Chapter 22
Twenty-Two
KANE
Avery was finally sleeping.
I’d managed to get Mabel from her arms and into the hospital bassinet without waking either of them.
I’d wanted to hold Mabel in my own arms, settle there with that weight—seven pounds eleven ounces—in my arms and simply watch her chest rise and fall.
But I needed to sleep too. I was aware that this was only the beginning of a long road of broken nights and early mornings. And I was prepared for it. Fuck, was I.
Even me, with an inflated idea of myself understood that biologically, I needed at least a few hours to carry me through.
I had a big responsibility now. A fucking precious one.
Husband and father.
Not technically the former yet, but that was just a matter of paperwork.
Avery had done all the heavy lifting so far; it was time for me to step up, now that I could.
I’d never felt as powerless in my life as I did watching my woman weather the pain of the contractions. I’d never wished so hard that I could take it away, take it on myself. But I’d never been in awe of another human like I was watching my woman bring our daughter into the world. I might’ve been powerless, but I’d never seen a woman more powerful.
My hand rested on Mabel’s chest in the bassinet.
The foldout sofa in the corner of the hospital room called to me.
But…
I couldn’t find it in me to drag myself away from her. From them. My eyes drifted to where Avery was sleeping. Sometime during my transition, she’d moved so her body was facing us, her hand reaching toward the bassinet, as if even in her sleep she’d sensed me move Mabel.
It felt as though a clamp tightened around my heart as it grew bigger than the ribcage that contained it.
Though I might’ve been exhausted and just a little bit enchanted by my daughter and my woman, that didn’t mean I wasn’t on guard. So my hackles rose when I heard the thump of boots out in the hallway. Too heavy to be the nurse’s sensible sneakers.
I tensed, all too aware that we were around more people than we had been since I arrived in Jupiter. Though everyone had been fucking great, I knew that people were often looking to make a buck, for a way to make a name for themselves.
The price on my head was higher now as people speculated on where I went after I was released, after my conviction was overturned. All it took was one stressed-out hospital worker, overworked and underpaid, to see dollar signs in that.
And all it took was one motivated and sneaky journalist to find their way into a labor and delivery suite, to find my baby.
Defensives on high alert, I turned, ready to end whoever might have any thoughts of putting my baby in danger.
My brother entered the room.
He had a raised brow, communicating that he saw my stance, felt my aggression.
I relaxed instantaneously.
“It’s past visiting hours,” I greeted my brother, trying to slow my blood pressure. I’d gotten a taste of uncontrollable rage when DuBois put his hands on Avery, but now with Mabel, it felt like another well inside of me had just been opened. I feared it and welcomed it at the same time. I would take down fucking regimes if they threatened my daughter. Face armies with nothing but my bare hands to protect her.
“Those are just suggestions,” Knox replied.
I shook my head, smiling and swallowing that cool rage.
He clapped me on the shoulder, a rare sign of affection from him. “Congratulations … Dad.”
I smirked at him in response, feeling fucking overwhelmed that that’s what I was. Someone’s dad.
Her dad.
Knox was holding something in his hand.
My smirk turned into a grin.
“Wouldn’t have pegged you as a soft toy kind of guy, but it suits you.”
My brother, in his black suit, wearing all his shadows and demons, was holding a pink bunny.
He ignored me and stepped forward so he could look in the bassinet.
When Mabel let out a squeak, I was quick to lay my hand back on her swaddled chest. She calmed instantly.
Knox didn’t say anything. He just stared.
I was happy to stand in silence and stare at the most precious being that ever lived. Could’ve done it forever.
Knox leaned forward, and I tensed. Even though it was my brother, the one who would die to protect me and in turn, Mabel, he was still a predator. An ancient instinct in my body recognized that.
I knew that Knox saw me tense because that’s who he was, but he didn’t react.
He just placed that bunny in the corner of her bassinet, pausing his hand by her head, hovering as if to touch her before pulling it away, a fist at his side.
It hurt me, fucking killed, actually, that the simple act of touching his newborn niece wasn’t possible for my brother. I couldn’t read his mind, but I could guess that he considered himself too tarnished, too dirty, to sully Mabel.
“She’s beautiful,” Knox whispered.
I nodded. “More than beautiful.”
