At the Corner of King Street by Mary Ellen Taylor Page B

hurried out of the room and by the time the baby and I made it to the kitchen, she’d opened the bottle and screwed on a nipple. “Hot or warm?”
    â€œI don’t know. Warm.”
    â€œShould I put it in the microwave?”
    â€œIt’s got to be room temperature,” I said.
    â€œIs that too cold?”
    â€œI don’t know. Shit. What does warm feel like?”
    Grace scanned the sheet. “No.”
    â€œDamn.”
    She unscrewed the nipple and put the bottle in the microwave for thirty seconds. As the bottle turned round and round, the bells on the door downstairs clinked. “I better go check,” Grace said.
    â€œAsk them if they’ve ever fed a baby before.”
    â€œWe don’t know who it is.”
    Baby Morgan turned up the volume on her cries. “As long as they know babies, I don’t care.”
    As I rocked my body from side to side, the phone in my back pocket buzzed. I fished it out and read the display. Scott. With the baby’s cries bouncing off the rafters, I let the call go to voice mail.
    Steady and quick steps hurried up the stairs. Zeb and Eric rounded the corner. Eric was grinning, carrying a pink teddy bear, and Zeb look solemn and resigned. As he took in the image of me holding the baby, his expression darkened. For some reason, I thought he’d be pleased I was doing this, but he wasn’t. Maybe it was because the baby anchored Janet to Alexandria, his son, and his life.
    Baby Morgan cried louder. The noise, coupled with my fatigue and frayed nerves, reinforced that I was not good enough to do this. God, help us all! Unshed tears clogged my throat as I sniffed and pointed out the bottle to Zeb. “Can you tell me if the milk is too hot?”
    He crossed, took the bottle out of the microwave, and screwed the nipple back on. His tanned, calloused fingertips barely missing a beat, he upended the bottle on the underside of his wrist. He skillfully drizzled a few drops. “You shouldn’t feel hot or cold. If it’s as warm as your skin, you won’t feel it. That means it’s just right.”
    â€œIs it too hot?”
    â€œYes. She’s gonna have to wait a minute.”
    I cradled Baby Morgan closer. “She’s not good at waiting.”
    Zeb crossed to the sink and turned on the cold water. He put the bottle under the cool stream. “Surprised?”
    â€œNo, just desperate.”
    â€œCan I hold her?” Eric asked.
    I glanced at the sole cheerful, bright face in the room. “Eric, when she settles. Right now I need to feed her.”
    â€œI can feed her,” he said a little louder, over the baby’s crying. “I bet I know how.”
    Zeb placed his hand on his son’s shoulder. “Let Aunt Addie handle this feeding. You’ll have your turn.”
    Eric frowned but accepted his father’s tone, which left no room for arguments. “Does she have a name yet?”
    I glanced at the baby’s wristband. “Baby Morgan.”
    The boy wrinkled his nose. “What kind of name is that?”
    Jostling didn’t slow her cries. “I don’t know. It’s the one the hospital put on her wristband.”
    â€œIt’s not a name.” Zeb shut off the water.
    â€œJanet didn’t name her.”
    â€œCan I name her?” Eric asked. “I know lots of good names.”
    Zeb tested the bottle again, dried it with a towel, and handed it to me. “Good to go.”
    Grateful, I sat in one of the kitchen chairs and teased Baby Morgan’s mouth as before and she accepted the bottle. Her cries slowed as she rooted and then latched. When she quieted and suckled, the adults in the room sighed.
    Eric moved closer and studied her face. “She doesn’t have much hair.”
    â€œNo,” I said. “And she pees in her pants.”
    He giggled. “She’s a baby. They do that.”
    â€œI know. I have to remind myself to