The Guests on South Battery (Tradd Street #5)(69)
“Yes, but I’d guess that had more to do with bad habits than hormones.”
I looked through the space between the columns, seeing the specter of a giant whale skeleton floating from an invisible ceiling. “Sophie, do you see . . . ?”
“No, I don’t see the whale skeleton, either. It was moved to the new museum location before the fire. It’s not here anymore.”
“But I do see it,” I said with a relieved smile. “And that’s good. At least until I’m looking into a mirror and see somebody behind me. Then I might change my mind again.”
Baby Skye began kicking her legs and grunting, her feet as usual clad in tiny Birkenstocks, bouncing up and down as we passed the playground. Sophie stopped and took the baby from her carrier so she could hold her and look at the baby face-to-face. “Use your hands, Blue Skye. Use your hands to tell Mommy what you want.”
The baby stopped bouncing and stared solemnly into her mother’s face. And then, as if she’d actually understood what Sophie had said, Blue Skye opened and closed her fists, thrusting them in the direction of the playground.
“You want to go on the swings?”
Blue Skye made the same motion with her hands.
“Do you mind if we stop?” Sophie asked. “She loves it when I push her on the swing.”
“Um, sure,” I said. “And what was that?”
“It’s baby sign language. It’s a way for babies to communicate without crying. I highly recommend it.”
I wanted to ask her if it would just be easier to teach the child to actually speak, but I knew I’d get a response that would further confuse me. I parked the stroller, then reached into the outside pocket of the diaper bag I’d slung over the handles and pulled out a baggie filled with antibacterial baby wipes and began approaching the swings.
“What are those for?” Sophie asked.
“To rub down the swing before you put Skye in it. She might touch it.”
“Exactly,” she said, pulling Skye out of her pouch and walking past me before settling her into the little swing. “It’s good for them to be exposed to germs. You know, children in the jungles of Africa are healthier than our kids here because they’ve been allowed to develop immunities. With our constant disinfecting and bleaching, we are really making ourselves and our children vulnerable.”
I inwardly shuddered as I watched Skye clasp the sides of the swing and then immediately put her fingers into her mouth. “Please don’t tell me you don’t believe in vaccinations, either.”
She put a hand on her hip. “That would be stupid. Of course I believe in vaccinations. Why on earth would you think that I wouldn’t?”
I shrugged. “Well, you wear Birkenstocks. And you’re a vegetarian.”
She stared at me for a long moment. “Do you ever listen to yourself? Seriously, Melanie. Remind me again why we’re friends.”
I pretended to think. “Because you desperately need my fashion advice, and I like giving it.”
She grinned. “Right. Well, I’m not the one wearing yoga pants with a hidden compartment for doughnuts.” She shook her head as she gave the baby swing a gentle push.
I eventually got tired of watching her while I held a baby on each hip, and put the twins in two adjacent swings. When Sophie wasn’t looking, I used the hem of my shirt to wipe the places on the swings where the babies might touch them and then tried not to hyperventilate each time they brought their fingers to their mouths.
We chatted about work, children, husbands, and the joys of yoga—Sophie did all the talking about the latter—until the conversation settled on the Pinckney house. “I’ve never been given such a carte blanche on a restoration,” Sophie admitted. “And neither has the restoration company I’m working with. It’s a great feeling, knowing I’m not going to be nickel-and-dimed, or second-guessed, or yelled at when something new and unexpected comes up.”
“I’ve never yelled at you,” I protested.
“No, but I can tell when you want to, and that’s almost as bad. Anyway, it’s been really easy working with Jayne on this project.”
“Has she told you what she wants to do with the attic and its contents?” I asked, trying not to cringe as JJ leaned over and began mouthing the safety bar in front of him.
“No, not yet. And we really need to start working on the roof. A tarp only goes so far. I can’t repair the ceilings on the second floor until we’ve got the roof issue addressed. I’ve been up to the attic with my restoration toys and have measured the moisture in the walls and I have to say it’s not good. We’ll probably have to rip everything back to the studs—and I hate doing that because you never know what you might find. I’m just hoping we won’t discover black mold, because that’s a whole different ball game. If you could talk to Jayne soon to get an answer, that would be great. I suppose we could just move everything to another room on the second story, but everything there was just so . . . personal. Every time I go up there, I’m left thinking that Button wanted Jayne to take care of that stuff. Otherwise why didn’t she just get rid of it all after Hasell and Anna died?”
I stopped pushing, Sophie’s words resonating with me. Why had Button left Hasell’s room untouched all those years, almost as a shrine, and then left the disposal of it to a perfect stranger?