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Now Bruce’s voice carried down the hall again. She listened but still couldn’t hear the words.
During last week’s brief and mainly unhelpful visit, her mother had gently intimated that Hannah needed a haircut, maybe a manicure.We do need to continue to take care of ourselves, dear, even with a baby around.
Sophia had stopped short of offering to watch Gigi so that Hannah might do that. No, Sophia’s visits consisted of getting a picture with the baby that she could text to all her friends, handing Gigi back immediately after that. Hannah sensed that her mother wanted to be closer to Gigi, but that she was a little afraid.She’s so tiny, she’d said more than once.So fragile.
Even when the visits were good, and Sophia did some cleaning or cooking, Hannah often felt more insecure, frazzled, and exhausted than ever after she left.
When Bruce went out for a run that night of Sophia’s last visit, Hannah tried to get on his laptop and found it password protected. She tried Gigi’s birthday, their anniversary. She was afraid to try a third time, knowing she’d activate the lockout feature.
Had it always been password protected? She honestly wasn’t sure because she’d never tried to spy on her husband before.
She was becoming one of those women.
Finally, after a hard look in the mirror, Hannah had asked her mother-in-law, Lou, to come last week to watch Gigi for a while. Lou was the exact opposite of Hannah’s mother; she literallydemandedthat Hannah sit and put her feet up while Lou made coffee, and did a load of laundry, and played blocks with Gigi. She took pictures of the baby; but not selfies. Lou was not on Facebook. There would be no posts for Hannah to look at annoyed:Just little Gigi and Grandma today! She’s the light of my life!
Lou happily stayed with Gigi while Hannah got a Brazilian bikini wax that hurt so much she saw stars in front of her eyes. Mani, pedi. Cut, color, and blowout. She bought some new underwear, some elevated lounge wear.
Okay, yeah, she’d needed a little cleanup.
Hannah shifted now, watching Gigi.
Her beloved face: Gigi’s eyes were firmly Bruce’s—big and innocent; her high, intelligent brow belonged to Bruce as well. Gigi’s cupid’s bow mouth and button nose, her wide smile and her high cheekbones, were a mirror of Hannah’s face. Hannah who favored her father, Leo. Everybody always said that. Hannah had been staring at her daughter a lot over the last couple of weeks, analyzing her features.
She’d been staring at herself as well, wondering about the ungroomed woman she saw in the mirror. Did she really look like her father? She saw a lot of Sophia, even though their coloring was different.
She was lost in thought about all of this when Bruce pushed in at the door softly. Finding her on the floor, he gave an indulgent smile. Then he made the motion of tipping a glass to his lips.
Yes, she thought. That would be nice. She gave him a nod and he moved away into the shadows.
She got herself to all fours, arm aching, and she crawled—yes, not ashamed to admit it—she crawled from the room, only coming to her feet outside the door. She could already taste the cabernet Bruce was probably pouring.
She stood in the dim hallway, waiting, breath held.
Gigi released a little moan, shifted onto her back. One. Two. Three. Silence.
Mission accomplished.
Child asleep.
Hannah released the sigh native to motherhood, only issued when the baby was down for the night, safe in her bed.
A free woman, Hannah padded into the adjacent open-plan living room when the lights were low, and soft music played. Bruce’s jazz station. He stood in the kitchen, two glasses waiting, cab decanting.
“Down?” he asked.
She nodded. “Done working for the night?”
He smiled at her, poured the glass. “Knocking off early.” It was nearly 9:00.
He poured, then handed her a glass; they strolled to the living room where he flipped on the faux fireplace which was all light and no heat. It was Florida, after all. A real fireplace was a silly feature in a house where the air-conditioning ran ten months out of twelve. Hannah sank into the plush sectional. She wanted to pop on the television and turn off for a while.
“Who were you talking to so late?” she asked lightly. “You sounded angry.”
He rolled his eyes. “Difficult client.”
She searched his face for signs of deception, but there was nothing—just fatigue.
“Want to talk about it?”
