F*ck Love (24 page)

I feel a hand on my back—Della’s mother, Annette. “Go see Annie,” she says. “It’ll be good for you. Della will be here when you get back. Come sit with her tomorrow.”

I nod, wiping my nose on my sleeve. Kit drives me to their little house in Ft. Lauderdale. Keith Sweat is playing on the radio. ‘
But I gotta be strong, you did me wrong
.’ I suddenly have a terrible headache. Della’s cousin, Geri, is watching Annie, he tells me. I don’t tell him that Geri does recreational coke five days a week, or that she did a stint in rehab for heroine. She is reading a tabloid magazine on the couch when we arrive. She lifts a finger to her lips to tell us that Annie is sleeping. She hugs me warmly, and I can smell the alcohol on her breath. I’ve always been cool with Geri. But I’m not cool with her drinking on baby watch. Not with any baby, but especially not with this baby. I have the urge to tell her to leave and not come back. Instead, I excuse myself to the bathroom. It’s strange to see the baby things strewn about Della’s space: swings, bassinets, soft pink blankets. When I come out of the bathroom Geri is gone. Kit stands in the doorway to the living room, hands in pockets. He’s not looking at me; he’s not looking at anything.

“Kit,” I say. He jumps a little, and then shakes his head like he’s coming out of a dream.

“Do you want to meet Annie?” he asks softly.

“Yeah, I do.”

He leads me to the back bedroom. The house smells of fresh paint, and before he opens the door to Annie’s nursery, I already know Della’s had the room painted pink. It’s bright, not the soft color I was expecting. I stand there for a minute, blinking at the color before my eyes focus on the crib against the wall. It’s black. I can hear rustling from inside it, like she’s just deciding to wake up. Kit stands next to the crib and waits for me to come over. It feels … weird. My feet sink into the carpet. My hands are stupidly clutched together. I see her hair first, poking out from her swaddling. It’s troll hair, a tuft of black against creamy white skin. Her eyes are open, glassy like newborns usually are. Her mouth opens to let out a cry, and I’m surprised by how soft and gentle it is. I pick her up. I can’t help myself. She’s the most perfect thing I’ve ever seen.

“Annie,” I say. “I’m your Aunt Helena.” I sniff her head, and then I kiss it. I carry her to the changing table and unwrap her. I want to see the rest—the little bird legs, and the perfect tiny fingers and toes. I’m so engrossed that I forget Kit is in the room.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Did you want to do this?”

I feel so bad. I just jumped in without asking. Kit smiles, shakes his head. “Go ahead,” he says. “You should get to know each other.”

That’s all he has to say. I’m a bonafide baby lover. Kit goes to get her bottle while I change her diaper. Halfway through I start to cry. Della. She hasn’t even held her little girl. This all feels like my fault. I have to stay to help them. At least until Della gets well. I have to do the right thing by all of them. Especially after everything I’ve done.

Kit and I take turns with Annie for the rest of the night. I’d take all of the shifts and let him sleep, but Kit says waking up with her makes him feel like he’s doing something, and he
needs
to feel like he’s doing something or he’ll go crazy. I sleep in the office across from Annie’s nursery, and each time she wakes up and I hear her little cries, I want to rush into the room. When it’s Kit’s turn I roll onto my side so I can hear them. He sings to her. It’s so tender it makes me feel the same way Christmas does, like there’s so much good and so much hope. It feels so wrong that I’m getting to hear what Della should be hearing. It’s like I’m eavesdropping on someone else’s life.

Della’s brother comes to take care of Annie the following day. He brings us paper cups of coffee and mushroom frittata that Annette made. We clutch our coffee and make small talk until Kit suggests we beat the traffic and go. I don’t like leaving Annie with Tony; in high school he smoked a lot of pot and lit things on fire. It’s been seven years, but he doesn’t seem like the responsible choice. I mention it to Kit when we’re in the car.

“How old did you say he was when he did that?”

“Sixteen,” I say.

“I think he may be past that stage,” he offers. “It’s been ten years.”

