right-ness seem bearable.
And then he ignored all the warning signs, and got diagnosed with stage four colon cancer right after her thirtieth birthday.
And died right before her thirty-first.
I can hear my breathing now, not just feel it. Wet. Shaky.
I don’t want to wake the baby.
Slower. Calmer.
Think forward, not backward.
Dad, you never got to meet your grandson.
And Rory doesn’t have a dad. Or a granddad.
And Aaron is great, but he’s not going to be this kid’s dad if he couldn’t be my husband.
No. I can do this myself. Maybe I never wanted to do this myself, but I can if I have to.
I even start to work out a story, and I hear it and rehearse it as though I’m talking to my mother, my mother who is still not close to me as she wishes, even when grief should bring us together.
Mom, when Aaron and I were having a rough patch about... nine months ago, I went out with a mutual friend of a friend and... whoops. I never knew. I had one of those ‘surprise’ pregnancies with no symptoms.
Yes, Mother, that can happen. I’ll send you the Facebook videos.
And, well, right after I moved to Pine Ridge, he arrived. Rory Robert. Yes, the middle name is for Dad. He looks just like him, just like me. Same sunburn-magnet fair skin and bold red hair.
No, no, I don’t need help, Mom. You don’t need to come down. You stay with your sisters and Grandma, and keep being the unshakeable leader of the Methodist Ladies League and the Independent Party Telethon organizer every May and November.
No, I’m not moving there.
No, I’m not going to quit my job.
I will figure this out. All of it.
Why are his eyes red? Why does he have wings?
I gulp, even in an imaginary conversation. Pastor Fortnum didn’t mention the eyes, and I know Rory had them open at one point.
Am I losing my mind?
Maybe. Stress, grief, lack of sleep... I rise from the chair and leave the room. I’ll set a timer. Just thirty minutes in my own bed. That might help.
The second I lie down, I spring back up like someone catapulted me.
“It’ll be during those thirty minutes that he stops breathing,” I groan, and really wish I’d remembered a baby monitor the first time around. I stagger back to the room and tell myself it’s not so bad. He’ll need another bottle around two, so—
“Whh. Ennnnn!”
I fly into the room, tripping over something, and my first thought is that Rory is on the floor!
But it’s not Rory. The whimper that happens as the toe of my slippered foot collides with a soft, furry belly tells me that there is a dog in the room. A small dog.
And a man. A man that’s more shadow than skin, standing over my son’s crib.
The shadow moves, and I see glowing silvery eyes and can barely make out a startled face.
As tired and scared as I am, some kind of hidden strength comes pouring out of me, a torrent, a hurricane of rage and protectiveness (and foul language) that I have never known.
“Leave my baby alone, motherfucker!” I scream, and I fly, knees ready, elbows ready, fingers looking for eyes. Everything I ever learned about self-defense blurs as I try to use it all at once.
My knees hurt. My elbows hurt. My chest burns, and I don’t stop pummeling until the figure is on the floor in the fetal position, curled up under a rain of stomping feet and sobs.
“Leave my son alone! Get out! Get out, so help me, I’ll kill you if you’ve touched one hair on his head!
” I hear myself pant-screaming, clawing at his face—and finding nothing.
Nothing but a burst of wet, cold autumn air, air so fresh and cold and full of leaves that I scream as they swirl around me. “Get away!” I shriek, putting myself between the crib and the window.
My hand finally scoops up Rory, and I run to my room, to my phone—and it’s only then that I turn on the lights and look across the hall.
There’s nothing in Rory’s room.
Nothing. Not a leaf. Not a twig. The window is shut.
But my knees and elbows hurt as if I army-crawled for twelve miles on gravel.
I hug Rory tight, hearing his startled, snuffly breathing, still half-sobbing, half-panting. “Something was there. Something really was,” I whimper.
“Ah-ohhh. Ow-ooo.”
I yelp and look down.
The tiniest little brown and black puppy is stumbling into my room on its fat little sausage of a body, looking at me like I’m going to mother him, too.
Something was here. Someone. Someone made of shadows and magic... which, okay, that could track. Someone who can fly away, and magic a whirlwind of autumn leaves in and out of a room at his command.
A man. Who brought a dog. A puppy. A man who was leaning over the crib, but didn’t even wake Rory.
“Oh. Oh, wait...” I whisper, a hand to my mouth. All thoughts of calling the police are temporarily on hold. Would they even believe me?
Do I even believe me?
And another, more worrisome question has just presented itself. “Rory, was that your father?” I ask the silence.
“Worf.” The puppy gives the smallest, gruffest bark.
I’m up now. I scoop him up, too, and put the baby on the bed with one hand on his back, and the puppy in the nest between my legs as they fold up.
“Baby monitor. Puppy training pads. Puppy chow. Dog bed.” I close my eyes and look at the miniature hound, something that might be a cross between a Basset and a beagle, but that’s currently the size of a loaf of sourdough.
“You’re lucky you’re cute,” I hiss. “And if you pee on this bed—you’re going to the pound. ”