by Julia Kent
“Panicked. Jemma and Henry have to go to Providence for her sister’s wedding! I can’t get home for Holly. I’m the worst mother ever!”
I start sobbing.
“I’m on my way to your place.”
“What?”
“You’re not going to get out of there tonight. You’ll be lucky to be home tomorrow.” He pauses. I don’t know how to interpret it, but the silence makes me sit up, tears stopping. “I’ll stay with the baby. Or bring her to my place. Something,” he mutters.
There have been very few times in my life when I have literally been speechless. I cannot think of a single thing to say.
“Chloe? Are you there?”
“Yes! Did you just say...”
“I’ll take care of Holly.”
“No! It’s too much to ask… I don’t know what to say! Do you know how to change a diaper?”
He laughs. “Well, unless the whole concept has somehow changed, I think I can remember.”
“It’s a lot, Nick, and she doesn’t know you that well. She’s teething and gets cranky, and she might have another new tooth coming in...”
We both go quiet.
My call waiting beeps.
This is a very bad idea, but it’s the only idea we have.
“Chloe.”
His voice is so warm, like sunlight on sand. He doesn’t need to say more.
“You’re sure?”
“Chloe.”
“I promise I will be on the first plane to Boston. Or train. Jemma will show you everything. And I’ll be by my phone every second. And there’s a list of emergency information—not that it was any use when this emergency came up—there’s not much food in the house… oh Nick, I can’t believe you’re doing this!”
“Neither can I, actually.”
I think that’s what he says. The connection is breaking up.
I only hope we don’t, after this.
I click over to Jemma, to give her the good news.
Good news. Ha.
Here it is. The moment everyone warned me about. I knew being a single mother by choice would be hard. I knew adopting would bring up my own adoption issues. Do mothers who aren’t adoptees panic like this when it comes to an unexpected absence from their child? I don’t have a barometer for measuring my own reactions against the norm.
I knew I’d need support networks and backup plans and that this fragile little life would depend on me in ways I never imagined.
But this – this isn’t my fault.
So why do I feel like it is?
Nick
“I thought you said she wasn’t my little sister,” Jean-Marc grouses, looking at Holly like she’s a rare animal in a zoo exhibit licking the window.
“She’s not. Chloe’s in a bind, trapped in a freak storm in New York. I’m watching her tonight.” After talking a panicked Chloe down off her snow-covered ledge, I went to her house to find Jemma dressed in an elegant gown, Henry in black tie, and a thirty-page manual clearly written by Chloe, who should turn her talents toward writing pandemic preparation manuals for the CDC.
With assurances all would be fine, I sent them off.
Chloe’s place is tiny, and all three of my kids are home for the beginning of winter break. It seemed easier to bring Holly here, along with half her baby gear, where the four of us can trade off child care. One seasoned father and three young adults should have no problem managing one teething infant.
Holly seems unimpressed by my townhouse, preferring to focus entirely on the button on my business shirt cuff as I hold her. Dark hair, straight and shiny like a wet seal, sprouts from her little head. Her birth mother is Asian and Holly’s eyes are dark, but rounded. Chloe doesn’t talk much about the birth father, but I’m guessing he wasn’t Asian, given Holly’s features.
For as serendipitous as the circumstances of Chloe’s adoption of Holly are, she looks like Chloe. It’s a strange – and beautiful – coincidence.
I’ll have to ask about Chloe’s baby pictures someday.
“Ay ya ga,” Holly says, before dive bombing my thumb joint and clamping down like it’s a chew toy.
I stare at the selection of baby toys I brought from Chloe’s place and let her gnaw on me.
“Yeah. I got the last train out of town. A bunch of my friends are stuck in New York.” Jean-Marc reaches for Holly’s hand. She wraps a slick palm around his index finger. “Like Chloe, I guess.”
“Urg,” Holly says, grinning madly, a string of drool running down to their clasped hands.
Jean-Marc takes it in stride. “Babies are gross.”