We stood for a while longer. “She’s gonna need an uncle,” I encouraged quietly. “I know that she already has one who will protect her from all the monsters of this world. But I’m gonna ask that you give her one who will sit with her, have tea parties, whatever the fuck. If that’s out of reach, one who will be there for Christmas.” I glanced at my brother. “Time to find a way out of the shadows, brother. I want this for you.” I motioned to Avery and Mabel. “More than that, you deserve this.”
Knox didn’t say anything for a long while. “One day, long fucking time ago, I might’ve deserved this. But not now. Not after what I’ve done. Who I am. You’ve gotta make your peace with that, brother. I’ll protect her from the monsters of this world, but I can’t sit and have tea with her because I am one of those monsters.”
It hit me in the chest, the surety in which he spoke. And it hit me even harder that part of me might’ve agreed with him.
I opened my mouth to argue once I shut up the shitty part of me I was deeply ashamed of.
But Knox had already turned, heading out of the room.
I didn’t try to stop him, just sighed, looking at my daughter then the pink bunny in her crib.
My brother thought he was beyond saving, but that pink bunny proved he wasn’t.
He just couldn’t be saved by me.
Or himself.
If there was anything I’d learned this past year, it was that the right woman could save a man, one who’d thought he was undeserving.
Two women, I corrected, staring at my daughter while hoping, praying, my brother would find that.
I continued watching Mabel for another hour.
AVERY
Our first night in the hospital was exhausting.
I snatched a few hours of sleep at the beginning of the night, but that was mostly it.
Mabel was restless. She constantly wanted to be held by me or her dad.
I was in too much pain to do things as simple as reaching over the bed to lift her from the hospital bassinet. It was infuriating, humbling and deeply distressing that I couldn’t go to my daughter.
Kane did all the heavy lifting, even changed his first diaper. He did it like he’d done it a thousand times before, kissing Mabel lightly on the head, murmuring some lullaby.
I didn’t have to lift a finger. Never mind that I physically couldn’t do much more than shuffle off the bed, taking me about ten minutes to reach the ground. And when I did reach the ground, blood rushed out of me, puddling on the floor.
The first time it happened, Kane was so alarmed, he called for a nurse. I hadn’t known exactly what to expect postpartum, but the pain, the magnitude of it, was surprising. Same with the blood, the nurses who came into the room every couple of hours to push on my tender uterus and flush even more blood out.
I was not wearing an expensive robe, propped up, nursing my baby while looking fresh and well rested, like popular culture portrayed.
My hair was matted, and I wore my bloody hospital gown until a nurse kindly suggested I change into the pajamas I’d brought with me.
My meticulously packed hospital bag was barely touched, other than the aforementioned pajamas. I had brought a plethora of toiletries including shampoo, conditioner, body wash and skincare products. The thought of standing for the period of time it took to shower made my stomach roil, so I avoided that. I barely managed to splash water on my face and brush my teeth.
My mother and Maisie arrived the next morning, looking far fresher than the two of us.
Well, I should say me .
Yes, Kane’s clothes were slightly rumpled, his hair messier than his usual tousled style, and his eyes were slightly bloodshot. But he still looked handsome, roughish. Just … softer now.
Then there was seeing him with Mabel in his arms. Yes, the sexual part of my body felt like it was shut down inevitably, but it might’ve made my womb clench if it weren’t already aching from shrinking down to its pre-pregnancy size.
“This is the best thing I’ve eaten in my entire life,” I moaned through a full mouth.
Maisie was holding Mabel, who calmed in my sister’s arms right away after fussing over a diaper change.
She sang to her quietly.
I was eating the ham sandwich my mother had brought, wrapped in wax paper. Devouring it like a wolf might’ve been a more accurate description. I didn’t know how starving I was until that moment.
I was still getting the hang of breastfeeding … and to just being a mother while in large amounts of pain. The fact that they didn’t give anything stronger than Motrin should’ve been criminal.
Kane continued to change tiny diapers with large hands, like an expert.
He fawned over me. Kissing me whenever he had a chance, jumping to help me to the bathroom, if he didn’t have the baby in his arms. Gingerly transferring her to my mother or Maisie if he did.
And when the lactation consultant returned, he was right there, front and center, observing the latch and asking questions about positioning, nipple care and what I could and couldn’t eat.
The answers to which he wrote down.
In a little blue notebook.
“It’s my dad book,” he explained proudly, waving it in the air. “It’ll be the dad bible. I’m going to put every piece of advice we get in here.”
