Protecting Her(5)

After a half hour, I get up and try placing him in his crib again. This time he doesn’t protest. He’s sound asleep. I turn on the baby monitor, then go down to the kitchen because I’m starving. I didn’t want the hospital food, so I haven’t eaten all day. I take some deli meat from the fridge and quickly make a sandwich.

If my parents knew I was eating a cold sandwich, they’d be horrified. They’d feel that way about a lot of the things I eat now. Pizza. Grilled cheese sandwiches. Spaghetti and meatballs. Hamburgers. Rachel is the one who introduced me to those foods. I never had them when I was growing up. My parents forbid them, saying that’s what trashy, unrefined people ate.

My son will eat all those foods, along with all the other foods his mother makes. Rachel is an excellent cook and can make most anything. But the past few months, since she couldn’t be on her feet much during her pregnancy, I was in charge of dinner. I’d either get takeout or grill something. I’ve become quite good with the grill, which is another thing my parents would disapprove of. They would be very upset that I’m preparing my own food. They’ve always had a cook and they expect me to have one as well. A Kensington does not prepare food, or do other tasks my parents consider to be menial and beneath them, such as laundry or cleaning. But Rachel didn’t want a cook or a maid, so we don’t have either.

I’ve barely finished my sandwich when the baby monitor goes off. He was only asleep for twenty minutes, if that, and now he’s crying again. I go upstairs and see his red, teary eyes. I feel bad for him, stuck here with me, his clueless father, when his mother would be doing a much better job.

“What’s wrong, Garret?” I pick him up but he’s still crying. The nurse said I wouldn’t need to feed him for at least another hour. Maybe he needs a diaper change. I can change a diaper. I did it on a doll several times at those baby care classes.

I set him on the changing table and grab a diaper. Now he’s crying even more. He does not like being on this table. I quickly get to work on his diaper, putting the new one on him as fast as possible because now he’s screaming to the point that his whole face is red.

“We’re almost done,” I tell him, fastening the diaper in place. But I must’ve done it wrong because it’s not a very tight fit.

Garret is still crying and I don’t know what to do. The nurses told me infants find it soothing to be wrapped in a tightly bundled blanket, but I have no idea how to do that. I watched the nurse do it and it looked like she was doing origami. I take Garret’s blanket and attempt to bundle him up the way the nurses did, but I can’t figure it out. I give up and just wrap the blanket around him, then pick him up, and finally, the crying slows and eventually stops.

I haven’t even been home for an hour and I’m already exhausted. Rachel’s right. I need help. I can’t do this alone. But I have no one to call.

Royce and Victoria had a baby in July, but they wouldn’t be of any help. They’ve had a nanny taking care of their daughter since the day she came home from the hospital.

Maybe I should call my mother. As Rachel said, I’m sure my mother took care of me at least some of the time. She must know something about babies. I have no one else to call so I decide to just call her and tell her the news. Maybe I’ll ask for her help, or maybe I won’t. It’ll depend on how the call goes.

I bring Garret downstairs and go in the family room and sit on the couch. He’s quieted down now and is watching me again, probably realizing how incompetent I am and wishing he was back at the hospital.

The phone is next to me on the table. I pick it up and call my parents’ number, but then remember that they have the hired help screen their calls. The help has been instructed not to put my calls through. That’s why I haven’t even bothered trying to call my parents for over a year, not even on Christmas.

“Kensington residence,” someone answers. Probably the maid.

“I need to speak with Eleanor, please.”

“Who may I ask is calling?”

I consider lying, but then change my mind. “Pearce. Eleanor’s son.”

There’s silence and then, “One moment, please.”

At least she didn’t hang up. Perhaps she’s new and doesn’t know the rules. I wait for her to return and tell me that my mother is busy, or out somewhere, or whatever other excuse my mother gave her.

“Pearce.” It’s my mother’s voice. “Are you there?”