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“Cool.” He twists out of my grip. “I’ll watch Toby while you sleep.”
“You wanna watch her breastfeed? ‘Cause that’s what’s about to happen.”
And there it is. His Achilles heel; his mother’s boobs. “It’s the miracle of life, kid,” I call after him, stifling a laugh at the speed with which he flees the room.
His door slamming shut follows a firm, “I’ll pass.”
I do laugh this time, and I’m still laughing when I turn back to Cass, abruptly stopping when I see the look on his face. “What?”
Bright eyes and a quirked mouth softens. “I missed that. The bickering.”
My stomach dips as something sad and resentful floods it, my gaze following suit. “Didn’t have to.”
Cass opens his mouth and I stop the soft ‘Sunday’ I know is coming before he can utter it. “I don’t wanna fight,” I say the same thing I said yesterday—the day before? Time is a bit fuzzy. “I’m sorry. I’m just tired.”
I can tell he doesn’t want to, but he lets it go. When he quietly leaves to get me a fresh change of clothes, I don’t have the heart, the energy, or the courage to tell him the things I tend to wear these days don’t live in my room.
“Do you wanna shower?” he asks when he returns, pajamas in hand.
Despite my bone-deep longing to be clean, I shake my head. “Don’t think I have the energy.”
Cass hums. Hesitates briefly, glancing from me to the bathroom and back again. Sets the clothes on the bed before holding his hands out to me. “I’ll help.”
Once again, there’s very little room for argument. While I struggle to formulate anything more than an insincere protest, Cass is dragging—okay,draggingis perhaps a little dramatic considering I hardly put up much of a fight—me into the bathroom, leaving the door open behind us.
His help doesn’t end there, nor with turning on the shower. As I’m making a rather pathetic attempt to wriggle out of my t-shirt, he steps in, grasping the hem and easily lifting it over my head. My lack of anything underneath does not make him pause; the hair he displaces does. Neglected, unwashed hair that he smooths back from my face like he’s touching fine, delicate strands and tucks behind my ears, thumbs grazing my cheekbones, maybe accidentally, maybe not. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs before moving on.
It’s so utterly un-sexy, the way he peels the rest of my clothes off, so methodic. He’s not nearly as bothered by the stretched-out, empty swell of my belly as I am, nor the freaking postpartum diaper spotted with blood that he removes and discards without a word. There’s no roaming gazes, no wandering hands. He just strips me down, then strips himself down to his boxer-briefs, and guides us both under the hot spray.
Showering is just as perfunctory, just as efficient. Most of the actual scrubbing, he leaves to me—acting as nothing more than a human crutch, really, helping me remain upright. That is until we get to my hair. Then, his business-like attitude slips. He takes matters into his own hands, literally. Deft fingers comb through the wet knots until they glide easily to the ends, twining one strand around his pointer finger and tugging.
He’s so gentle. It’s sonice. I could stay in here a lot longer but a tiny cry has my ears pricking up like a dogs and my nipples threatening to spew milk everywhere so we get out. Cass wraps me in a towel, guides me to bed, scoops up October and settles her in my arms before making himself scarce, apparently as terrified of my nipples as August is.
I’m not complaining. Frankly, I'm a little grateful. Him being in my space is pretty all-consuming, and I need a moment alone with my girl. My pretty, perfect girl who latches easily and suckles like a fiend. So different to August who, now that I think about it, wasn’t too fond of the nip even as a baby.A preemie problem, I was told many times but my ears always heara you problem. My fault. He was born tiny and early and mad at the world and it was my fault.
October is fat and late and, so far, perpetually happy. She has her brother’s penchant for cuddles but everything else is so different. Everything this time was so different. I’ve spent the last day or so remarking on all the differences, crying about them, internally—and a little externally—screaming about them because I knew last time was bad but, fuck me, I didn’t realize how bad until the opposite happened. Until I had support and encouragement and a hand holding mine and a baby that wasn’t rushed to the NICU and the one who was, all grown up, by my side and smiling.
That same overwhelmingwhat the fuck?feeling hits me when Cass reappears. When he eases himself onto the bed and, after silently seeking permission, swaps the baby in my grip for the plate in his, taking over burping her while urging me to eat.
I try to remember the first time I ate a real meal after August was born. Something that didn’t come from a packet or a can, easily prepared in five minutes or less. I can’t recall an exact measure of time, but I know it wasn’t the day after I gave birth, and I know it wasn’t a healthy, heaping portion of grilled teriyaki chicken, steamed broccoli, and sticky rice.
As I absentmindedly shovel food into my mouth, I try to remember anyone but me burping August—that one’s easy; I know for sure it never happened. I try to remember anyone else even holding him and come up empty. I try to remember someone other than me looking at my son the way Cass is looking at October, and the fact that I can’t erases every ounce of resentment in my body towards the man who left me, and replaces it with pure, immense gratitude because at least he came back.
“Thank you.” I sniff, swiping beneath eyes that won’t quit leaking no matter how hard I try. “For everything. For being here.”
The words haven’t truly left my mouth before Cass is dragging me into his side, and I shouldn’t sink into him so easily, so readily, but I do.
We should probably talk. We have so, so much to talk about. But I’m so tired and, despite the tears, I’m so happy. Sore achy but so, so happy. So is Cass and so is August and I can’t ascertain real confirmation but October seems pretty happy too, as most milk-drunk newborns do.
So, I keep my mouth shut. My eyes, too. My mind follows suit. Just before I pass out, I vaguely register a soft weight landing on my stomach, something warm grazing my temple, and the quietly hummed first notes of a lullaby about sunshine.
* * *
Not-so-quiet cries rouse me from not-so-much sleep.
I jerk awake and upright, everything south of the equator aches at the sudden movement, nothing up north too happy either. Unless being trigger-happy counts. Glancing down, I swear at the dark stains adding yet another t-shirt to an ever-growing pile of laundry. One itty bitty cry and I’ve sprung a leak. I forgot how fucking inconvenient that is.
Luckily, I’ve had a week's worth of inconveniences to remind me.