There he was, Kane ‘The Devil’ Rhodes, waving a blue notebook around proudly, jotting down information about nipple care and the football hold.
“Google exists,” I reminded him.
“Fuck Google,” he muttered.
I smiled at him then at Mabel, who I was still struggling to believe was mine, that she’d come out of me. Sure, I had all the evidence, stitches and all, to reinforce that she was mine, but it was still surreal.
Soon, my mother and Maisie left to prepare the house for our arrival—whatever that meant.
Though we were covered to stay another night at the hospital, the nurses informed us that both Mabel and I were cleared to go home whenever we wanted.
I thought of the uncomfortable hospital mattress, the cramped bathroom and the constant noise. I compared it to my expensive bedding, soft mattress, large shower and house that I’d never thought of as a home until that moment.
I made the choice to get discharged. Kane had second-guessed it, worrying about me, which seemed to be his new full-time job. But I was insistent. I’d made up my mind. Home, with my comforts, would help make me feel grounded. Right then, everything was different, even my body. It was the still round but significantly smaller bump at my stomach that shocked me the most.
I hadn’t been attached to being pregnant. I hadn’t liked the restrictions that came with it, that people treated me like there was something wrong with me. I’d thought I’d love the freedom of having my body back, but I felt a pang of grief, of emptiness. Never was Mabel safer than when she was tucked up inside me. Now she was in this loud, dangerous world. I was more than mindful that Kane was recognizable, that there were many people who might see him roaming the halls, holding his daughter and think to snap a photo. The mere thought filled me with panic.
Yes, home and safe in our little cottage in our little town was much more preferable.
I was secure in that decision as I gingerly got dressed into the easiest and most comfortable clothes I had. Even that took three times as long as it normally would’ve.
Kane put Mabel in the butterfly-print onesie Maisie had declared her ‘going home outfit.’ I hadn’t known such things existed. I would’ve left her in the hospital onesie and called it a day.
Still in our hospital room, Kane buckled her into the car seat—with the supervision of a nurse to ensure it was done correctly—doing it the same way he did everything thus far, with confidence and ease.
Mabel screamed bloody murder throughout the process, which had me horrified and panicked that he’d accidentally buckled a piece of her skin or bent one of her tiny limbs the wrong way.
The nurse informed me car seat screaming was par for the course, and once she was up and Kane was swinging the seat gently, Mabel quieted.
Kane smirked. “She doesn’t like to be strapped down and has to be constantly on the move. Who does that sound like?”
I smiled if only to mimic his ease, though I certainly didn’t feel it. Not only did Mabel’s crying do something primal and painful to my insides, but I did not feel at all calm. She was too small and her head lolled from side to side with a neck unable to support it. She was far too breakable. And I myself felt fragile, in pieces. Like a bunch of broken China inside a box. If you shook me, I’d rattle.
Then there was the issue that I could only take shuffled steps and had only just managed to walk with a straight spine.
We made the slow walk out of the hospital, the nurse following us to our car to ensure we installed the baby carrier into the base properly.
Then she just … left.
That was it. The last check, the last bit of help we’d get from the professionals. I stared after her as she disappeared through the doors of the hospital.
I had a sudden urge to run back—or shuffle painfully—then pound on the doors, begging to be let back in where the nurses were just a buzzer away. Because they knew things. Like Mabel choking on spit up was just fine. Or that blood gushing from me and puddling on the floor was normal.
I needed their confident, calming and most importantly, educated reassurance.
“Got you, Chef,” Kane murmured, somehow having calmed the now sleeping baby and ready to help me into the backseat with her.
He didn’t question my choice of seat in the car. I deduced that the front seat was too far away from her; I needed to be within touching distance and there to ensure that she continued breathing.
Positional asphyxiation. I’d read about that. It could happen in soft beds, car seats, if the infant was sleeping in one for too long. Suddenly, the laundry list of dangers seemed suffocating and overwhelming.
Kane’s gentle yet firm grip on me, helping me into the backseat, was the only thing that calmed my suddenly frantic mind.
He kissed me gently on the head, reaching in to buckle me and gaze at Mabel for a handful of seconds before closing the door quietly.
I reached over to her amazingly tiny hands, and she snuffled in her sleep, holding my finger tightly in her fist.
My chest clenched at the power of such a small gesture.
