Page 35 of Downforce

Annalise

“How’s he doing?” I approach and ask my sister-in-law as she holds my nephew, rocking him side to side.

It’s Sunday and we’re in the paddock, about thirty minutes before the start of the race. Travis and the rest of the drivers have just completed the driver’s parade, which had the crowd cheering and even more excited for the start of the race.

When Lucky looks at me, he blinks and then stares, the cutest little wrinkle appearing across his forehead as if he’s trying to figure me out. A couple of seconds pass before a broad, gummy smile replaces the confusion.

He remembers me.

Though it’s only been a few days since I last saw him, I’m reminded of how small babies’ worlds are. I did a lot of reading up on babies and their first stages of life as soon as I found out I was going to be an aunt. At almost seven months old, his memory is still developing, and it’s amazing to watch as he makes mental connections.

The smile he gives me once he recognizes who I am brightens my entire world. Even as a string of drool drips from his mouth onto the baby blanket Alyssia’s placed over her shoulder.

“Knew that was going to happen.” She grins. “I think he’s more excited than Travis,” Alyssia says, making me laugh.

“No way.”

“Seriously. He was awake bright and early this morning but there were no tears in sight. I walked over to his crib to find him playing with his feet and giggling like he was in on a secret joke.”

“Maybe he knows something we don’t,” I say.

“Like his daddy is a champion,” she sing-songs to Lucky, tickling his tummy.

He breaks out into a fit of giggles. Such a contrast to his mood weeks ago when he wasn’t feeling well. This is my nephew’s normal temperament. If you looked up the phrase ‘happy baby’ in the dictionary, a picture of his face would be there.

“Oh no, I have to run to the bathroom. Would you mind?” Alyssia asks.

“Of course.” I take Lucky from her after she fits the baby blanket over my shoulder, shielding the strap of my olive green pantsuit.

“No, don’t do that,” I coo when Lucky starts to whine as he watches his mom walk away. “She’s coming back, I promise.”

I turn away from the exit and point at the screen, which chooses the perfect moment to flash to an image of Travis from one of yesterday’s pre-race interviews. “Who’s that?” I ask, bouncing him on my hip. “Who’s that?”

Did you wash your hands?

The intrusive thought comes out of the blue.

What if you forgot to wash your hands and he gets sick?

The urge to give into the questions and analyze my entire day to recall whether or not I’ve thoroughly washed my hands is almost overwhelming. But I know where that road leads. Hours and hours of me running in and out of the bathroom washing until my hands are raw and red, yet still believing they’re unclean.

“Don’t feed the monster.” Advice from my therapist comes to mind.

“Don’t feed the monster,” I murmur. Medication and years of therapy have helped me not to feed into every intrusive thought that passes through my mind, but some I still latch onto some more than others. Particularly when it concerns those I love.

As a distraction, I choose to tickle my nephew’s tummy, making him laugh. It’s the purest sound of joy there is in the world.

“Is that daddy on the screen?” I ask again, choosing to talk and be present with him over giving the thoughts in my head the attention they crave.

“Are you excited to see him win today?” I playfully ask. “Can you say congratulations?” For whatever strange reason, Lucky finds my silly questions hilarious, and his laughter fill my heart.

“Oh my, we almost didn’t make it. It’s madness out there,” a lilted voice fills the quieting space of the paddock.

I turn to find a beautiful statuesque blonde followed by a shorter but equally beautiful, darker haired woman. Max’s mother with whom I can only assume is a relative or friend of the family.

I watch Mrs. Ferreira for a while as she greets the other people who’re part owners or related to the team members in some way. All of the engineers and Amato workers, including Drake Horner, are all focused in the garage for the start of the race. For some reason, I keep my eye on Mrs. Ferreira as she passes air kisses out like candy on Halloween.

It’s not hard to understand why she was one of the top models to dominate magazine covers in the early nineties. Nearly thirty years later and her spotless skin appears almost porcelain. It’s striking against her long, platinum blonde locks, but matched with her long, lithe body, it works.