“He’s hairy,” I say. “If he tries to kiss her, it’ll scratch her face.”

“What exactly do you have against Tony?” He turns onto the freeway, and I start to panic. Once we’re on the I-95 we’re going to be stuck in traffic, unable to get off if something happens.

“I don’t have anything against him; I just don’t want him to be the one watching Annie.” I unbuckle my seat belt. I don’t know what I’m planning to do … maybe jump out of the moving car and run back. Surely I’m not crazy enough to—

“What are you doing?” Kit says. “Put your belt back on.”

“One of us has to be with her,” I say. “You or me. The other can go to the hospital. We can work in shifts.”

“You’re serious?” he asks. “You do realize Tony is Annie’s blood?”

“I don’t care. Take me back.”

He doesn’t say anything. He gets off at the first exit and takes a different way back to the house. Tony doesn’t look surprised to see us; he seems relieved when we tell him that he can go.

“See that,” I wave my finger in Kit’s face. “A non-excited babysitter is a non-attentive babysitter.”

He grabs my finger, and I laugh.

“You want to go first, or you want me to go?” he asks.

I look at Annie, who is asleep in her swing, and bite my lip.

“You stay,” he says, smiling. “You can go to the hospital tomorrow when some of your anxiety has eased up.”

I nod.

I watch as he walks down the driveway to his truck, and before he gets in, he looks back at me and raises his hand to wave.

It’s only then that I remember how much I love him.

I’ve never taken care of a tiny human before. It’s all movement: running to get this, running to get that. Washing things, washing the tiny human, never washing yourself. It’s a labor during which you are given very little time to think about you. You. You who are still heartbroken. You who are managing your feelings even as you wrap, and wipe, and feed. Feelings you have no right to have. You do not think about these feelings or put a name to them. Live, live, live. Wipe, love, sleep. They all help me, but somewhere in the first week it becomes clear that I am Annie’s caretaker.
Helena knows what she needs; Helena knows what type of formula she eats; Helena, where are the diapers? Helena, she’s fussy; Helena…

It’s all true. Annie and I have a system. I figure out that if you rub her back counterclockwise twice, then pat up from her lower back to between her shoulder blades, those difficult burps will be worked out. She has a protein allergy. I notice the bumps on her skin and take her to the pediatrician Della chose, an Iranian woman named Dr. Mikhail. She is stern and gives me the stink eye the whole time.

“Most new mothers are nervous and hovering. You must have done this before.”

“I’m not her mother,” I say. “Should I hover more? I trust you, should I not trust you? Do you think I’m too trusting?” I walk to the table where she is examining Annie, and I pick her up. Dr. Mikhail gives me another searing look and takes the baby back from me and returns her to the table.

“My mistake. Maybe I should prescribe something for your mania.”

Annie has to be on special formula. When Kit gets home from the hospital, we all go to Target so we can pick some up. He grabs a pack of diapers, and I stop him. “I don’t like those,” I say. “They leak.” He stands back with a smile and lets me choose.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I tell him.

“Like what, Helena?” he asks. “Like I’m really impressed with you? I can’t help it.”

I am flustered. I drop the pack of diapers, and we both bend to pick it up. I concede, and we stand up at the same time; he clutches the diapers under his arm, his eyes never leaving my face. Then Annie starts to cry, and we both go to her. I do not concede. I elbow him out the way to take her out of her carseat. He’s grinning the whole time.

“Kit! What?”

He drops his head. “Nothing,” he says, looking at me through his lashes. “You’re just really good at this. I’m so thankful you’re here.”

I blush. I feel it creep hot, up my neck and to my cheeks.

“Ew, stop. Let’s go,” I tell him. At the register, two people tell me that my baby is beautiful, and I look great. Kit just keeps smiling.