“Ready, Chef?” Kane asked, eyes latching onto mine in the rearview mirror.
I felt rather than heard the meaning in those words. He wasn’t just asking if I was ready to leave the parking lot; it felt like he was asking if I was ready to leave our prior lives behind to start a new one.
No was the answer.
Absolutely not.
Her tiny fist flexed around my finger.
“Yeah,” I whispered. “I’m ready.”
Second Night Syndrome.
I only knew the name of it because Maisie had warned me, delicately, as she had everything, when we arrived back home.
She and my mother were there waiting when we came home, food ready, arms open to take the baby while Kane and I devoured the first proper hot meal we’d had in what felt like forever.
It was simple—pasta with red sauce and a load of veggies. My mom and Maisie had both been talking constantly about the ‘warming’ foods I’d be consuming for the next forty days and the foods needed to help repair my womb, balance my hormones and increase my milk production.
Usually, I rolled my eyes at their more eccentric views, but I’d been reading up on different culture’s approaches to postpartum, and there was significant historical evidence to back up a lot of what they were saying.
So I did something that was rather painful for me—I let them take charge of all the food, refreshments and overall care.
I’d been eating pasta and sipping a mug of bone broth while Maisie told us about Second Night Syndrome.
Kane had been eating with one hand, scribbling in his notebook with the other.
Essentially, it was the baby realizing that they were out of the mother’s womb and in the big, loud, cold and intimidating world. The first night they were, apparently, exhausted from the journey through the birth canal—not Mabel, though—and same with the following day.
Mabel had been slumbering peacefully in Maisie’s arms as she explained it, my sister standing and rocking like an expert, sure of each one of her movements, of the way she held her.
I hadn’t seen my sister in this light before. Hadn’t allowed myself too. In my mind, she was the young mother, the free spirit who I struggled to connect to.
I’d brushed off whatever ‘alternative’ knowledge she’d muttered about, barely listening. I hadn’t taken her seriously.
That was my mistake and cross to bear. Same with my mother.
Two women I’d shut out of my life who came running without resentment or blame when I needed them.
I’d ruminated over that the entire second night because I was awake for every moment of it.
Mabel seemed to be glued to my boob. Every time she fell asleep there and I’d thought it was safe to put her in the bedside bassinet—I hadn’t ever decided on one; Kane had taken all of my meticulously constructed spreadsheets and made decisions on all the remaining baby items in about fifteen minutes—her eyes popped open, and she wailed until I put her back on my boob.
My body was still riding on adrenaline. I knew logically that I was exhausted, but I didn’t feel it.
At first, Kane stayed up with me, rubbing my back, getting up to change Mabel when it was clear she needed it, thumbing through his notebook plus the baby books on his side of the table in search of things he could do to help.
“Go to sleep,” I whispered to him as I watched the fatigue roll over him in waves, his bloodshot eyes drooping.
Those drooping eyes widened. “Absolutely fucking not,” he whispered, looking at me and placing his large hand on Mabel’s tiny head. The head that had come out of my vagina. Still insane to think about. But not that insane considering the aforementioned vagina was throbbing with pain to communicate that yes, a head the size of a small basketball had come out of there.
“You need sleep,” I told him.
“So do you,” he countered. “You sleep, I’ll stay up to watch over you.”
A sweet offer. A genuine one. Despite his lethargy, he would stay up to watch us so I could get rest.
“I can’t,” I told him truthfully, nodding down to my breast. “This isn’t exactly the most comfortable thing in the world, and I’m wired. My body is producing hormones in order for me to deal with this. Yours isn’t. You need sleep.”
His brows furrowed. “You need help.”
I shook my head. “You can’t help me; your nipples are useless. Therefore, sleep. There is no point in both of us being exhausted. This parenting thing is a marathon, not a sprint. You need your energy.” I held my finger up to pause him, holding my breast as Mabel moved slightly.
We were both silent, watching her in the low glow of the nightlight I’d bought that doubled as a sound machine.
I’d learned that white noise replicated the sound of the womb. For me, it just grated against my senses.
Mabel settled back down after ten seconds. I counted.
“No arguing,” I whispered to Kane. “Sleep.”
He considered me, us. “Goes against all my better instincts to sleep while my woman is up with my baby.”
“Well, for once, go toward your bad instincts, and sleep.”
He shot me another troubled stare before he leaned in to kiss the side of my mouth. “Yes, Chef.”
