Paige Torn (24 page)

T
here is a text waiting from Tyler when I finally call it a day at five thirty.

J
UST WANTED TO APOLOGIZE FOR WHAT
I
SAID YESTERDAY AFTER LUNCH —
I
CAN BE TOO BLUNT SOMETIMES.
H
OPE YOU ARE HAVING A GREAT DAY,
P
AIGE.

I write him back.

N
O BIG DEAL.
Y
OU ARE MOST LIKELY RIGHT.
T
HANKS FOR BEING HONEST WITH ME.
I
'LL SEE YOU
W
EDNESDAY NIGHT.

I drive home. I am planning on going home and changing before heading back to the grocery store. I decided to dress up today, and my heels are killing my feet.

I climb my apartment stairs and find a white envelope taped to the door.

I am half creeped out. First, because that means someone has been on my porch and stuck a note to my door without me being there. Second, because it doesn't have a name or anything on it.

I pull it off slowly and open it. It is a card.

Paige, thought you could use this.

Inside is a Chili's gift card. And it isn't signed. I turn the card over to check. Even the handwriting is indistinguishable. All caps.

Great. Now, how am I supposed to write a thank-you note? I smile though and walk inside. Looks like ribs are in my future tonight.

I call Layla.

“Hey, Paige,” she answers, sounding busy.

“Did you leave me a Chili's gift card?”

“Did I what?” Her voice gets muffled. “Peter, no, I don't like that there. Hang on a second, Paige.”

She starts talking to Peter, and I decide to change my clothes. I kick off my heels, find a pair of ratty jeans, and grab a TCU T-shirt.

“Sorry, Paige. Peter went with me to the grocery store, and he hasn't quite gotten my pantry system down.”

“You have a pantry system?” Layla's pantry looks like a canned-good donation stash. Nothing is grouped together that I can tell.

“Sure I do. I organize by expiration date.”

Only Layla would do that.

“Now, what do you want?” she asks me. “We can't go to Chili's tonight. Mom and Dad want to take us out to dinner. Though, they'd probably love for you to join us, so you should just come along.”

“No, no, I'm fine.” I can indeed say the word
no
. Twice today, as a matter of fact. It isn't my fault that Sandra seduced
me into saying
yes
to her sweet tea. I am looking forward to telling Peggy and Candace tomorrow about my victories.

“Anyway, I don't think we're going to Chili's. Mom said something about Panera. But if you're craving Chili's, I can probably convince them to go there.”

Suddenly, I am craving macaroni and cheese. “No, Layla, really. I don't want to invite myself to your dinner tonight. Someone left a Chili's gift card on my door, and I'm just calling to say thank you, if it was you.”

“Oh, well, it wasn't me. Though I probably owe you more than a Chili's gift card for all the work you've done for Mom and Dad's party. Speaking of which, I finally bought all the stuff to make the invitations.”

I frown. “Wait, what?” Last I'd heard, she was going to just send e-vites. And that was after her other brilliant idea of having them made by some lady she'd found at an online craft fair.

“Yep. I got cream-colored paper, some burlap and muslin, and some blue lacy accents that match Mom and Dad's wedding colors.” She sounds proud of herself.

I rub my forehead. “How many people are you inviting again?”

“So far, I've got a hundred and twenty. But those are individuals, so probably around …” She blows her breath out. “Oh I don't know, maybe seventy invitations?”

Seventy invitations. All handmade.

I sit down at my kitchen table.

“The party is in two weeks, Layla,” I say quietly.

“Right. I figure we can crank them out this weekend and have them all ready to be mailed on Monday. That's still plenty of notice for a party. And I've already been talking to all our out-of-town relatives and Mom and Dad's best friends for like the last four months.”

“I can't help this weekend, though, Layla. Remember? Rick is going out of town, and Natalie asked me to come stay with her and the baby.”

“Oh.” Layla gets quiet for a minute. “I bet Natalie wouldn't mind if we worked on invitations at her house. I'll text her and see if that's okay. And we're meeting Mom and Dad at Panera in like fifteen minutes, so I've got to go. Are you going to come?”

