she should bear her barrenness as a cross—but because she felt obligated. So they completed their paper work to foster-adopt and had waited.
And now this nameless infant slept in the back seat of the car. Abbi didn’t want her, either. But Benjamin did, and he deserved to get something he wanted after all he’d been through. If it meant he would come out of . . . whatever it was he was in. She’d do anything to keep him from wasting away to that eighth and final hole on his belt. Or past it.
She owed him.
They lay in bed, sheets kicked at their feet, the baby between them. She sucked her lower lip, eyes shut. Benjamin had set up the crib in their bedroom, but the infant wanted none of it, screeching until he cuddled and swayed her to sleep. He promised to buy a bassinet tomorrow, in the hopes the smaller space would help settle her. Now he slept too, fatigue whistling in his nose.
Abbi couldn’t find her way into dreamland, the springs of their shoddy mattress grinding against her hip. They bought it used at a bedding outlet when they first married, one of those hauled-away-for-free-when-you-buy-a-new-one mattresses, strips of duct tape stuck over each stain. She propped her head on her elbow, ear squished against her skull, and gently touched the top of the baby’s head, tracing the soft, triangular divot beneath her downy black hair. Who are you? Abbi thought. And she remembered a vague snatch of Shakespeare. “ Who is Silvia? What is she . . . ?” She had no idea of the rest. That was Benjamin’s realm.
She flattened her palm against Benjamin’s ribs, shook him. “Silvia,” she said.
“Mmm. What?” he asked, opening one eye. He rubbed the other with the back of his hand. Yawned.
“Her name. Silvia. It’s what I want to call her.”
“You’re kidding, right? Is she going to stick her head in the oven?”
“Not that Sylvia,” Abbi said. “The one from Shakespeare. You know.”
“Silvia. With two I’s,” he said, rolling to his elbow to look down on the baby. “ ‘Who is Silvia? What is she, that all our swains commend her? Holy, fair, and wise is she; the heaven such grace did lend her, that she might admired be.’ ”
“Yeah, that one.”
He flopped back down on the pillow. “Okay.”
“That’s it? No argument?”
“I don’t win arguments with you.”
They didn’t sleep more than a few unsettled minutes between the crying.
Both of them had practice with worry-induced insomnia. Forced sleeplessness was a different beast, the body and the mind craving rest and being refused. Benjamin walked the hallway beyond the closed bedroom door, but Abbi heard each peep and moan beneath her pillow. She began to doze when the noise stopped, and then it started again, jerking her from her half sleep. She looked at the clock. Seven minutes.
“Why won’t you make her stop?” she said, stomping toward him.
“Right. I’m enjoying this at three in the morning.” He moved between the kitchen table and the front door, baby across both arms, jostling her up and down. He wore his pants, belt open and jingling.
And socks. He didn’t wear them to bed, or in the shower, but the socks went on before anything else, and off last.
“This was your brilliant idea.”
“If you’re not going to help, go back to bed.”
“Like that’s a possibility.”
He took a bottle from his back pocket and pushed it into the baby’s wailing mouth. She continued to cry around the nipple. “She doesn’t want it.”
“You just fed her half an hour ago.” She went back into the bedroom to escape the penetrating noise, tried to ignore it for another few minutes, but couldn’t. It wasn’t maternal instinct but sheer exhaustion that moved her to take an old T-shirt from her drawer, cut it beneath the armpits, and stretch the fabric tube over her body like a sash. “Give her to me,” she said, plucking the baby from Benjamin’s arms. Abbi wrapped the shirt around her, hanging the infant in the hammock
And now this nameless infant slept in the back seat of the car. Abbi didn’t want her, either. But Benjamin did, and he deserved to get something he wanted after all he’d been through. If it meant he would come out of . . . whatever it was he was in. She’d do anything to keep him from wasting away to that eighth and final hole on his belt. Or past it.
She owed him.
They lay in bed, sheets kicked at their feet, the baby between them. She sucked her lower lip, eyes shut. Benjamin had set up the crib in their bedroom, but the infant wanted none of it, screeching until he cuddled and swayed her to sleep. He promised to buy a bassinet tomorrow, in the hopes the smaller space would help settle her. Now he slept too, fatigue whistling in his nose.
Abbi couldn’t find her way into dreamland, the springs of their shoddy mattress grinding against her hip. They bought it used at a bedding outlet when they first married, one of those hauled-away-for-free-when-you-buy-a-new-one mattresses, strips of duct tape stuck over each stain. She propped her head on her elbow, ear squished against her skull, and gently touched the top of the baby’s head, tracing the soft, triangular divot beneath her downy black hair. Who are you? Abbi thought. And she remembered a vague snatch of Shakespeare. “ Who is Silvia? What is she . . . ?” She had no idea of the rest. That was Benjamin’s realm.
She flattened her palm against Benjamin’s ribs, shook him. “Silvia,” she said.
“Mmm. What?” he asked, opening one eye. He rubbed the other with the back of his hand. Yawned.
“Her name. Silvia. It’s what I want to call her.”
“You’re kidding, right? Is she going to stick her head in the oven?”
“Not that Sylvia,” Abbi said. “The one from Shakespeare. You know.”
“Silvia. With two I’s,” he said, rolling to his elbow to look down on the baby. “ ‘Who is Silvia? What is she, that all our swains commend her? Holy, fair, and wise is she; the heaven such grace did lend her, that she might admired be.’ ”
“Yeah, that one.”
He flopped back down on the pillow. “Okay.”
“That’s it? No argument?”
“I don’t win arguments with you.”
They didn’t sleep more than a few unsettled minutes between the crying.
Both of them had practice with worry-induced insomnia. Forced sleeplessness was a different beast, the body and the mind craving rest and being refused. Benjamin walked the hallway beyond the closed bedroom door, but Abbi heard each peep and moan beneath her pillow. She began to doze when the noise stopped, and then it started again, jerking her from her half sleep. She looked at the clock. Seven minutes.
“Why won’t you make her stop?” she said, stomping toward him.
“Right. I’m enjoying this at three in the morning.” He moved between the kitchen table and the front door, baby across both arms, jostling her up and down. He wore his pants, belt open and jingling.
And socks. He didn’t wear them to bed, or in the shower, but the socks went on before anything else, and off last.
“This was your brilliant idea.”
“If you’re not going to help, go back to bed.”
“Like that’s a possibility.”
He took a bottle from his back pocket and pushed it into the baby’s wailing mouth. She continued to cry around the nipple. “She doesn’t want it.”
“You just fed her half an hour ago.” She went back into the bedroom to escape the penetrating noise, tried to ignore it for another few minutes, but couldn’t. It wasn’t maternal instinct but sheer exhaustion that moved her to take an old T-shirt from her drawer, cut it beneath the armpits, and stretch the fabric tube over her body like a sash. “Give her to me,” she said, plucking the baby from Benjamin’s arms. Abbi wrapped the shirt around her, hanging the infant in the hammock
Similar Books
