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Rhett wailed louder.
“Almost done,” Emilia said again.
I watched as Rhett continued to scream bloody murder, and Emilia kept going, and while part of me felt sick to my stomach that she seemed to be ignoring the fact that she was hurting him, most of me felt nothing but respect at her quick efficient movements. It only took seconds for me to realize that it was bothering her just as much as it bothered me, she just knew that the dirt needed to be cleaned out, and she didn’t want to prolong it.
When she was done bandaging him up, she lifted him into her arms and carried him to her purse, pulling out a pinkish-gray blanket from inside. He snatched it from her hands and pulled it to his face.
“Well,” my mom said, moving around the crowded kitchen, gathering up plates and utensils. “I’m glad that you were so brave, Rhett. Wiping out sucks.”
“Band-Aid,” Rhett said, following her movements with his eyes.
“I saw that,” she said. “Very cool.”
Rhett’s gaze moved to me. “Daddy me up.”
“Daddy picked you up?” my mom asked, turning toward him. “Yeah, that makes sense. Daddies are fast.”
“Fast,” Rhett agreed, jerking his chin toward me.
Mom smiled at me, her eyes bright.
“Mama,” Rhett said, reaching out to run the fingers of his free hand gingerly through Emilia’s hair.
“You’ve got the best mama, huh,” my mom said kindly. She looked at Emilia. “It took me years to be able to clean out the kids’ little scrapes and shit. Tommy had to do it.”
“Really?”
“Yep,” my mom said, leaning on the counter across from Rhett. “I got better at it, but I’m not exactly cool under pressure.” She laughed. “When Micky fell way back at the edge of the property and broke his arm, I heard him over the sound of the vacuum. I panicked so hard I almost knocked myself out on the doorframe when I was running out to get him.”
Rhett watched us, his eyes growing heavy.
“Feelin’ better, pal?” I reached out and gently ran my hand down his back. I could feel every bump of his spine. Jesus, he was so fucking small.
“Owie,” Rhett informed me around his thumb.
“I know.”
“Hopefully I’ll be better with grandkids,” Mom said ruefully. “Sorry, Rhett, you’ll be the guinea pig on that.”
“Grandma,” Rhett murmured.
“This is your grandma, too,” Emilia said, kissing his head. “This is your other grandma. Daddy’s mom.”
Rhett shook his head. “Grandma.”
“Sorry.” Emilia grimaced. “He doesn’t really get it yet.”
“He’ll figure it out,” my mom said, waving her off.
“And Mr. Hawthorne is your grandpa,” Emilia continued, laying her cheek against Rhett’s hair. “And Uncle Rumi and Uncle Otto and Uncle Titus and Auntie Myla.”
Rhett’s eyes closed.
“He doesn’t seem impressed,” I said with a quiet laugh, everything inside me freezing up at the sight of his sleeping face.
Did everyone feel like this when they had a kid? He was so beautiful, take-my-breath-away-beautiful. I wanted to count his eyelashes, measure his skull in my hands, take his shoes off so I could count his toes, hold him against me so I could feel his heartbeat beneath my hand. It was fucking weird, right? I was a fucking lunatic.
“To be fair, you don’t look like a grandma,” Emilia told my mom dryly. “It might be kind of confusing.”