“No, thanks though,” I say quietly.

“All right. See you later.” She hangs up, and I rub my forehead.

Sometimes Layla has no idea how much work goes into things.

* * * * *

The week alternates between crawling and flying by. I spend every day working on the banquet stuff at work and Layla's party stuff at night.

The one bright spot is when I tell Rick and Tyler about the gift card on my porch. Rick just says, “That's cool,” and leaves.

“Well, hopefully you like fajitas then,” Tyler says nonchalantly, following Rick.

I did not mention that the gift card is to Chili's.

Since he left, I didn't follow him. But it does make something deep in the pit of my stomach get a little bit warmer.

Friday after work, I drive straight to Natalie's house and get there about five fifteen. I'd brought my duffel bag with me so I could head right over there. Rick left at seven this morning for the retreat, so Natalie has been home by herself for a while.

I don't totally understand why she needs my help. Claire is only four weeks old. How much trouble can she be already?

Natalie opens the door looking like a truck ran over her, backed up, and ran over her again. Her hair is greasy and pulled back in a ponytail. She is wearing sweatpants and a pink ratty T-shirt that says
Anybody Want A Peanut?
and has a picture of Fezzik on it.

“Thank God!” She grabs me in a hug.

I hug her back with one arm since I am holding my duffel bag with the other. She lets go and rubs her eyes. “She hasn't slept at
all
in the last thirty-six hours,” she moans. “She sort of napped for about ten minutes today after nursing, but the second I set her down in her bassinet, she woke back up.”

“She's quiet now,” I say, walking inside.

I haven't been over to their house since Claire was born. Natalie usually kept a house that looked like it belonged in a Pottery Barn catalog.

Today, pillows are strewn everywhere, there is a huge pile of laundry on the couch, and random blankets, pacifiers, and diapers are all over the floor.

Claire is propped into a corner of the couch, looking at me, sucking on a pacifier.

“See what I mean?” Natalie yawns. “She just
stares
at me like that.”

“Hey, precious,” I croon, sitting down on the couch next to her. She doesn't even blink but just stares straight at me, pacifier moving up and down in her mouth.

It is a little disconcerting.

“I have read every single article online about getting your baby to sleep.” Natalie sits down on the pile of laundry. “And nothing works. I've tried the swing, I've tried the bouncer, I've tried the Moby wrap, I've tried singing, and I've given her three baths with that lavender-y baby soap.” She shakes her head slowly. “And still she stares. Or cries.”

“Maybe Fezzik's head is scaring her.” I nod to Andre the Giant's head on her shirt. He does have kind of a creepy expression.

“No way. My daughter cannot be scared of
The Princess Bride
. No way.”

I look back at Claire, and she is still staring at me. “Maybe she's hungry?”

“I've been nursing her for an hour every three hours,” Natalie says, exhaustion straining across her face. “She can't be hungry. And I've changed her diaper eighteen times today.”

“She's had
eighteen
dirty diapers?” Rick is going to need to get a second job just to pay for diapers.

“No, she's had two. But I just thought maybe she wasn't comfortable, so I kept changing her, hoping she'd go to sleep.”

I grin. “Well, when was the last time you fed her?”

“Twenty minutes ago.”

“Okay. Go take a shower and a couple-hour nap. I've got Claire. And we'll have dinner waiting when you wake up.”

I am pretty sure I've never seen Natalie so happy. “Really? Really, Paige?”

“Good night, Nat.”

She jumps off the couch and runs for her bedroom.

I look at Claire. I've never spent very much time with such a small baby, but it can't be that hard, can it?

It can.

After twenty minutes, I can see why Natalie's hair hasn't been washed in so long. First off, it takes two hands to hold Claire, and the second I set her down to do something, she flips out with these horrible squawky sounds that verge somewhere between a cry and what I imagine a dinosaur hatching sounded like.