My body warmed at the endearment, taking me back to who I was, who we were, for a moment.
He kissed Mabel’s head, curled up beside us, and was asleep within seconds.
It was a credit to how much he’d obviously been fighting against it.
I watched the two of them, my man and my baby sleeping peacefully, going over the past forty-eight hours in my head. The labor felt visceral yet blurry all at the same time. I stared at my phone, watching the time go by while forcing my eyes to stay open. Dawn. If I made it to dawn, then I had made it through the night. Then it would be morning. My mom would be up and Maisie would be there; there would be mothers to help.
Because me… I wasn’t a mother. I didn’t know what I was doing. This poor baby was trying desperately to drink from me, yet there was nothing there. I couldn’t do anything but hold her to my breast and watch the sun start to kiss the horizon.
Kane awoke with a start just after six. He jolted up, his hair askew, eyes wide. “What do you need?”
His hands rushed to Mabel’s head, which had begun moving around, her soft grumbles of disquiet calmed as her half-asleep father took her into his arms.
“Good morning, my pretty princess,” he murmured against her head, inhaling deeply. His eyes met mine, cataloging me.
“You didn’t sleep,” he deduced. “And I did. What an asshole. Fuck, I’m sorry, Chef.”
“You’re sorry for sleeping?” I asked, a hint of teasing in my tone. It felt forced, that lightness, battling against the weight that settled against my chest at some point in the night.
“I’m sorry for sleeping while my woman stayed up with the baby, yeah.” He brushed his hand through his hair, holding Mabel one-handed.
“I’ll get up, you don’t move a fucking muscle,” he demanded. “You sleep. Now.”
Without waiting for me to respond, he got up from bed with Mabel in his arms, walking in the direction of our bedroom.
“Kane,” I called.
He turned, baby against his chest. Our baby against his chest. “Yes, Chef?”
“You’re basically naked,” I pointed out. My skin prickled at the visual.
He was only in his underwear, Mabel nuzzled against his bare torso.
“So?” he shrugged. “She doesn’t care, and we know skin to skin is great for bonding these next few days. Plus, I like the feeling of her close.” He pressed his lips to her head. “And I know you don’t hate the view.” He winked.
“All of those things are true.” I was struggling to have what felt to be a normal conversation when my emotions were pinballing around my brain.
“And as long as you don’t mind my mother and Maisie enjoying that view too—which they will, I’m sure. They have no shame—then you go right ahead.” I shifted in bed, wincing at the small movement and the pain it sent radiating to my crotch area.
Though they were staying at the inn in town, both of them had slept on the pull-out couch last night, in case we needed anything. My mother planned on staying there for the rest of the week. I’d thought it was overly indulgent, but considering the way I was feeling, it wouldn’t be overly indulgent if she stayed there for the next year.
Kane stiffened as he clocked my wince. “What do you need? Painkiller?”
I scoffed as if the measly Motrin would do anything besides dull the edges of the knife carving away at my insides. “No, I need to use the bathroom.” He did not need to know that I also needed to reassemble the pad and hemorrhoid patch concoction that the nurses had showed me.
Kane darted across the room, gingerly setting Mabel down in the bassinet beside our bed.
Her little face instantly screwed up as she made sounds of protest.
“Daddy is going to be right back,” Kane told Mabel. “I’m just helping Mommy.”
I reeled at the labels.
“That’s us,” I muttered. “We’re Daddy and Mommy .”
Kane grinned, his face light despite his exhaustion. “That’s us, Chef. Daddy and Mommy.”
He pulled back the covers, leaning down to put his arms behind my shoulders in order to help me from the bed.
“You don’t need to do that,” I argued, my voice strained with pain. “I’m capable of getting out of bed on my own.”
Mabel’s protests continued in the background, my teeth grinding at the sound of her displeasure.
“I watched you give birth without drugs.” Kane carefully helped maneuver me so my feet touched the floor. “I’m well aware that you can handle the simple act of getting out of bed. But my masculinity cannot handle that my useless nipples can’t do anything other than this.” He pulled me up to standing, again carefully.
When Mabel’s cries intensified, I felt it in my stomach. In my womb, cramping in sync with the wails. In my skin. My jaw clenched and every fiber of my being rebelled at the sound, something inside me screaming to go to my baby.
Despite the blood rushing to my already soaked pad, I made a beeline for Mabel instead of the bathroom.
