I’m quick in applying the ointment to his burns, and then I tape large gauze pads over them.
Arlo lifts his arms into the air, and I pull the shirt I brought in over his head, helping him work his arms into the sleeves.
The fabric is pooled around his waist, bunching up, so I help him off the counter, and it falls. It reaches nearly mid-thigh, and a bolt of possession shoots through me.
“You look like mine in my clothes, baby boy.”
He hums, his eyes falling shut as he leans into me. “I am yours.”
“I know you are.”
Hooking my arm around his waist, I support most of his weight as we step through the bathroom door and back intothe bedroom. I leave Arlo’s side only long enough to turn the blankets down, and when the bed is ready for him, he uses my arm as leverage to climb in.
I tug the blankets up around his face, smiling when he snuggles deeper into them, his entire lower face disappearing until all that’s showing is his button nose and eyes.
As soon as he’s settled, his eyes fall closed.
“I’m gonna go make you something to eat.”
“No, stay with me.”
“Aren’t you hungry?”
Squinting at me through one half-lidded eye, he shakes his head. “No. I want to nap. Will you stay with me and make me food when we wake up?”
I sit down on the edge of the bed, placing my hand on his thigh. “Is this your way of trying to get me to take a nap?”
His other eye slowly flutters open, and then he’s nodding. “Please.”
I tap my phone screen. It’s after 7:00 p.m., and I’m pretty sure that if I get into this bed and lie down next to Arlo, I’m not getting out of it until tomorrow morning.
“Are yousureyou don’t want anything to eat?”
Arlo’s eyes fall shut once again. “Yes.”
Ignoring the crease between his brows that almost definitely means he’s pouting at me, I grab a pair of boxers from my dresser and pull them on.
The sheets are cool when I slide between them. After not being in my own bed and only catching naps in the hospital bed with Arlo or sitting straight up in the chair, it feels like actual heaven.
Arlo rolls onto his side, trying to snuggle into me.
“Easy, baby boy.”
He sighs but slows his movements. It would be wishful thinking that he’d just be still so he doesn’t hurt himself. It’spretty clear that’s not going to happen when he shifts and moves until he’s damn near pressed against me everywhere he can be.
His leg slides between mine, and I wrap an arm around his waist, pressing my hand to the center of his back, trying to be mindful of his side so I don’t put any pressure on his ribs.
He makes a happy noise in the back of his throat, then his body goes slack.
I focus on his back rising and falling under my hand and close my eyes.
My mom told me once that when Sarah and I were little, she used to sit beside our beds at night and place her hand on our backs to feel us breathing. She said she worried that if she didn’t, we’d stop breathing in our sleep.
She’d smiled at me, her hair pulled up in a messy bun and her eyes lined in black, crinkling at the corners, and tell me, “Babies are fickle little things. You gotta keep a close eye on them.”
I know neither of us expected Sarah to die. Especially not the way she did. If I had known what was in store for us, I would have done so many things differently.
First off, I wouldn’t have left the house that night. I wouldn’t have left her alone. Mom was right. Babies are fickle things, even when they’re eleven, and sometimes they stop breathing. And sometimes their hearts stop. And sometimes, leaving them all alone is the reason for it.
