birds of prey might swoop from above and take him again.
“You realize,” Paul had joked to the ER nurse the day they were reunited, “that after this you will never see Wyeth Nova in the NFL, or even PeeWee Football. And no soccer either—those kids are rough! In fact, you might want to invest in bubble wrap stock, because we’re going to be buying a lot of it.”
The nurse had laughed, one of her fingers in the sleeping baby’s clutches, Paul holding the other hand, smoothing Wyeth’s hair with his palm. Eva was in the bathroom down the hall—relief had liquefied the contents of her stomach, and she was doubled over on the toilet. Paul leaned down to kiss Wyeth’s downy head again, shocked to smell stale smoke and sour milk.
“And I don’t think”—Paul swallowed, trying to keep his voice light as he looked at the ghost of a bruise on his son’s cheek, the scab forming on his tiny nose—“we’ll even be able to let him take up an instrument. A cello, a tuba—those things are heavy. They could fall on him. Maybe the harmonica.” And the nurse had laughed again, and Paul knew it must feel good to have moments like this in her line of work, to be a part of a happy ending.
NOW, SIX WEEKS LATER, and they are walking back from Strohecker’s on a Saturday afternoon, a warm wind and struggling sun heralding the spring in the hilly, twisted streets of Portland Heights. He has a cotton short-sleeved shirt on under the baby carrier, and Wyeth’s feet and head are bare outdoors for the first time in his short life. That we know of, Paul thinks, and again it makes him weak to realize there are so many days unaccounted for in the short life of his son.
Eva is carrying a grocery bag with lemons, wax-paper-wrapped scallops, a crumbly wedge of parmesan cheese, all of the ingredients for Paul’s famous seafood pasta. Baby steps, the painfully slow return to Life As They Knew It. This week, for the first time, Paul had kept normal electrician hours, leaving early, not coming home for lunch. He had let himself get wrapped up in the demands of his growing business (there is no longer anyone in the Portland metro area, maybe even the whole state, who doesn’t know the name Nova).
“It really is spring.” Eva points out snowdrops nodding around the base of the McAdoos’ lampposts, purple crocuses with yellow throats by their For Sale sign.
“Mmm-hmm.” Paul puts his lips to the top of Wyeth’s head, lets the wispy hairs tickle the skin between his lips and nose. He inhales the delicious smell of oatmeal baby wash and apricot massage oil, hints of milky sweetness; the smells of vulnerability.
“Francie says she’s having an open house tomorrow. She expects a good turnout.”
“Mmm. That place will go quickly if they get the right buyer.”
Now it is Eva’s turn to nod, reach over with her left hand, and take hold of one of Wyeth’s dangling feet, cup his heel in her palm as they walk. His wife looks like a stranger. Tired of being recognized from all the publicity, Eva had cut her blond masses to her chin, had it chemically, permanently straightened, lightened to platinum. She looks like a Dutch doll, her sleek hair bobbing along as she walks. Her eyes are clear, her features sharper, thinner than they have ever been. This morning she had had him punch a new hole in her belt, amazed that her old jeans no longer stayed up.
“Not a diet plan I’d recommend,” he’d heard her joke wryly to Francie McAdoo the last time they had gotten together and she had exclaimed over the new Eva.
“How is Francie?”
“Fine. We’re getting together for a playdate on Monday. She said she’s finally feeling settled.”
Paul doesn’t answer right away. Still picturing Eva driving Wyeth to Francie’s, he has to grab the reins of his imagination—these are normal things. Mothers and babies do this, get in cars and go places. Baby steps.
“The shelter came, picked up the crib.”
It made sense, donating the brand-new crib Wyeth never slept in to the women’s shelter downtown. They had been reading about attachment parenting, all the benefits to cosleeping with your baby. It seemed better to give it to someone who needed it.
“I have the tax slip for you,” she adds.
Paul swallows, nods. He wants to touch her fragile blond hair, brittle like spun sugar. Her transformation is comforting, appropriate, the outside