Kane scooped her up before I could, one hand still on me.
How he could handle our newborn baby so confidently one-handed was anyone’s guess. I still had trouble moving her from one breast to the other—with both of my hands.
Mabel continued to whine, but she seemed to calm somewhat in Kane’s capable grasp. He then began to walk us to the bathroom.
“You need me to help in there?” He, to my mortification, nodded to the toilet.
I pursed my lips. “I think I can take it from here.”
He paused for a moment then nodded.
I closed the door firmly behind me, resting my back against it and closing my eyes for a second.
I wanted, very badly, to sink onto the cool bathroom floor and sleep. A subtle cry from beyond the door sounded, then a soothing, low, masculine whisper.
There was no room for luxuries like sleeping on the bathroom floor. I was a mother now.
Taking a deep breath, I walked to the toilet.
By the time I emerged, neither Kane nor Mabel were anywhere to be seen. A rush of pure, unhinged panic hurtled through me.
I rushed down the stairs—as much as one could rush with their vagina stitched together—and found Kane in the kitchen with my mother, Maisie and Mabel.
Maisie was holding Mabel, Kane with two cups of coffee.
He was somehow dressed.
The thought of getting dressed and dealing with Mabel seemed impossible to me. I guessed he was Kane ‘The Devil’ Rhodes, so he could do such things.
Meanwhile, I could barely make it down the stairs.
Then again, he’s not the one who just gave birth , I reminded myself.
“Chef, I was going to bring this up,” Kane chastised, frowning with concern. “The doctor said you’re not supposed to use stairs.”
I tore my eyes from Mabel, seemingly content with my experienced sister, my heart yearning to hold her even as I enjoyed the break. I blinked at the sun streaming through the windows, remembering my lack of sleep then Kane’s words.
I took the coffee thankfully. “Our bedroom is on the second floor; I have to use the downstairs,” I sipped the liquid, hoping to hell it would work its magic.
Was it safe to have caffeine while breastfeeding? I searched my brain for the information, but all there seemed to be inside of it was that toy monkey playing the drums over and over again.
“You don’t need to come down the stairs,” Kane argued, breaking my mind-monkey’s rhythm. “We’ve got you.”
“And what am I supposed to do?” I asked. “Lounge around in bed all day?”
“I wouldn’t call it lounging; I think they call it recovering from having a baby ,” Kane said dryly. “Remember the triple five rule? Five days in bed, five days on the bed and five days near the bed.”
Even though the concept of bed seemed incredibly enticing right then, I knew from the previous night that bed did not equate sleep. And feeling stuck in a horizontal position when I wasn’t sleeping, even if I was recovering, made my toes itch.
“Well, that’s just ridiculous,” I snapped. “I’m not spending ten days in bed.”
I hadn’t spent longer than one day in bed in my whole adult life, and that was when I had walking pneumonia, which interestingly, it is quite hard to walk around with.
Kane looked like he was going to argue, but my mother stepped in.
“Darling, Kane said you had a hard night and you didn’t sleep,” she deftly changed the subject. “Are you okay?”
The simple question asked in a genuine, loving and concerned tone, mixed with my mother’s caring gaze and all the other ingredients in the postpartum soup made me, to my horror, burst into tears.
My mother scurried over to envelop me in her arms. I held onto her and let my tears come. I felt exceedingly small and weak and helpless.
“Oh, darling.” My mother stroked my head, emotion bursting from her voice. “It’s the baby blues. You’re going to get just a touch if you’re lucky, although even a touch feels like you’ve been run over by a freight train.” She kissed my temple, brushed away my tears.
“It doesn’t help that you haven’t slept a wink,” she added.
“I couldn’t,” I half sobbed, struggling to get myself under control. “She needed me. It seemed like the only thing I could do was put her on my boob, and I don’t even think she got anything.”
Maisie came over, cradling Mabel as she reached out to rub my arm. “It’s just her stimulating your milk production. It’ll ease up when it comes in. Well, until cluster feeding, but we won’t talk about that right now.”
My eyes bugged out. “Yes, let’s talk about that right now,” I demanded. I looked at Kane, eyeing me over his coffee cup with concern. “Where’s your notebook? We’re getting all the information.
“Sweetie, take a breath,” Mom cooed. “You don’t need all the information right now.”
