Sleeping Tigers (12 page)

“He could at least work full-time and cough up child support.” My throat and head hurt. I knew that Karin was probably right about it being difficult to get Cam to do the right thing. I sucked on a piece of ice for a minute, then said, “What a mess. I don’t know what to do. On the way home, I even wondered whether I should try for legal guardianship of the baby. But what if I get cancer again?”

“Will you quit with the death dirge?” Karin said, exasperated. “How about if you just recognize that you beat the cancer crap shoot and get on with your life.”

“I want to, you know?” I fiddled with the ice in my cup. “I’ve tried telling myself that. But there’s a woman I know who teaches at our school. She had breast cancer two years ago. Now she’s got ovarian cancer. How fair is that? She’s dying, Karin, and she has two little kids. That could be me some day.”

“But it isn’t you today,” Karin said gently. “Look, we’re all scared of dying. But that’s also the best thing about life: our ability to put one foot in front of the other and find joy in the here and now, no matter how scared we are. Follow your heart, Jordy, and then you won’t have to regret missing all of those things you wanted to try but didn’t.” She glanced at her watch. “I have to get to work. I’ll see one of the social workers on my break, see if she has any advice about Cam and the baby. You might as well be armed with information, because nothing you do will be easy.”

“I know.”

Karin rested a hand on mine. “I know you know. And that’s why I love you, because you always try to do the right thing, even if it’s not the easy thing.” She hugged me before leaving, her brisk white form disappearing quickly into the foggy night.

I was awakened at dawn by a cat’s noisy, pitiful meowing. On and on it went, until I clutched the pillow over my head to muffle the sound.

It was no use. I was fully awake, even though the first fingers of sunlight were just now reaching beneath the curtains. I sat up and studied the swirling pattern of dust motes in the pale light, listening hard. There it was again. Only now the noise had quieted to a soft grumbling.

The sound was definitely coming from outside. With a sigh, I climbed out of bed and padded to the front door, curling my bare toes into the thick tan carpet as I unbolted the door and opened it, squinting into the fog.

There was another cry, this one right at my feet. I stepped back and stared at the bundle of old towels on my doorstep. It wasn’t a cat after all, but a baby.

Of course I knew who it was even before I uncovered Paris’s pinched little face. She was bundled in the towels so tightly that she couldn’t squirm out of them, and she was mad as hell.

At the sight of me, my niece’s grumbling exploded into an angry howl. Nothing pitiful about that cry. She struggled inside the cloth, thrashing her scrawny limbs, but nothing happened. That baby was wrapped like a burrito. I loosened the towels, trying not to gag at the stink.

I patted Paris on the back and draped her over my shoulder the way I’d seen Nadine do. The baby’s nose rested like an ice cube on my neck and she was hiccuping now. Between hiccups, she drew ragged breaths. I stood there stupidly staring into the fog for several minutes, the baby molded against my chest and neck, wondering how long she’d been lying on my step. I had to figure out what she needed, fast.

Paris started nuzzling my neck, rooting for something to put in her mouth. Back in the apartment, I unwrapped one of her hands so that she could suck on her fist, saw the state of those fingers, and quickly held them under the kitchen tap.

Afterward, as the baby stuffed her fist into her mouth, the towels loosened a little more and a scrap of paper fluttered to the floor. I picked it up and peered at the childish scrawl.

I’m splitting. Thanks for the $$$. The Admiral says I can’t take the baby so please take care of her and love her like she is yours. This is a legal note and The Admiral is hereby my witness when I say you should adopt her, my only baby. Always tell Paris her mother loved her and this was the best thing. And also say goodbye to Cam for me. Officially signed, Nadine Charlotte Mortimer.

My knees were trembling. I wanted to sink to the floor, to read the note again until I could absorb what was happening. But Paris’s whimper had bloomed into a wail, her diaper weighed as much as she did, and her stench, now that the towels were unwrapped, was unbearable. I had no idea what time it was, but I had to find her something to eat and then get her cleaned up. After that, maybe I could think.

My refrigerator was empty. I’d finished the milk with the cookie dough. I didn’t even have any eggs to scramble. I scanned the counter and saw one banana left in the wooden bowl. Working with one hand, I split the peel, put the banana in a bowl and mashed it up with a little warm water. Tentatively, I put a spoonful of mush in front of Paris’s mouth.

She went after it like a snapping turtle, clamping her hard rubbery gums on the spoon and sucking off the banana. The baby ate the entire bowlful while I stood there, feeding her on my shoulder and trying not to mind the juices spilling down my neck.

When she’d finished, Paris whimpered for more. What should I do next? I wanted to call Karin, but it was too early. She’d be incoherent at this hour. I dressed with one hand, since Paris screamed whenever I tried to set her down on the bed. Then I sponged off the baby’s face, held my breath, stripped off the old towels, and slid her into a clean pillowcase. I’d have to change her diaper and deal with the rest of her needs after I had the right supplies.

Thankfully, the tiny corner store was open. The young Indian woman who managed it was sweeping behind the cash register with a whispering sound as regular as breathing, her blue sari sparkling in the dim store. I had seen this woman daily since my arrival in San Francisco, usually when I stopped in for coffee and the paper.

Seeing the baby brought a broad smile to the woman’s narrow face. “Hello to you, Baby!” she crooned. She glanced at me shyly. “Girl or boy?”

“Girl.”

“You are indeed blessed!”

I knew this woman had two small children of her own, a pair of boys who played behind the counter with wooden blocks or a fleet of tiny metal cars. “She’s not mine,” I said hastily. “I mean, she’s my niece, not my daughter. I’m just taking care of her. So I’m blessed, yes, but clueless. What should I buy for her?”