“So are teenage boys.”
“It’s not a competition, Dad.”
I laugh. “No, it’s not. But babies don’t forsake paying to do laundry so they can spend more on entertainment.” I look pointedly at his overstuffed duffel bag.
“I budget reasonably.”
“That bag smells like a prison cell.”
“DADDY!” Elodie walks in the front door, eyes like saucers, tossing her own bag of laundry on top of Jean-Marc’s bag of shame. “Is that Chloe’s baby?”
“Nah. Dad just decided to start a day care, El.”
“Shut up.”
She ignores me completely and smoothes back the tuft of hair on Holly’s crown. It stubbornly sticks back up.
“Aren’t you the sweetest!” she says, her voice full of sugar.
“Urg,” Holly answers, opening her mouth and smiling with her whole face.
“Where’s Chloe?” Elodie looks around wildly. “Have you reached the point where you’re having the kids meet? Is it that serious, Daddy?” Her voice has dropped to a whisper.
“Why are you whispering?” Jean-Marc calls out from the kitchen, where he’s digging in the fridge for leftovers. “It’s not like the baby can’t hear you.”
“Because I don’t want to be rude and say the wrong thing in front of Chloe!” Elodie shrieks. The sound could call dogs in battle.
Holly’s happy countenance changes to surprise.
And then her face crumples into tears, her own shrieks surpassing Elodie’s as if this were, indeed, a competition.
“See what you did?” Jean-Marc shouts, irritated. “You made the baby cry.”
Hands flying to cover her mouth, Elodie looks at me in horror. “I’m sorry!”
“Shhh shhh shhh,” I say, bouncing Holly on one hip, focused on getting her to calm down. She’s electric with fear, that full-body, full-throated screaming that babies have, where all the emotions pour out at once because there are no boundaries to contain them.
Within a minute, she’s sniffling against my shoulder, body shaking with little sobs, and then a long, peaceful rattling sigh indicates that balance has been restored. I kiss her head and rub her soft scalp, smelling apricot and beeswax. She’s deadweight in my arms now, most of her mass held up by my inner elbow, forearm up against her shoulder. Muscles I haven’t used in years spring back to life with memory and I look at the last baby I held regularly.
Jean-Marc’s holding a milk carton upside down and draining it. He looks like a young Charlie. He throws the empty into the trash, then searches the cupboards and finds a red can, shaking the remains of a Pringles tube into his open mouth.
Given that I don’t eat those, Charlie’s going to come home and be pissed that his mini-me has learned all his tricks and one-upped him in draining his inventory.
Elodie’s studying me with narrowed eyes.
“You’re really good with her,” she says, with misplaced suspicion.
“Shhhhh,” I soothe. I’d forgotten how babies change time itself. Minutes and hours telescope into a free-floating mode of being. You can’t be in charge of a baby and have specific goals. You can try, and you can be fooled into thinking you’re succeeding. Like poor Chloe.
All it takes is one freak surprise to make you realize you’re not really in control.
“Where’s Amelie?” I ask.
Holly’s head pops up, as if to ask the s
ame question. She looks around the room as if we’re on the hunt.
“On her way.”
“I really do get all three of you here tonight?”
She shrugs. “It’s winter break. I’m not doing anything until Monday.”
“And you said because I’m doing study abroad next year, you wouldn’t pay for me to go anywhere,” Jean-Marc grouses.
“You poor, suffering child. Would you like an extra serving of porridge to make up for it?” I ask dryly.
“So you get us all!” Elodie squeals, her face stretched into an overly happy expression as she taps Holly’s nose.
Peals of laughter fill the room.
Bzzz.
Fumbling, I reach into my back pocket for the phone. It’s an actual call.
“Nick? Nick? How is everything?” Panic fills my ear. “Is Holly okay?”
“Bop!” Elodie says.
Holly giggles.
“Is that Holly?” Chloe asks, the panic draining out of her voice.