“I do,” I argued. “I need all of the information. Because I can’t do this. I can’t be an amazing mother like you two.” I waved my hands at them. “I can’t do any of it.”
To my horror, more tears streamed down my face.
“Babe, when you first walked into a professional kitchen, did you know how to make a consommé?” Maisie asked, transferring Mable to her capable father’s arms.
I frowned at her, interested that she even knew what a consommé was. “No, not really.”
“Exactly,” she said, gently walking me to the breakfast nook. “You don’t know anything about being a mother because it is your very first day .” She sat me down. “This is not something you’re expected to be an expert in. Not that there is such a thing as being an expert mother. This is something you mold into. And you will. For now, let me and Mom make you food, enjoy the sunrise, watch the ocean and hold her. That’s all she needs. The rest will come.”
My sister spoke calmly, sagely, as if she were the one who was six years older. She’d always brought the younger sister energy with her energetic soul. But then, I saw her for what she was: mother of two, a caretaker.
I’d always thought of ‘mother’ as an ordinary title. It was one of the most common in the world after all. Almost anyone could be it, do it. Or so I’d thought. I was beginning to realize it was the most specialized title one could have, something so beyond ordinary it was a joke.
I struggled to restrain a sob as Kane sat beside me and gingerly handed me Mabel. When she snuffled at my chest, Kane’s deft fingers moved my shirt to help her latch on. He rested his hand on her head, the other on the back of my neck.
He didn’t say anything. Nor did my mom or Maisie. The two of them made us breakfast while I sat with Kane and Mabel, the sun streaming through the windows, watching the ocean.
I’d never felt more fragile in my life. Never felt more present. Or more scared. I tried my best to mold into it.
“Marathon, not a sprint,” Kane leaned in to whisper my words from last night.
I nodded then sank into him.
Kiera arrived later that day.
Thankfully, I had pulled myself together somewhat, having been all but carried back to bed with Mabel. The two of us spent the day napping and feeding, my mother and sister coming in with a steady stream of food and drinks.
“You need to keep your fluids up while breastfeeding,” Maisie said as she fluffed the covers and opened the windows to let the sea breeze in.
“I’ll go prepare your sitz bath,” she added.
I clutched onto her wrist, careful of Mabel.
“Maise,” I whispered.
She looked down at me.
“Thank you,” I told her. “I know I haven’t been the best big sister, or really a sister at all. And you being here, it means a lot.”
Maisie’s eyes twinkled as she smiled, covering my hand with hers. “There’s nowhere I would be, Rey.” It felt good to hear her use the name she called me when she was little. The age gap between us meant I’d merely tolerated her once the novelty of a new baby wore off, and she’d followed me around like a puppy, desperate for my attention.
One more squeeze then she was gone to prepare the sitz bath, later taking Mabel while Kane helped lower me into it.
The horrors didn’t cease. Though Kane didn’t seem bothered in the slightest. He put on an acoustic Unquiet Mind playlist, promised he’d be back in ten minutes then left me, giving me time to decompress.
And as promised, he was back to help me out and get me dressed, but then came hurricane Kiera.
She was laden with bags as she breezed in, declaring Mabel the ‘cutest fucking baby to grace the planet’ as she gave me a long hug. She hadn’t met my mother or Maisie yet, but unsurprisingly, the three of them got along like they’d known each other for years.
What was surprising was that my best friend was so very similar to my mother and sister. Well, not surprising, maybe just that I hadn’t noticed it sooner. Though I’d been shutting them out my entire adult life, I’d also been unconsciously searching for their energy.
Another deep, introspective thought … one I normally would shut out, but I was a raw nerve those days. And in between my soul clenching doubts about my ability to be a mother, my tiredness and inescapable anxiety, I seemed to have time for existential crises.
Kiera stayed for a week, at a hotel on the ocean. She tried to help, but unlike my mother and Maisie, she was not a mother; that stuff didn’t come natural to her. But she was there, a reminder of my old life. Who I used to be. Her presence was enough.
She left with promises to come back, but I knew part of her was relieved to leave. She felt out of place in my new life, new dynamic. I felt it, the shift in our relationship, like tectonic plates moving.
The goodbye was bittersweet. I knew Kiera would never be gone from my life, but her position was different now. I grieved that.
There was still another week left before my mother and Maisie left, and I felt the time moving like a noose around my neck, tightening with each passing day. Kane was amazing, helping in every way he could. He would jerk awake, back ramrod-straight, spluttering, “What do you need?” before he was even awake.
