The Swallow's Nest. Emilie Richards
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Graham in his features. Now she saw her husband again. Since the beginning of human reproduction fathers had seen themselves in babies that weren’t their own. But this was no mistake. She certainly didn’t see herself when she looked at Toby, but she did see the man she had married.
He whimpered, and without thinking she rested him against her shoulder. He squirmed, but he didn’t cry. She adjusted him so his face was turned toward hers, and he seemed to relax.
She wondered when he’d last eaten. Had he been hers she would have offered him a breast, sat in the corner rocking chair—and yes, she saw now that there was one in the corner away from the window—and sung to him as he nursed. But he wasn’t hers. She had no idea what Toby ate and when. She did know, though, that he was wet. The dampness was seeping through the little footie pajamas he wore.
As she changed him she murmured. Of course the wailing began again. Few babies enjoyed being changed. But she turned on a lamp so he could see her better and told him who she was as she stripped the pajamas off his impossibly tiny body and warded off the chill with a flannel blanket over his chest as she removed his diaper.
“I’m Lilia, Toby. And this is my house. I hope you never remember the day you arrived, because it wasn’t a good one for you or for anybody else.”
She wondered how true that was. Had it been a good day for Marina? Had she been so relieved that after she drove away she’d gone somewhere to celebrate?
She found wipes and cleaned him thoroughly, noting the beginning of diaper rash. Would Graham know it if he saw it? Wasn’t anybody helping who could point out the need to change Toby more frequently? Clearly the baby had sensitive skin, and despite a quick search through the changing table drawer, she saw nothing to relieve it.
Tomorrow she would shop.
That thought surprised and annoyed her. “Except that you’re not mine to worry about, are you?” Still pinning him to the table, she pulled dry pajamas from a drawer in the dresser. Somebody had folded and placed baby clothes in drawers. Somebody had made certain the dresser was an easy reach from the table.
She pulled the pajamas over the baby’s flailing arms, then scooped him up again and took him to the rocker, grabbing a blanket from the foot of the crib as she passed.
Seated, she tucked the blanket around him. “I guess we’ll find out if you were just wet or hungry.” A pacifier sat on the closest window ledge, and she tucked it into his mouth. Then she began to rock. He squirmed; he protested. But in a minute he began to settle.
“So I was saying...” She was surprised that her voice quieted him even more. “I’m Lilia. And you’re Toby. If I’m not mistaken you are now my stepson. What you are for sure is a surprise. What a way to start your little life, huh?”
One arm shot up, and he batted at her chest, surprising her. He was no longer crying. Now he was squinting at her, as if he was trying to figure out who she was. She remembered that babies saw faces, that faces intrigued them.
“I have four brothers. All but one of them have children. They’re a rowdy group, Toby. They would eat you alive. Then they would spit you out and teach you to surf and fish and hike up mountains.”
She wondered why she was telling him this, and she thought of Eli’s oldest son, the child who wasn’t his by birth, but was as much a part of their extended family as any other child.
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