Rooted (Pagano Family #3)(89)
The doctor had explained that Teresa’s development was still more akin to fetal development than newborn—though it had been six weeks since her birth, in reality, in a safer, more perfect world, Carmen would most likely still have been pregnant at this time. While most newborns were developing motor control and muscle strength, preemies like Teresa were developing lung capacity and organ function. Eventually, when the milestone ranges widened, she would likely catch up. But in the meantime, extra care and patience would be necessary. Carmen was afraid of this, too—of not being a good enough mother to help her daughter overcome the challenges of her early, traumatic birth.
Her head swirling with all those thoughts, she sighed and struggled with one hand to close the cup on her bra.
“Oh, sorry.” Her father cleared his throat, and Carmen looked up to see him turning away, averting his eyes.
Leaving Teresa settled on her chest, where she was falling asleep without having burped—burping was a function she was still developing—Carmen adjusted her top so that her father wouldn’t be scandalized. “Hi, Pop. It’s okay. I’m decent.”
Carlo Sr. turned back and came around the bassinet. “How’re my girls today?” He pulled up a chair and sat at Carmen’s side, his eyes as bright as his smile, and he reached out and laid his rough hand on Teresa’s back. “She looks sleepy.”
“Milk coma.”
Her father gave her a worried look. “Is she okay?”
“Yeah, Pop,” Carmen laughed softly. “It’s just an expression for a nap after she eats. Her belly’s all full and cozy.”
“Oh. That’s good then. Right?”
“Right.”
“Can I…would it…” He looked a little lost.
“Go get squirted, and then yes, of course you can hold her. She probably won’t wake up at all. Because milk coma.” Though Teresa was still in the NICU, she wasn’t isolated any longer, and she spent most of every day being snuggled and loved by a grandparent, an aunt, an uncle, or a parent.
He got up and went off to sanitize himself. When he came back, he sat again in the chair and held out his burly, hairy arms. He was beaming at his granddaughter. “Come see Pop-Pop, bella.
Carmen settled her daughter in her father’s arms, negotiating around the tiny cannula in her nose, and he nestled her into the crook of his elbow and then against his chest like a man who had fathered six children and nurtured his grandchildren as well. He knew what he was doing. He looked down on the tiny girl with such brilliant love and devotion that Carmen, still caught in the clutches of maternal hormones, found herself in a violent internal fight against tears.
Doubts rose up in her heart and head—they were always bubbling just below the surface, and needed little impetus to break free and wreak havoc in her mind. How could she take Teresa away from all this love? Family—was that not home itself, love itself? How could she go off to live alone with Theo, just the three of them surrounded by woods and strangers? How was that the right choice? Was she making a mistake, taking Teresa away from home? She was, wasn’t she? But Theo would lose his mind if she changed hers now, when everything was nearly set and they were simply waiting for Teresa to be able to leave the hospital.
Oh, shit. She had no idea what to do.
“What’s wrong, Carmen? You look upset.”
She left her horrifying reverie and saw her father watching her, his brow drawn. Her daughter slept cozily in his arms, a little fist against her cheek. She gave him a hopefully convincing smile. “No. I’m fine.”
He wasn’t convinced. “Carmen. You don’t have to be brave all the time. You can tell me anything.”
She knew that was true. “I’m just worried about leaving home. Leaving you—leaving everything. I don’t want to make a mistake.”
He sighed so heavily that he disturbed the baby. She woke and fussed, and Carmen watched as, without much thought at all, her father resettled his only granddaughter and bounced her gently. She calmed and closed her eyes almost at once. Carmen would never have bounced her; she was still afraid of breaking her.
“Carmen, my sweet girl. I’m going to serve you up some truth. You think you can handle it?”
She laughed, imagining Jack Nicholson saying words like it. A Few Good Men was one of her father’s favorite movies, so she was certain he was imagining something similar. “Sure, Pop.”
“Your priorities are out of whack. I’m getting frustrated with you. If you were a little girl, I’d’ve had you over my knee by now.”
“What? Why?” She had not expected that to be the truth, and she wasn’t all that sure she could handle it.
“Because you’re welching on your responsibilities, and I’m getting sick of it.”
Nope, definitely couldn’t handle it. “Pop! That’s not fair! I feel like all I ever think about is my responsibilities.”
“The wrong ones, baby. You think about the wrong ones. Don’t you see that?”
Carmen just stared at him, her head swimming. For something to do that would remove her eyes from his, she buttoned her shirt.
“Carmen. Look at me.” She busied herself with her buttons. “Carmen Cella Pagano, you look at me right now.”
Though she was thirty-eight years old, she felt chastened by her father’s use of her full name, and she looked up, her fingers still on the button just above her bra.