It took the woman only a moment to adjust her expression from good cheer to sympathy. “Ah, but she is loved and you are needed, so that is a double blessing.” She flashed me another brilliant smile before beckoning for me to follow.

Colors gradually emerged from the dun-colored recesses of the shop as my eyes adjusted. Together we patrolled the aisles, collecting diapers, baby wipes, jars of applesauce, a carton of eggs, oatmeal, and a gallon of milk. Paris twisted about in my arms and reached for the shelves as we walked, screeching nonstop. My ears were ringing by the time we reached the cash register.

“She has a good pair of lungs, that one,” the woman remarked, ringing up my purchases while cleverly dangling a set of keys to distract the baby.

“I guess that’s a good thing,” I grunted, trying to extricate money from my pocket without dropping the squirming baby. Holding Paris was like hanging onto a panicked rabbit. My arm had gone numb below the elbow, yet I didn’t dare put her down in the store. It was too easy to imagine Paris speed-crawling away and disappearing under the shelves.

I thanked the woman, found out her name was Kanchan, and promised I’d bring the baby by to visit.

Back in my apartment, I dropped the bag on the counter and plunked Paris on the carpeted floor, where I pinned her down with one arm while I took off her diaper. The diaper disintegrated into stinky lumps of sodden pulp. I scooped these into the trash while Paris crawled around the room at top speed, butt in the air, until she collided headfirst with the bookshelf. More howling. I picked her up, ran water in the kitchen sink, dunked her into it for a quick wash, then diapered her haphazardly.

The baby didn’t stop screaming until I’d balanced her on one hip, singing snatches of lullabies as I cooked oatmeal on my two-burner stove, all the while marveling at how much complaining a person this small could do. People who thought they were practicing for parenthood with their Golden Retrievers had a big surprise in store.

When the oatmeal was ready, I perched on a counter stool with Paris on my lap. I gave up feeding her with a spoon when I realized how efficient this child was with her hands. She cupped her palms into little shovels and snorted like a rooting pig as she moved the food from container to mouth at top speed. We were both soon splattered with oatmeal, but at least the baby was quiet.

When my cell phone rang, I didn’t even consider answering it. My hands weren’t just full; they were gluey. I waited until the phone stopped ringing, then pushed the button to play the message on speaker phone.

Ed’s voice boomed through my tiny apartment. “Hey, Babe, I know you’re probably still sleeping, but it’s a beautiful morning and I was thinking about driving up to Point Reyes. Call me.”

“Ha.” I stared at the phone. My life had completed its transformation from surreal to sticky. “Looks like I’m not going on any dates for a while,” I murmured to Paris. “I don’t even have a car seat. I’ll have to tell Ed there’s someone else in my life.”

Paris ran her gluey fingers through my hair. I was too stunned and tired to put her down on the floor until she grabbed a metal spatula out of the jar of cooking tools and began thwacking it on the counter like she was killing bees.

“You need a real bath this time,” I announced and carried her into the bathroom.

I could use a bath, too. I shut the door, filled the tub and stripped off my own clothes before undressing Paris. Her t-shirt felt stiff with grime. I put it in the bathroom trash with the diaper, tied the trash bag shut, and climbed into the tub.

“Come on in, the water’s fine.” I held out my arms.

Paris crawled away from the tub as fast as her skinny knees would carry her.

Maybe she’d never had a bath, since Nadine was homeless. “Come on in,” I coaxed gently. “Don’t worry, I’ll hold you the whole time.” I talked on and on.

Nothing I did made a positive impression. Paris pressed herself against the bathroom door, naked and shrieking. And, when I shampooed my hair, Paris fell strangely silent and sat absolutely still, like a forgotten garden statue against the wooden door.

Not a cherub statue, though. Much too skinny. More like a gargoyle. My niece was the boniest baby I’d ever seen, outside of famine pictures in the newspaper. Was this due to Nadine’s absent-minded parenting, or to the secondhand drugs Paris was exposed to during Nadine’s pregnancy? What if something was really wrong with the child? How would I know?

I stared into Paris’s enormous eyes. They were the same bright blue as mine and Cam’s, with the same brown spot in one iris. There was no escaping those eyes, that solemn glance, or what it meant: this baby and I were connected by blood, and she knew as well as I did that I was in charge of her life right now. I only hoped that she didn’t also know how terrified I felt.

I climbed out of the tub and slipped into my bathrobe. Then I knelt down close to Paris and began combing my hair, staring into the baby’s eyes and talking to her about anything–palm trees, oatmeal, the birds we could hear out the window–to calm her. Even so, Paris knew her number was up. When I reached for her, she made a final dash for freedom, skittering back and forth under the sink like a mouse until I finally hauled her out.

“Sorry, Kidlet. But I’m not dressing you until your skin is at least one shade lighter,” I apologized, realizing only then that I had no clean clothes for her.

Well, I couldn’t worry about that now. I couldn’t think about anything. Bathing this child was like washing a cat. Paris clawed and scratched and scrambled up the sides of the tub, howling in frustration. I gave up trying to pacify her and concentrated on simply not drowning her, holding the baby’s scrawny squirming body in the tub with one hand while I trickled water over her head and washed her fine hair with a dime of shampoo.

When the water was grayer than the baby, I scooped Paris out of the tub and wrapped her in a towel. Only a wet tuft of hair and a pair of furious blue eyes showed over the towel’s hem. Paris thrashed around inside the cloth for several minutes, then let her body relax against mine with a final shudder.

I had brought a rocking chair with me from Boston, a red wicker chair I’d picked up at a yard sale near my parents’ house and tied to the top of my car at the last minute. The wind almost sent that chair sailing clear across the Rocky Mountains, but the ropes held.