"It's like trying to feed cooked spaghetti through a straw," Hardy observed.
Carrington grunted and complained as I managed to tug her hand through the sleeve. I
started on the other arm. and the first hand pulled right out of the dress again. I let out an exasperated puff. Hardy snickered.
"Maybe she doesn't like the dress," he said.
"Would you like to give it a try?" I asked.
"Hell, no. I'm good at getting girls out of their clothes, not putting them on."
He had never made that kind of remark around me before, and I didn't like it.
"Don't swear in front of the baby," I said sternly.
"Yes, ma'am."
The touch of vexation made me less tentative with the baby, and I managed to finish dressing her. Gathering the curls at the top of her head, I fastened a Velcro bow around them. Tactfully Hardy turned his back while I changed her diapers, which were the size of a cocktail napkin.
"I'm ready," came Mama's voice behind me, and I picked Carrington up.
Mama was in a wheelchair, dressed in a new blue robe and matching slippers. She held the flowers from Marva in her lap.
"Do you want to take the baby and I'll carry the flowers?" I asked reluctantly.
She shook her head. "You carry her, sweetheart."
The baby car seat was webbed with enough buckled straps to restrain a fighter pilot in an F-15. Gingerly I settled the squirming baby into the seat. She began to squall as I tried to fasten the straps around her. "It's a five-point safety system." I told her. "Consumer Reports said it was the best one available."
"I guess the baby didn't read that issue," Hardy said, climbing in on the other side of the car seat to help.
I was tempted to tell him not to be such a smart-ass, but remembering my rule about no swearing in front of Carrington, I kept silent. Hardy grinned at me.
"Here we go," he said, deftly untwisting a strap. "Put this buckle over there and cross the other one over."
Together we managed to fasten Carrington securely in the seat. She was revving up. shrieking in objection to the indignity of being strapped in. I put my hand on her, my fingers curving over her heaving chest. "It's okay," I murmured. "It's okay, Carrington. Don't cry."
"Try singing to her," Hardy suggested.
"I can't sing," I said, rubbing circles on her chest. "You do it."
He shook his head. "Not a chance. My singing sounds like a cat being run over by a steamroller."
I tried a rendition of the opening song from Mister Rogers' Neighborhood, which I had watched every day as a child. By the time I reached the last "won't you be my neighbor?" Carrington had stopped crying and was staring at me in myopic wonder.
Hardy laughed softly. His fingers slid over mine, and for a moment we stayed like that, our hands resting lightly on the baby. Staring at his hand, I reflected that you could never mistake it for someone else's. His work-roughened fingers dotted with tiny star-shaped scars from encounters with hammers, nails, and barbed wire. There was enough strength in those fingers to bend a sixteen-penny nail with ease.
I raised my head and saw that Hardy's lashes had lowered to conceal his thoughts. He seemed to be absorbing the feel of my fingers beneath his.
Suddenly he withdrew and pulled out of the car, going to help Mama into the passenger seat. Leaving me to grapple with the eternal fascination that seemed to have become a part of me as surely as a hand or foot. But if Hardy didn't want me, or wouldn't allow himself to. I now had someone else to lavish with all my affection. I kept my hand on the baby all the way home, learning the rhythm of her breathing.
CHAPTER 7
During the first six weeks of Carrington's life, we developed habits that later proved impossible to break. Some would last a lifetime.
Mama was slow to heal, both spiritually and physically. The baby's birth had depleted her in ways I didn't understand. She still laughed and smiled, still hugged me and asked how my day at school was. Her weight receded until she looked almost the same as she had before. But something was wrong. I couldn't put my finger on it; it was a subtle erasure of something that had been there before.
Miss Marva said it was just that Mama was tired. When you were pregnant, your body went through nine months of change, and it took at least that long to get back to normal. The main thing, she said, was to give Mama lots of understanding and help.
I wanted to help, not just for Mama's sake, but because I loved Carrington so passionately. I loved everything about her, the silky baby skin and platinum curls, the way she splashed in the bath like a baby mermaid. Her eyes had turned the exact blue-green shade of Aquafresh toothpaste. Her gaze followed me everywhere, her mind filled with thoughts she couldn't yet express.