I laugh, a deep sound that surprises even me in its purity. “Yes.”
“Bop!” Elodie, encouraged by her audience’s response, keeps going.
Giggle.
“It sounds – it sounds like you have everything under control,” Chloe says, her voice filled with marvel.
“So far.”
“Is she upset?”
“She’s had her moments.”
“What happened?”
“She got scared.”
“She must be terrified! She’s only ever been watched by me or Jemma. Is – should I talk to her? Can you Facetime?”
Chloe’s words are blipping in and out. “Chloe? I think the connection’s bad.”
“I – but – can you Face—”
Signal out.
“Shit.”
“Daddy! Don’t curse in front of the baby!”
“It’s fine. She can’t really imitate words for another few months.” I chuckle. “I remember when Amelie learned to say merde, though. Your mother said it one too many times around her when she was about fourteen months old and it stuck. Oh, man, was Simone pissed.” I smile at the memory.
Holly smiles back.
Elodie and Jean-Marc share an intrigued look. “Really?”
“Except she said it like mer, so Simone convinced people she was just talking about the sea.” My mind takes me back to a time when both twins were starting to walk and talk, when Elodie had long, crazy hair in a topknot and eyes bigger than her head. “But she said it whenever she was mad.”
Elodie tilts her head as she watches Holly, brow knit. “What about me?” she asks softly.
“What about you?”
“Tell me a story about me as a baby.”
My mind goes blank.
She waits, holding her breath.
“You were the sweetest baby. The easiest of the three.”
Elodie reels back in shock.
“Maman says I’m the most stubborn of her children!”
“I said you were an easy baby. Not an easy child.”
“What went wrong, Dad? When did she become such a pain in the ass?” Jean-Marc asks, crossing his arms, giving Elodie an amused chuckle.
“After I dropped her on her head.”
“DADDY!”
“You were fluent in French before English,” I say slowly, remembering. “Which was strange, because Amelie and Jean-Marc learned English first. You wandered around like a little drunken toddler, mixing English and French all the time. At one point, Simone was worried you had a speech disorder. We finally had you evaluated when you were about two and a half and the specialist said you just had a unique way of learning.”
“That’s medical speak for weird,” Jean-Marc interjects.
Elodie throws a sofa pillow at him. He ducks. It hits the empty Pringles can and sends it flying across the room.
Holly giggles.
We all laugh.
This is going to be a piece of cake.
Chloe
Jack has managed to get me into an Anterdec reserved hotel room, which must be the only available room in the entire city. I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at my phone.
No messages of any kind.
I call Nick. Voicemail.
I call Jemma. Voicemail.
I call Room Service. “Yes, Ms. Browne?”
Thank god somebody picks up my calls. This was beginning to feel like a sci-fi movie.
“Could I please have a vodka martini with a twist? No, on second thought, two vodka martinis?”
It’s not like I’m going anywhere. I look at the window. Whiteout.
“Yes, Ms. Browne. Anything else? We are serving a full dinner menu.”
I’m a contentment eater, remember? And I am SO not content right now.
“No, thanks, just the drinks.”
That first martini may be the best thing I have ever tasted. The second is pretty damn good, too.
“Yes, Ms. Browne?”
“Hi. Hi,” I say softly, sweetly. “I was wondering if you could maybe send up another of these fantastic martinis? With lemon?”
“Of course. Will there be anything else? We’re featuring tagliatelle pasta with a puttanesca sauce. It’s excellent.”
“Oh no, no, thank you. No pasta. Just the drink.”
I have no clothes to change into, but there’s a white robe in the closet. So much more relaxing than work clothes and stockings.
I should be giving Holly her bath right now. I can practically smell the lavender baby shampoo. What is happening there? Why is no one picking up my calls?
At last, my phone lights up:
Text from Nick: She’s crying. Been crying for about fifteen minutes, no sign of stopping. All 4 of us have tried everything. What does she want?
All four of us? Huh?
