Hadley & Grace(21)

She can almost smell the pancakes Jimmy would make in the morning, fluffy as air, a special recipe made with lemon-zest ricotta, warm maple syrup on top. Her stomach rumbles, and she realizes something is baking nearby. Stretching her arms over her head, she inhales the heady scent, unable to remember the last time she slept so well or the last time it was so quiet.

Quiet!

She bolts upright as she realizes where she is. In a hotel room. Alone. No Miles. No money.

She leaps from the bed and runs for the door.

“Morning,” Mrs. Torelli says as she bursts into the brightness.

Grace spins to see Mrs. Torelli sitting in a plastic chair beside the door, Miles cradled in her arms. He stares up at her, his fists waving.

Grace blinks.

“Sleep well?”

Grace swallows back her panic as her eyes slide to the diaper bag at Mrs. Torelli’s feet. The bag has been neatly repacked, the diapers, bottles, and formula organized in the outer pockets, the money bulging in the zipped main compartment. Miles’s car seat is beside the bag. It looks freshly scrubbed, the lining cleaned of crumbs and several of the stains gone.

“Where’s your stuff?” Grace says, noticing that Mrs. Torelli has changed into a cotton skirt the color of plums and an ivory tank.

“Packed in the car. My daughter loaded it for me.”

As if on cue, a teenager with white-blonde hair with half an inch of dark roots walks from the door on the other side of Mrs. Torelli. She looks at Grace with dark-brown eyes the exact color of Frank’s, then turns to Mrs. Torelli. “Can we go now?” she says, her arms folded across her chest in a silent, trademark teenage harrumph.

The girl is edgy cool. She wears black leggings and a rock T-shirt from a band Grace has never heard of, and an awesome snake earring spirals through her left ear.

“Mattie, this is Grace,” Mrs. Torelli says.

“Hey,” Mattie says, not bothering to look at Grace again, and Grace nearly smiles, remembering being like that when she was a teenager, completely caught up in her own world while trying to figure out how she fit into the bigger one.

Mrs. Torelli sighs, lifts Miles so he is standing on her lap, and nuzzles his nose, apparently in no rush to give him up.

“Mo-o-om,” Mattie says, rolling her eyes.

“Mmmm?” Mrs. Torelli says, nuzzling Miles again, clearly enamored.

“Well, I guess we should be going,” Grace mumbles. “Thanks for, you know, looking after him.” She steps forward to take him at the exact moment the door beside them opens again and a boy in a Dodgers uniform walks through.

He steps between her and Mrs. Torelli, looks down at Miles, places his hands on the baby’s cheeks, then squishes them to make Miles’s lips into a fish mouth. “Hey, Rookie,” he says; then he proceeds to play Miles’s cheeks like an accordion, smooshing them in and out.

Grace steps forward, slightly concerned. The boy is around eight, slight as a rag doll, and there’s something different about him, a slowness that speaks to viewing the world through an altered lens.

She reaches around to take Miles just as Miles lets out a squeal that startles her. She stops, straightens, looks at the boy, then looks back at Miles, who is waving his pudgy arms and kicking his pudgy legs in what can only be described as delight.

The book Grace has on baby development says babies start to laugh at three months. But though Miles’s four-month birthday was two weeks ago, Grace has never seen him so much as crack a grin.

The boy removes his hands, then looks at Mrs. Torelli. “Time to get on the road, Blue,” he says, and Mrs. Torelli smiles at him with so much love Grace’s heart swells.

Grace takes Miles, and Mrs. Torelli pushes to her feet with a wince.

“You need to get that looked at,” Grace says. The ankle looks worse this morning, bulging, blue, and misshapen.

“Yeah, I’ll get right on that,” Mrs. Torelli answers with a sarcastic grin. “Mattie, give me a hand.”

Mattie steps up, and Mrs. Torelli wraps her arm around her daughter’s shoulders. The girl barely breaks five feet, and it’s obvious the arrangement is not going to work. They attempt a step, and Grace lunges, catching Mrs. Torelli by her bicep as she stumbles and yelps in pain. The lurch causes Miles to practically tumble from Grace’s arms, and he cries out, letting out a bloodcurdling wail.

Grace releases Mrs. Torelli and hugs him to her. “Sorry,” she says, holding him tight. “I’m so sorry.”

He continues to scream and rails against her, his little fists pushing against her shoulders as he arches his back to break loose. She reaches for his car seat on the ground, but he’s flailing so hard she’s afraid she might drop him.

“Mattie, help her,” Mrs. Torelli says.

“I’m fine,” Grace says, attempting to reposition him so he’s more secure as she continues to reach for his car seat.

“Mattie, now!” Mrs. Torelli practically screams.

Mattie lifts the car seat onto the plastic chair, and Grace pushes Miles into it as he continues to shriek. “Thanks,” she mumbles, her heart pounding.

She feels Mrs. Torelli watching her, and heat rises in her cheeks. Miles flails, his face purple with his hysterics as he kicks and screams, the crown of his head pressed painfully into the headrest.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Mrs. Torelli says, hopping on one foot to where Grace is. “Hand him over.”