from Hope’s baby breathing and the gentle pressure on my finger from her grip send me off into sleep.
Chapter 14
I’m jolted awake to the sound of crying. I sit up slowly and push my hair back from my eyes. It’s almost dark. My face feels weird—I run my hand over it to find there are hundreds of little imprints on my cheek from the grass. The park sounds have stopped. Shit, my phone is dead. Jaime and Emory are gone. Probably long gone. The air is a lot chillier now. And Hope is wailing away.
I lean forward and sniff her butt—yup, she crapped her diaper. Fantastic.
I slap my face a couple of times to wake myself up and go about the disgusting yet depressingly mundane task of changing her.
There’s a garbage can about ten yards away, and I move to throw away the reeking diaper but stop. I can’t just leave her here on the grass. I’ve seen America’s Most Wanted. Babies get snatched like that all the time. A parent turns his head for one second, then poof.
Yet another example of how nothing, even something as minute as throwing away a diaper, will ever be easy again. I put the diaper down, pick up the crying baby, and begin the ridiculously complicated process of putting my shirt on while holding her. It involves a lot of shrugging and shifting her from arm to arm, while her arms, legs, and head bobble every which way and she screams in my ears. Then I pack all the diaper stuff back in the bag, secure the baby harness to my chest, and slide Hope inside. She’s probably hungry. Actually, so am I. And then I remember—eggplant parm. Shit, what time is it?
“We’ll get you a bottle soon, baby,” I say, picking up the diaper and finally trudging over to the trash can.
Fifteen minutes later, I walk through my front door. The clock on the wall at the top of the stairs says 7:46.
“Mom?”
“In here.”
She’s in the kitchen, sitting at the set table. She sticks her bookmark in her book. There’s a basket of garlic bread in the center of the table and two open beer bottles—a near-empty one at her place setting and a full one at mine, dripping with condensation. I raise an eyebrow. This is new.
Mom follows my gaze. “I thought we could have a beer together, since, you know, you’re a dad now, a grown-up for all intents and purposes. But clearly I was wrong.”
Oh, now I see it. She’s pissed.
“I’m so sorry, Mom. My phone died. And I fell asleep.” I pull my phone out of my pocket and slide it across the table as evidence.
She rakes her hands through her hair. Huh. I must get that from her. Never noticed that before. “Where were you?”
“At the lake.”
She studies me. I’m just standing there, at the table, like I’m waiting for her invitation to sit down. Like this isn’t my house too.
Finally Mom’s face changes, and the annoyance and accusation fade away. “Give me that baby,” she says, holding out her arms.
I pass Hope over, and Mom shushes and coos at her. “She’s hungry,” I say. I drop the bag and baby harness in the middle of the floor, heat a bottle for Hope, and pull the eggplant parm out of the oven. It smells amazing. I serve it up, and we all eat. I drink my beer, because warm beer is better than no beer. That was crazy cool of Mom. I look at her, somehow managing to eat her food while also feeding the baby in her arms, and something hits me—something so obvious and duh but something I never really thought about before, at least on a conscious level.
“You’re a really good mom, Mom,” I say.
She looks up, surprised. “Thanks, Ry. I’ve had practice, you know.” She nods to Hope, who’s happily chowing down on her formula.
“I know. But it’s not only the baby stuff. You’ve always been a good mom to me, no matter how old I am.”
She smiles, and the little lines next to her eyes that none of her friends have yet get all crinkly.
I take another swig. I guess I’m in the mood for talking, because I say, “Meg’s parents weren’t good parents.”
Mom just nods, like she already knew that.
I scrape my plate clean with the side of my fork and lick off the last bits of sauce and cheese. “I’m gonna get more. You want?”