"You've got this. I'll stay on the line."
I put the phone on speaker and pick Harper up from her carrier. She's red-faced and rigid, fists balled like she’s preparing for war. I settle her in the crook of my arm and touch the bottle nipple to her lips.
She turns her head away.
"Come on," I whisper. “Please. I made it right this time. I promise."
I angle the bottle differently.
Her mouth opens. Latches. And then she's drinking, and the screaming stops so completely that my ears ring from the silence.
"Em. She's eating."
"I told you." There's a smile in her tone. "You did it."
Harper's eyes drift closed as she drinks. Her fists unclench, one finger at a time, and she makes these small, satisfied sounds that I didn't know a person this small could make.
She was just hungry. That's all it was. She was hungry and scared and in a strange house with someone who had no idea what he was doing, and that was something I could fix. I fixed it. I don't know whether to feel proud of that or just relieved that I didn't make it worse.
Probably both.
"Tyler?" Emma's voice goes quiet. "You okay?"
"No." My eyes are burning, and I don't know why. "But she's eating. So that's something."
She walks me through burping, halfway through the bottle, then again at the end, which produces a spectacular amount of spit-up on my shoulder. I have a cloth ready this time. I am learning things.
"I'm leaving Hartford now," Emma says. "Mom and Maya are packing the car. Eight-hour drive. We'll push as far as we can tonight."
I just have to survive one night.
"Thank you." My voice breaks. "Em. I don't know what I would have?—"
"You're going to be fine," she says.Firm.Like she's decided it. "Call me if you need anything."
She hangs up, and then it’s just me and Harper in the too-quiet house. She's awake now, looking up at nothing with those unfocused blue eyes, and I look back at her and have no idea what to do with the next hour.
The answer, apparently, is another diaper change.
This one is catastrophic. I gag twice. I use forty wipes. I strip her naked on a towel on the living room floor because the onesie is a loss. She cries halfway through, and I talk to her the whole time, apologizing and explaining, voice pitched low, the way I've figured out she responds to.
"I know. I know. I'm sorry. Almost done."
My phone buzzes on the carpet.
Emma: On the road. Mom and Maya are with me. Hang in there.
The afternoon blurs. More bottles, more diapers, more crying. I learn things through repetition. She settles faster against my left shoulder than my right. She calms quicker if I walk than if I stand still. She has a preference for which side of my chest she likes, which is a level of opinion I didn't expect from someone who has been alive for eight weeks.
Small things. Microscopic—but she's alive—and I haven't dropped her, so I'm calling it. That's the bar for today. She’s aliveand unhurt. Tomorrow, maybe the bar moves. But right now I can't think that far ahead.
By late evening, I'm feeding her in the dark, both of us exhausted. She takes the bottle without protest, eyes drooping before she's finished. I burp her, and she spits up on my shoulder; I'm ready for it this time. I settle her into the carrier.
I sit on the couch next to it and watch her chest rise and fall.
What if she stops breathing? What if something happens and I don't notice? What if she's sick and I can't tell? What if that screaming earlier wasn't just hunger?What if it was something I missed? What if?—
She stirs. Whimpers. I'm moving before I've decided to, lifting her, settling her against my chest. She quiets immediately, her tiny fist finding my shirt and holding on.