laugh, which was so incongruous coming from her tiny body. How her hair felt, slippery as silk, between Abby’s fingers when Abby combed it after a bath.
As months passed, Abby discovered new enchantments. She was there when Annabelle first sat up, and when she learned to blow a sputtering raspberry with her lips. Abby adored the scratchy sound of Annabelle’s voice when she called “Bee-Bee!” as she awoke from a nap.
“Bee-Bee is here,” Abby would say while the baby stretched out her arms to be lifted from her crib. She’d singsong in her ear: “Bee-Bee loves you, yes she does.”
She felt so at ease puttering around the house with Anna-belle on her hip, lining up the baby’s miniature plates in the dishwasher, organizing Annabelle’s toys into baskets lined with pink-and-white polka-dotted cloths, and crawling across the room as Annabelle giggled and imitated her.
One day shortly after Annabelle turned one, Abby was tossing back her hair and neighing like a horse to make Annabellelaugh. Something made her look up, and she saw Bob in the doorway in his tan pants and crisp blue shirt. Abby didn’t know how long he’d been there. She had trouble deciphering the expression on his face. He couldn’t possibly be mad, could he?
Suddenly, he dropped to his knees. “Can you walk to me, Annabelle?” he asked. Abby clapped as Annabelle moved unsteadily across the floor, and when she reached Bob, he swept her up in his arms and said, “You’re the best baby.”
“Isn’t she?” Abby asked. “I took her to the park today and everyone thought she was at least a year and a half. They couldn’t believe she was only thirteen months old. She’s so advanced!”
“And beautiful,” Bob said. “Do you think I should buy a shotgun yet and sit out on the front porch?”
“Give it another two months,” Abby said, laughing. “It’ll take that long for most of her boyfriends to crawl over here.”
Abby glanced out the window and noticed it was getting darker; it must have been around six o’clock. Too early for Joanna to be home. Usually around this time, Abby and Bob exchanged a few pleasantries, chatting about what Annabelle had eaten and how long she’d napped, then Abby handed over the baby and headed downstairs to pack her backpack for school or get in a few hours of studying. She went out sometimes, too, to meet her boyfriend, Pete, or some friends for dinner or drinks.
She never lingered upstairs when Bob came home. Living in the house made Abby feel the need to establish specific boundaries. She didn’t consider herself part of the family, and she knew Bob and Joanna needed privacy. She wanted to make sure she had some, too, so that Joanna didn’t feel comfortable popping into Abby’s room after one of her predawn runs. There was a lock on Abby’s bedroom door, but not on the main door connecting the basement to the rest of the house.
Once Abby had heard Bob and Joanna fight—not actual words, just the rising timbre of their voices—and she’d frozenin embarrassment. Should she try to leave? But what if they glanced out the window and saw her hurrying across the front lawn toward her car? In the end the argument stopped, abruptly, and she wondered what was happening next. Almost unbidden, the image came to her of the two of them having sex. But it was Bob’s face she saw, flushed and intent, and that was the image she dreamed of that night. She could barely look at him the next morning as he buttered a piece of sourdough toast when she came upstairs.
Though she talked to Bob every day, their conversations usually centered on Annabelle, the star in both of their orbits. Sometimes Bob asked a question about her classes, or Abby told him that Annabelle was starting to look just like him, but that was as personal as they got. Their mutual love for Anna-belle bound them and gave them permission to be together; it was easy to delight in her little accomplishments, to talk about what made her
As months passed, Abby discovered new enchantments. She was there when Annabelle first sat up, and when she learned to blow a sputtering raspberry with her lips. Abby adored the scratchy sound of Annabelle’s voice when she called “Bee-Bee!” as she awoke from a nap.
“Bee-Bee is here,” Abby would say while the baby stretched out her arms to be lifted from her crib. She’d singsong in her ear: “Bee-Bee loves you, yes she does.”
She felt so at ease puttering around the house with Anna-belle on her hip, lining up the baby’s miniature plates in the dishwasher, organizing Annabelle’s toys into baskets lined with pink-and-white polka-dotted cloths, and crawling across the room as Annabelle giggled and imitated her.
One day shortly after Annabelle turned one, Abby was tossing back her hair and neighing like a horse to make Annabellelaugh. Something made her look up, and she saw Bob in the doorway in his tan pants and crisp blue shirt. Abby didn’t know how long he’d been there. She had trouble deciphering the expression on his face. He couldn’t possibly be mad, could he?
Suddenly, he dropped to his knees. “Can you walk to me, Annabelle?” he asked. Abby clapped as Annabelle moved unsteadily across the floor, and when she reached Bob, he swept her up in his arms and said, “You’re the best baby.”
“Isn’t she?” Abby asked. “I took her to the park today and everyone thought she was at least a year and a half. They couldn’t believe she was only thirteen months old. She’s so advanced!”
“And beautiful,” Bob said. “Do you think I should buy a shotgun yet and sit out on the front porch?”
“Give it another two months,” Abby said, laughing. “It’ll take that long for most of her boyfriends to crawl over here.”
Abby glanced out the window and noticed it was getting darker; it must have been around six o’clock. Too early for Joanna to be home. Usually around this time, Abby and Bob exchanged a few pleasantries, chatting about what Annabelle had eaten and how long she’d napped, then Abby handed over the baby and headed downstairs to pack her backpack for school or get in a few hours of studying. She went out sometimes, too, to meet her boyfriend, Pete, or some friends for dinner or drinks.
She never lingered upstairs when Bob came home. Living in the house made Abby feel the need to establish specific boundaries. She didn’t consider herself part of the family, and she knew Bob and Joanna needed privacy. She wanted to make sure she had some, too, so that Joanna didn’t feel comfortable popping into Abby’s room after one of her predawn runs. There was a lock on Abby’s bedroom door, but not on the main door connecting the basement to the rest of the house.
Once Abby had heard Bob and Joanna fight—not actual words, just the rising timbre of their voices—and she’d frozenin embarrassment. Should she try to leave? But what if they glanced out the window and saw her hurrying across the front lawn toward her car? In the end the argument stopped, abruptly, and she wondered what was happening next. Almost unbidden, the image came to her of the two of them having sex. But it was Bob’s face she saw, flushed and intent, and that was the image she dreamed of that night. She could barely look at him the next morning as he buttered a piece of sourdough toast when she came upstairs.
Though she talked to Bob every day, their conversations usually centered on Annabelle, the star in both of their orbits. Sometimes Bob asked a question about her classes, or Abby told him that Annabelle was starting to look just like him, but that was as personal as they got. Their mutual love for Anna-belle bound them and gave them permission to be together; it was easy to delight in her little accomplishments, to talk about what made her
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