“Can you check the mailbox? I forgot yesterday.” Sophie was making her “eh, eh” noise, which meant I’d better get in there quickly or the dam would break. I pulled on a mask.
As I finished putting her sleeper back together, Robin was flipping through the catalogues and letters, putting most of them in a pile for the recycling bin.
“Polish rights,” he said after a quick glance. “I’ll take care of them when I get back.”
He opened a large envelope, and shook out the contents. Several pieces of mail landed on the end of the table, all of them hand-addressed and battered-looking.
Fan mail.
From time to time, The Holderman Agency accumulated enough letters for Robin (sent by readers who were savvy enough to look up his representation) to throw them in an envelope and send it along. I counted five letters and a book. Robin opened the book first, read the inscription, put it down. “Self-pubbed,” he said. “But I like the writer.” Robin sorted the envelopes in quick succession, tossed two of them, and opened the remaining three. He smiled at the first letter, and the second letter was okay, too. But his face darkened as he opened a greeting card. “What is it?” I asked.
“Betty is thinking about me,” he said dryly. “I have no idea who Betty is.”
Every now and then, Robin got some fan attention that was a little too intense. “You’re just so sexy,” I said, and grinned at him. Sophie and I settled in the rocking chair in the corner to begin our ritual.
Robin grimaced before he tossed the card. He put aside the other two to answer.
Sophie was too absorbed in glugging my milk to note the mask.
Thirty minutes later, Robin’s Uber ride arrived, and he left, blowing me a kiss from the doorway. I didn’t blame him. I was toxic. Though I hadn’t told my husband, because he was already worried, I was feeling worse by the hour.
The day dragged along. I got a couple of phone calls, one from my mother, who wanted to know how Sophie was, and one from the Friends of the Library asking me to donate something to the bake sale. I watched Sophie, read a little, and cleaned away the breakfast dishes. I felt useless. My energy level was at zero. I kept waiting to perk up, but I didn’t.
Phillip got home at four. “Hey, Roe!” he yelled. “Where are you?”
“In the bedroom,” I called back, and my voice came out scratchy. I’d made myself sort the laundry, but I was moving at a snail’s pace.
Phillip stood in the doorway, looking at me critically. “What’s up? Robin texted me and told me to come straight home after school. So I got Josh to drop me off. Though I was planning to go the library to study.” A hint of accusation, there.
“Phillip,” I said, “I’m going to be really frank. I need your help, and I’m going to need it until Robin gets back. I’m afraid I’m sick, and I’m getting worse. I can’t take care of Sophie by myself. Virginia Mitchell is coming to stay at night, but please be here when you can.”
This is one of the great things about my brother. He didn’t whine or protest. “Sure. I love the munchkin,” he said. “Except for my volunteer work, I had no plans for tomorrow.”
He did love Sophie, though he was still nervous when he handled her. Now, he shifted from foot to foot. He was going to ask for something. “I do want to ask you if it’s okay if Sarah comes over tomorrow night. She hasn’t ever seen Spy, and since we Tivoed it, I thought…”
“Sure,” I said. I added cautiously, “Unless something else happens in the meantime.” I picked up a load of darks and carried it to the washer-and-dryer closet in the hall. Though Sophie was napping, the sound of the washer had never bothered her.
That task done, I lay down, which was very unusual for me. Being prone was such a relief, I realized I was beginning to feel very miserable indeed. I hovered between sleep and wakefulness for at least an hour. When I glanced at the clock, I knew Sophie would be stirring soon. I dragged myself to my feet. I had better get up and moving.
Robin should have had his panel by now. He would be sitting at the signing table. I hoped he had a long line. I wanted him to have a great time … and I wanted him to win. I asked myself if I regretted having sent him off to Bouchercon: surprisingly, no. Good for me! I gave myself a mental pat on the back.
While the dryer did its job, I put a pizza in the oven for Phillip and me; a one-step instant supper. He was in his room on his computer, but he’d left his door open, a great concession.
Then I heard Sophie crying. I plodded back to her room after washing my hands. And putting on a pair of the disposable plastic gloves I’d unearthed, the ones I used for icky housekeeping jobs. And pulling the mask over my nose and mouth. This time, Sophie howled at the sight of me. I lifted the mask and smiled; that calmed her down. But I had to put it back on, and my daughter was not happy with my odd look. I changed her diaper very slowly, and re-snapped her sleeper, which took twice as long as normal. She seemed to weigh five pounds more as I carried her over to the rocking chair in the corner and got ready to feed her. Midway through, I heard the timer go off for the pizza, and I called to Phillip to get it out of the oven.
“Go on and eat, if you want,” I added. “I’m in the middle of feeding Sophie.”
Another thing Sophie didn’t like was me raising my voice while I was holding her, I now discovered. But after a minute or two, she quit fussing and latched back on to my breast. For the moment I was happy simply being in that rocking chair and looking down at our child.
Being a mother was still a miracle to me, and taking care of Sophie was nothing like I thought it would be. As an only child with few relations, I’d never been around babies much, but I’d learned a lot in our short time together. The cycle of caring for her was simple but taxing, as gazillions of women since the dawn of time had discovered.
Change her, feed her, burp her, put her down for her nap. Now that she was two months old, Sophie was often staying awake for a while between naps. She was looking around her with some purpose. It was wonderful to watch her arms and legs wiggle and thrash, or to see her attempt to reach up for her mobile or a toy.
Until this evening, watching her every move had been endlessly intriguing. But right now, I felt so listless and thickheaded I couldn’t enjoy much of anything. I put her on a blanket on the floor and watched her flail around for maybe twenty minutes, talking to her in a nonstop stream so she would know I was close. I was hardly aware of what I was saying, to tell the truth.
I was about to call Phillip to lift her and lay her down in her crib—she was showing signs of getting tired—when I heard the front doorbell chime.