21. Eden #2
I try feeding. I try rocking. I try shushing.
I try reciting the plot of an entire BBC crime show into her ear, which Sloane claims “rots the infant mind,” but it works about as well as anything else.
Eventually, I surrender and bring her back to our bed, tucking her in between us like a tiny, angry baguette.
Sloane doesn’t move, but she does reach over and find my hand under the blanket, squeezing it once before letting go.
Olivia finally falls asleep on my chest, her tiny fingers fisting the fabric of my shirt, and I follow her down, desperate for any scrap of REM I can get before the next disaster strikes. The world fades. I am nothing but a mammal with a warm, slightly damp infant against my skin.
I wake to the sound of Sloane on the phone in the kitchen, juggling the baby with one arm while stirring oatmeal with the other.
She’s in work mode: hair up, glasses on, voice at half-volume but still containing the force of a thousand therapist interventions.
Olivia is snuggled in the crook of her arm, dead asleep, lips puckered in a smirk.
I stare for a minute, then drag myself off the doorjamb and shuffle in. Sloane grins at me over the rim of her glasses. “Morning, sunshine. You look like a condemned woman.”
“At least I’d get to sleep in prison,” I mutter, accepting a mug of reheated coffee.
She switches the phone to her other ear and mouths, “I love you,” before launching into some medical jargon that might as well be Swahili to me. I take the baby, who smells like a mixture of milk and baby powder and something faintly metallic.
I perch on the edge of the counter and study her face, trying to decode the micro-expressions for signs of imminent rebellion. Sloane finishes her call and sits beside me, head on my shoulder.
“You did good last night,” she says softly.
“I did,” I agree, mostly because I am too tired to be modest.
Olivia gurgles and stretches, punching the air in slow motion. I pretend the fist is for solidarity, but I know she’s really just testing her range for later attacks.
Sloane rests a hand on my thigh. “You know, we could hire a night nurse. Just for a week. Give you a break.”
At least she’s admitting it’s me who is on night duty. Then again, she did bake the little goblin for nine months and then push her out, so I think it’s the least I can do.
“I don’t need a break,” I say automatically. “I’m fine.”
She arches an eyebrow. “You almost fell asleep on the changing mat.”
“It’s called adaptation. Survival of the sleepiest.”
She laughs and kisses the side of my face. “You’re ridiculous.”
I want to tell her that I’m afraid to let anyone else take care of the baby, even for a night, because what if they don’t know the right way to hold her, or the correct order of her bedtime rituals, or how to decode the subtle difference between a hunger cry and a gas cry?
But I also don’t want to sound like a helicopter parent on meth, so I just grunt and drink my coffee.
After breakfast, we take Olivia for a walk around the block.
Colorado has decided to do its annual “Fuck You, Here’s Winter Again” show, so we suit up in hats, gloves, and every fleece item we own.
Sloane pushes the stroller while I pace beside her, both of us taking turns checking to make sure the baby is still breathing.
We see exactly one other person: an elderly neighbour with a Pomeranian that looks like it’s seen some shit. The neighbour waves, the dog ignores us, and we walk on, each lost in our own thoughts.
“You think we’re doing okay?” I ask, out of nowhere.
Sloane doesn’t even hesitate. “We’re doing great. Liv is alive, you’re alive, I’m alive. That’s all anyone can ask.”
I watch the way she glances at the stroller every few seconds, her knuckles white on the handle, and realise she’s just as paranoid as I am. It’s comforting in a fucked up way.
We circle the block and head home, where I make another pot of coffee and Sloane logs into her work portal. So far, the whole “hands off boss” thing is taking some time to implement.
I take Olivia to the nursery and read to her, alternating between classic kids books and whatever I’m currently obsessed with. Today it’s a novella about queer rural communities, which she seems to like better than Goodnight Moon, but that might be projection.
Sloane appears in the doorway after a while, watching us with that look on her face that says she’s having Big Feelings but is too overwhelmed to say them out loud. I crook a finger and she comes to sit beside us, folding me and the baby into her lap.
“We made a person,” I say, more for my own benefit than anyone else’s.
Sloane kisses my hair and whispers, “We really fucking did.”
Olivia wakes up and immediately starts rooting around for a nipple, which means it’s time for the next feeding. I hand her off to Sloane, who sighs but whips her boob out like a seasoned pro.
For a second I just stay there, the sunlight slanting through the blinds and painting stripes across Sloane’s face, Olivia’s head nestled against her chest. It’s one of those moments that would make my old self want to gag, but now it just makes my throat tight.
I take a mental picture, because I know the second I leave the room the baby will go berserk and the armchair will be soaked in spit-up. But for now, it’s perfect. Or at least, perfectly ours.