The Push(33)

“I know, Mom. But I worry for Violet. She needs—”

I had marched into the kitchen with the bin full of plastic animals and dropped it on the floor at your feet. You jumped and stared at the toys.

“Good night, Helen.” I couldn’t look at you.

The next morning, before she left for the airport, she apologized for what I overheard you say, as though she still had some kind of responsibility for you.

“Everything okay with you two?”

I hadn’t wanted her to worry.

“Just not getting enough sleep, that’s all.”



* * *



? ? ?

So you’ll have to take her this morning, I’m sorry. Okay?” I bent down to tighten Violet’s shoelaces.

“I’ve got a client coming in at ten. I can’t make it from one end of the city to the other and back again by then.”

“Well, you can make it to your office in time if you don’t drop her off—just give her some paper and pencils to keep her busy during your meeting, and take her to school afterward. That would be fun, right, Violet?”

You rubbed your closed eyes and sighed. Sam had kept us both up most of the night. He was teething. You had always been able to sleep through Violet waking up at night, but you seemed to have a hard time sleeping since Sam came. “All right. Come on, kiddo, let’s roll.”

At dinner that night she told me all about her day. The treasure chest at the dentist’s office, the hole punch she played with at your desk.

“And then I went for lunch with Daddy and his friend.”

“Oh, how nice. And who was that?”

“Jenny.”

“Gemma,” you corrected her.

“Gemma,” she repeated.

“Someone from the office?” I had never heard the name before.

“My new assistant. She took a liking to Violet while I was in the meeting, so I invited her along.”

“That’s nice. I didn’t know you had a new assistant. And where did you guys go?

“A place with chicken fingers! She bought me an ice cream after! And a unicorn pencil and eraser.”

“Lucky girl.”

“She loved my hair.”

“I do, too. You have beautiful hair.”

“Her hair was long and curly, and she had pink paint on her nails.”

Sam began to fuss in his high chair, fist in his mouth. Violet banged her hands on the table to distract him. “Sammy, look, it’s a drum! Drum, drum, drum. Drum, drum, DRUM!”

“You’ll clean up?” I asked. I took Sam for his bath without waiting for your answer.



* * *



? ? ?

I read her a story in our bed, Sam wiggling between us with his bunny, Benny.

“One more,” she said when I finished the book. Always one more. I sighed and gave in. Sam tapped his fingers on his nearly empty bottle. More, more. You were changing into your jeans at the end of the bed.

“Mom, Sammy wants more milk.”

“Going somewhere?”

“Back to the office,” you said. “I have to finish a proposal tonight.”

“Daddy, you have to tuck me in!”

You leaned down to kiss all three of us. One by one. With purpose. Sam held up his empty bottle.

“Mom will tuck you in, sweetheart. I have to run. Be a good girl for her, okay?”

“Sammy still needs more milk!” said Violet again.

“Love you,” you said, to all of us.



* * *



? ? ?

I sat on the edge of her bed to say good night. She had been so good lately and yet I never told her this. I had started to take this new, peaceful normal between us for granted. I could barely remember a time before Sam. I could barely remember the mother I had been. Motherhood is like that—there is only the now. The despair of now, the relief of now.

Her face was maturing, a preview of what she would look like as a teenager. Her lips were round and plump, and I imagined her kissing someone. Loving someone. She had changed in those months since Sam was born. Or maybe it was me who had changed. Maybe I could finally see who she was.

“Violet? I want you to know what a very good girl you’ve been lately. You’ve been kind and gentle with Sam. You’ve been helpful. And you’ve been a good friend at school. I’m proud of you.”

She was quiet, thinking. I turned out her night-light and leaned down to kiss her, and she let me.

“Good night. Sleep tight.”

“Do you love baby Sam more than me?” Her words paralyzed me. I thought of you. Of what she might have overheard you say.

“Honey. Of course not. I love you both the same.”

She closed her eyes, pretending to sleep, and I watched her lids flutter.





39





I didn’t know she was in his room until she spoke.

The nights had been ours for months on end, more months than the baby books said was normal. I woke urgently at the slightest noise from Sam’s crib, as though a rocket had launched in my ear. In the dark I stood, shifting my hips from side to side, the rhythm, like the scent of my skin and the taste of my milk, the way he knew it was me. Go to sleep, sweet boy. I would brush my lips on the fuzz of his head, careful not to rouse him. On the particular night I’m remembering, he barely nursed, wanting only the feeling of my nipple filling his mouth. The comfort. The sound machine hissed, a fusion of noises that were meant to be the ocean.