Me: I don’t know, what’s happening? Who’s with you?
Nick: I gave her bottle, now crying. Me and my three kids here to help.
Oh, they’re all there? The bridge of my nose prickles with a rush of emotion, eyes filling. Nick managed to call in reinforcements. I couldn’t find anyone, but he has this network.
I need a network.
I need him.
Me: Did you try her binky?
Nick: What is binky?
OMG! Does he not speak English? Should I check Google Translate?
Me: Binky! Binky!
Nick: ???
I stare at the screen, thinking hard.
Pacifier, I type.
No dots. A very long minute goes by.
YES! appears in a grey bubble.
I fall backwards on the bed in relief.
Found it in cat litter box. Wiped on pant leg. She’s sucking on it happily, he answers.
I burst out laughing.
If I weren’t in your debt, you’d be dead, I reply.
You owe me? he types back. That could get interesting.
I’ll be home first thing tomorrow, I tap out.
Doubt it, Nick replies. There goes our date.
Oh no no no, oh please no… I really need that date…
Facetime, I type.
Nick: ?
If we can’t be together, we’ll Facetime our date.
Blank screen.
G2G need to rock her now chat later
Seriously? He needs to rock her? I need him to rock me.
Hello? I type. Facetime date. I promise you’ll have fun
Sometime later, he responds: ;) Exhausted G’night
I can’t imagine why he’s so tired?
I click on the TV and scroll through the offerings, which seem to be mostly described as ‘Adult.’ Which gives me an idea.
Nick
“There’s Mama,” I say, pointing to the iPad screen. Elodie’s sharing hers with Holly so Chloe can “talk” to the baby. Chloe looks haggard and frayed, deep grooves of worry in the muscles of her face, but her eyes light up when we get Holly on screen.
“Hi, baby!”
Chloe promptly bur
sts into tears.
Holly tries to gum the corner of the tablet.
“She’s fine,” I soothe, at a loss. How do you comfort someone on Facetime? You can’t hug the screen and have that count.
“I’m sorry,” Chloe says with a sniffle. “It’s just so good to see her. Thank you. How is everything going?”
“We want to babysit more!” Amelie chirps, half her face coming into view from the left side of the screen. “Holly’s a blast!”
“Hi Amelie!’ Chloe says with a shaky smile. “Are you all there?”
“Yes!” Elodie says, waving.
“Hey,” Jean-Marc grunts.
“You have four adults for one baby. You’ve got this covered,” she says, her voice filled with awe. It hits me. She doesn’t have three people she can call for help. She has Jemma and Henry, but they’re more like one person.
That’s it.
I bounce Holly on my knee as she slimes the glass screen, trying to touch Chloe, who makes raspberries at the baby.
Chloe has Jemma and Henry.
And now she has me.
The kids talk to Chloe while I balance the baby, her hands sticky with saliva, little baby noises indicating happiness. Chloe’s engaged in an intense discussion with Jean-Marc about the restaurants closest to her hotel in NYC as Amelie sneaks off to do her laundry. Elodie watches me.
I hope she can’t see all the pieces of me, slowly falling to the ground, like a tree shedding fall leaves.
Free. For years I’ve spent so much time spinning my wheels, taking care of kids, building a business, finding stability, with my eyes on the prize. Not freedom.
No.
Family.
I look around the room, at Jean-Marc scavenging for food again, at Holly playing with my shirt button, at Elodie telling Chloe they’re about to make a toy run for Holly and not to worry about BPA or red paint in any toys, and the concept of freedom turns to mist.
One gust of wind and it’s gone.
One deep breath and it blends.
Chapter 21
Chloe
Date night.
11:00 p.m.
Showtime.
I’ve spent the day watching the snow pile up, plows rumbling by on the streets, small Bobcat vehicles clearing the sidewalks. Constantly checking Weather.com and the airline site doesn’t seem to have any effect on accumulation. It just keeps relentlessly falling.