I finally just reconcile myself to holding her the rest of Natalie's nap and calling in a pizza or something instead of making dinner. I pick her up carefully, still a little afraid that I might drop her and she will shatter into a million pieces on the floor. Her head lolls around so much. It scares me.

My phone starts ringing an hour after I get there. It is Layla.

“Hey!” she says cheerfully. I can hear music in the background. “Just calling to let you know I'm on my way with the invitations!”

I try to think positively. Maybe she already finished the invites, and she is coming by to show the finished product to me.

“I'm at Natalie's, remember?” I cradle the phone between my cheek and my shoulder while I hold Claire in the rocking chair. She is looking at me with wide, dark eyes, her pacifier bobbing up and down.

“Right. I called Nat last week and she said that was fine to bring the invitations over to work on. Actually, I even suggested we watch a movie or something while we work on them, and she said that would be great.”

“Well, she hasn't slept in three days,” I tell Layla. “She's taking a nap right now. And Claire cries anytime you set her down.”

“So I'll work on the invitations and keep you company while you hold Claire. Be there in ten.”

She hangs up, probably so I can't continue to debate with her.

I look down at Claire, rocking slowly back and forth in the chair. I never did much babysitting. Young babies waver between grossing me out and making me nervous. You can never predict what an infant is going to do.

Claire is still staring at me. I remember my mom telling me once that the only way she could get me to sleep in the beginning was by swaddling me up so tight she could stand me up against the wall.

It can't hurt to try.

I lay a blanket out on the floor, wrap Claire up as tightly as I dare, and settle back into the chair with the baby burrito.

“So,” I say quietly, rubbing a finger over her soft baby cheeks. “What do you think of the world so far?”

She seems to relax a little when I stroke her cheek, so I keep lightly brushing my finger over and around her cheeks, her forehead, her tiny chin, and her little Dippin' Dot of a nose. She keeps melting farther and farther into my arm, and a few minutes later, her eyelids start to flutter.

Which of course is when Layla knocks on the door. I squint at the front door, see we never locked it after I got here, and ever-so-slowly fish my cell phone out of my pocket and text Layla, all while keeping the same rhythm rocking.

As soon as I finish texting, I keep stroking my finger over her face. Layla creeps through the door, finger over her mouth, holding two paper grocery sacks.

Claire's eyes are half closed now. Her pacifier isn't bobbing up and down nearly as much.

I nod to the huge baby swing in the corner. Layla reads my mind and goes over and turns the swing on and then closes the drapes since the sun is shining directly on the swing.

Claire's eyes shut all the way.

I hold my breath, ease to my feet, still half rocking Claire in my arms, sway over to the swing, and ever-so-slowly set her into it.

And, miracle of all miracles, she stays asleep.

I breathe for the first time in ten minutes, and Layla nods at Claire.

“You're an old pro,” she whispers to me.

“She hasn't slept in thirty-six hours,” I whisper back. “It's inevitable she'd fall asleep eventually.”

We tiptoe to the kitchen and Layla opens her bags. “Well, I brought all the invitation stuff. And I actually got the chance to make one this week after I got off work. What do you think?”

She holds it up. Layla is not crafty at all. She is forever saying that if people out there are willing to take the time and energy to make crafts, she would take the time and energy to work and make money to pay them for their crafts.

“Wow,” I say because I'm not sure what else to say to her invitation. I pictured something totally different when she mentioned burlap and lace. The invite is half a sheet of cream-colored paper with scraps of burlap and lace haphazardly glued on it around the wording.

“Yep. It's terrible, huh?”

“Well,” I say, not wanting to be mean.

“You can't lie to your best friend. It's awful. It's proof I should never be allowed to handle a glue stick.”

“Well,” I say again. “I mean, I think I just had something different in mind.”

“I should hope so.”

I pick a scrap of burlap from the bag and twist it in my fingers until it looks like a mini rosette. “What if we do more of this style? With lace accents.”

Layla shakes her head. “See? How did you do that? I spent eight hours working on that invitation, and you made something gorgeous in fifteen seconds.”

“You seriously spent eight hours working on this?”