Starting Now (Blossom Street #9)(18)

Finding inner peace appealed to her, and rocking newborns was a whole lot cheaper than buying a bunch of books on the subject. What she found difficult to explain was the draw she felt toward these babies. She certainly hadn’t felt a twinge of it when her ex-husband had been cajoling her to get pregnant. But now the pull felt magnetic. She longed to hold an infant in her arms. It was so completely counter to what she knew about herself, but there it was.

Well, she didn’t have anything better to do with her time; she might as well give it a try. Thursday morning, after working out at the gym, she decided to stop off at the hospital and fill out the application. The form was lengthy, and it took far longer than she’d expected. Most job applications were shorter than this. She was finger-printed as well. Apparently a complete background check had to be done and submitted before she could be approved.

Sharon Jennings phoned the following Monday morning to tell her she’d been cleared to volunteer at the hospital.

“Oh, great, thanks.” Libby had assumed there wouldn’t be a problem. She didn’t have so much as a jaywalking ticket.

“When would you like to start?”

“Ah …” Libby wasn’t sure. In the few days since she’d submitted the application she’d had time to think about it, and she’d realized that being with the newborns might not help. While she craved the comfort and peace Sharon had promised, she was afraid being around newborns might make her long for a child of her own. She was already past her prime childbearing years, although it was common these days for a woman to give birth in her late thirties or even her early forties. But with no man in sight, it wasn’t likely to happen for her.

Rocking infants could very well be dangerous to her mental well-being. Doubts had already gnawed away at her self-confidence. What she didn’t need was a constant reminder of what she’d given up with the divorce. How different her life would have been if she’d given Joe what he wanted. She didn’t need to add guilt or regret.

If Libby was going to volunteer for a worthy cause she should consider working at a legal clinic. The problem was that most people who walked into a free clinic weren’t interested in setting up estate planning, trust funds, or foundations, and that was her expertise.

“Could you be here at noon?” Sharon wasn’t taking no for an answer.

“Ah …”

“We could really use your help.”

“Sure,” Libby capitulated before she could stop herself. Oh dear, what was she thinking?

Sharon’s gratitude was immediate. “Wonderful; I’ll see you then.”

At precisely twelve o’clock, Libby arrived at the nursery. Sharon had her put on a hospital gown over her street clothes, and then she brought her into the nursery.

“Pick up an infant and start rocking” was all the instruction Libby was given.

The nursery was a cacophony of squalling babies. The noise was deafening. “Which one?” Libby asked, not knowing where to start. She hadn’t even begun and she was already in over her head.

“Whichever one you like.”

Libby chose the closest baby: a fat, healthy, eight-pound baby boy with a thatch of dark brown hair. The surname was Burzotta. Italian, she suspected. Libby carefully lifted the infant from the soft bed and settled into the wooden rocker. The baby cried all the louder until Libby started rocking. The heated red face relaxed and the baby’s lower lip trembled as he gradually settled down.

Libby didn’t know any lullabies and so she softly sang the only song she could think of, which was a Rick Springfield hit from the eighties. It might not have been Brahms, but her low voice appeared to do the trick. Within minutes Baby Boy Burzotta was sound asleep in Libby’s arms.

She placed the infant back inside his crib and reached for another little boy. He was downright angry, his face twisted into a scowl. “You’ve been fed, young man,” Libby whispered, rocking gently. “The chart tells me your mother fed you no more than thirty minutes ago. It’s naptime.” Baby Jassin wasn’t as easily appeased as Baby Burzotta had been.

Libby rocked and softly sang to him as well, easily slipping from one rock song to another, from Springfield to Springsteen. It surprised her that she remembered so many of the words. As a teenager, after her mother died, Libby had drowned her grief in music, listening to her cassettes, and later CDs, for hours on end. That had been long before iPods. She’d lie in bed, immersed in the songs that helped drown out the world and her loss. Her father never complained about the volume. He seemed to know she needed it loud. When he married Charlene that had changed. Charlene had claimed Libby would damage her hearing and it wasn’t good for her.

Libby had dutifully turned down the music.

It took the equivalent of an entire CD of songs before Baby Jassin fell asleep in her arms.

Nurse Jennings was right. Even in the midst of a dozen wailing infants, Libby felt a sense of peace, a sense of rightness. A calm washed over her, and all she did was rock babies. The worries that had weighed her down since she’d lost her job seemed to slowly fade away. It was as if she’d entered another world. A welcoming island where all that mattered was holding a baby in her arms and singing softly.

“Now, now,” she said gently, picking up a third baby. “The world isn’t such a bad place. Your mommy and daddy are going to love you so much.” She placed the newborn over her shoulder and gently patted his back.