Mabel was a beautifully complicated baby. She required every second of our waking hours. She did not like to be sitting, or on her back. Whenever someone was holding her, they had to do laps around the house. Or walk along the beach. With, of course, Blanche in tow. Because wherever Mabel was, Blanche was. At the feet of whomever was holding her. And on the rare occasions Mabel was put down in the bassinet, Blanche laid directly underneath it.
Not that Mabel laid in a bassinet to nap often. Usually, it was in her besotted father’s arms. He rarely put her down and routinely wore her in the baby carrier that had arrived as a gift from Kip and Fiona.
She fed often, and my breasts were only just recovering from breastfeeding. From the painful engorgement, where I grew three cup sizes. The cracked, bleeding nipples. The powerful let down. All of my clothes were stained with breast milk. Our sheets too.
Mabel fed hourly, on rare magical occasions, it was every two hours during the night. I routinely forced myself to stay awake, only to wake an hour later, Mabel resting happily on my chest.
I would punish myself for this, having heard and read about the dangers of bedsharing.
“You will feel guilt about it all,” Maisie informed me when I told her. “You will find people or articles to reinforce that guilt. ‘You’re putting your baby in danger if you co-sleep, you’re depriving them of comfort if you don’t, you’re giving them abandonment issues if you sleep train, you’re not giving them self-soothing skills if you don’t.’ It will drive you fucking crazy.” She rubbed my arm. “The decisions you make on your own are your best decisions. Like I said before, you’ve got a lifetime of decisions ahead of you that you’ll question and second guess. But you’re doing great.”
It was one of many pep talks that Maisie offered, since like she predicted, I did question everything. I was paralyzed by indecision. I couldn’t put Mabel in the car seat. Not only did she scream bloody murder when anyone did, I was tortured with thoughts that I was buckling her too tight. So Kane did it. Like he did all the practical things pertaining to her. I barely knew how to change a diaper that first week, still feeling like I was fumbling, all thumbs.
Me, who could effortlessly debone a branzino.
Mom and Mabel did all the cooking, because even though I yearned for the kitchen, my brain couldn’t conjure up a single dish, let alone the steps to make that dish. They did all the laundry, the cleaning. They took Mabel in the early mornings and evenings so Kane and I could sleep. I’d creep downstairs to where my mother was still sleeping on the pull-out, the sun would be rising, my mother would be propped up in bed, waiting with her arms open.
I’d hand off a sleeping Mabel who would nuzzle into my mother’s chest, then I’d do a zombie walk back to sleep. Only to wake up in a panic.
One morning, I sat up screaming, “Where’s the baby?”
Hearing my angst, Kane had scrambled up and looked under the bed for her before we both realized she was downstairs with Mom.
That was not the first or the last panic-stricken moment. I’d woken many times in alarm, thinking she was tangled in the duvet. I tried to nurse a pillow another night.
And this was with my mother and Mabel’s help.
I feared, truly feared, their exit.
When I communicated my panic to my mother, she hadn’t so much as blinked in shock at the way I was not only willingly sharing this but being open and vulnerable with her.
“Trust your motherly instincts; you know what’s best for her,” she said, lighting touching Mabel’s head.
My eyes snapped up at my mother and her well-meaning words spoken in a delicate tone. “My instincts?” I repeated in a harsh whisper so I wouldn’t wake her. Though when she was in my arms, a tornado running through the living room wouldn’t wake her. Carefully placing her in her bassinet was the only surefire way to jolt her awake.
“I don’t have instincts when it comes to babies.” I continued. “I have instincts when it comes to the correct time to take a blue cheese souffle out of the oven. When a Wagyu steak is perfectly rare. How long to sear scallops for.” I looked down at the little smattering of dark hair. “And I certainly don’t know what’s best for her. I just met her. These people are experts.” I tapped the nearest book. “These people have degrees and knowledge about babies. I know food, that’s it. I do not know how to do this.” My words were emphasized by a sob.
“Here’s the secret, sweetie.” My mother leaned forward to brush the tears from my face. “No one knows how to do this. We’re all just pretending, making decisions that we hope are right. Doing our best.” She looked outside, to where Kane was on the phone. “And you have the best man.”
I followed her gaze, unable to disagree with her.
But even with the best man, I felt like we’d fail.