Kit divides his time between Annie and Della. I get the in-between. I think about the old days a lot. When we drank cheap beer in dirty dive bars, and spoke excitedly about the days when we would be grown-ups. All the big plans, and they did not include your boyfriend getting another woman pregnant, or having a broken heart, or taking care of your best friend’s baby while she is in a coma. No one tells you that it hurts this much to be a grown-up. That people are so complicated they end up hurting each other to self preserve. I look at Annie, and I’m frightened for her already. I don’t want the world to get her. I hold her close and cry sometimes, my tears sprinkling the back of her onesie as she sleeps on my shoulder.

When Annie is a few weeks old I start leaving the house with her on a regular basis. We go on walks; we go to the market to buy diapers. I read all of Della’s books on how to stimulate her, what to expect from each week of development. I lose so much weight in those weeks that Kit starts bringing me cupcakes and cheesecakes. People in the store tell me I look fantastic for a new mother. How did I do it?

“I eat cheesecake and cupcakes,” I say. I collect their dirty looks. Mind your business, people. One Wednesday, Kit doesn’t leave for work, or the hospital. I peek at him from the kitchen where I am washing bottles, as he plays with Annie on the living room floor. I wait for him to leave; I almost want him to so I can get started with my day. But he doesn’t.

“Why are you here?” I ask suspiciously.

“Well, it’s my house. And this is my baby. Is that okay?”

I make a face at him, and he laughs.

“I thought I’d take the day off. Take you guys somewhere.” He touches the tip of his finger to Annie’s nose, and I am hit with a wave of dread. I don’t want to go anywhere with him. I can’t.

“Why don’t you go? I’ll pack the diaper bag for you.” I move toward the bag to stuff it with diapers, and formula. I am the diaper bag pro.

“No,” he says. “You need to get out. You’re stuck here all day. Go get dressed.”

I look down at myself: sweatpants and a tank top. I smell like throw up and baby lotion.

“All right.”

I don’t have clean clothes. I borrow something from Della’s closet. A pair of jeans and a cerulean top. I don’t have time to dry my hair, so I wind it up in a knot. Before we leave, I take the whiskey out of the cabinet and take a shot. I need something to clip my edge. I do not need this to feel like a family outing. We are not a family. Annie is not my baby. I’m going to hate every second of this day. I know it with certainty. HATE. Horrible, awful, fake family time.

He loads the carseat into the back of his truck, and holds the door open for me while I climb in. It’s obnoxious how he plays the right music and switches the station at the right time. He drives for the length of my buzz, and by the time we pull up in the dirt lot of some place I don’t recognize, I am wishing I snuck the bottle of whiskey into the diaper bag.

“Where are we?”

“It’s a farm!” he says. “We can pick our own oranges and have them squeezed into juice. And there are goats.”

“Goats?” I ask. “We’re spending our day with goats?”

“Don’t be lame, Helena. Goats are awesome.”

I don’t like goats. And I want whiskey to go with my orange juice. Within five minutes, we’re strolling to the farm entrance. Kit has Annie in a carrier strapped to his chest. It’s like the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Fuck the goats. They give us baskets and send us to the grove. I’m worried that an orange will fall on Annie’s head so I hover around Kit until he figures out what I’m doing.

“Get out of here,” he says. “Pick some fruit. I got her.” He pushes me toward a tree.

So I pick fruit and watch them out of the corner of my eye. A man in overalls, who smells of peanut butter and has a braid in his hair, hauls our oranges inside the barn to be juiced. We are sent to see the goats. There are twelve of them. All with ‘M’ names. I take photos of Kit feeding the goats. And then he makes me feed them, and he tells me he won’t leave until I touch one and mean it. I try to mean it. I try so hard that Melanie the goat jumps on me, resting her two muddy hoofs on my chest.

“Kit!” I yell. “Get her off me!”

Kit shoos Melanie away, and I give him a dirty look. That was funny, and I’m having fun. We go to the barn next where they give us two giant glasses of orange juice full of pulp. We sit on red rocking chairs, and watch the orange grove simmer under the sun, while Kit feeds Annie. I offer to do it, but he tells me to relax.

“What color would you say these chairs are?” I ask him. He raises an eyebrow.

“Red?”