Page 37 of Hush, Little Baby

I take the towel from the warmer, shake it open, and hold it wide. “Stand up, baby.”

He obeys, but slowly, with the boneless unsteadiness of someone whose body has reached the end of what it can give. The water trails down him in bright lines, but I keep the towel ready and my gaze fixed on his face. He notices, and his expression wavers, confused and wounded by even this small mercy.

I wrap him up, covering him from shoulders to knees, then lift him out before he can slip on the wet porcelain.

A faint protest leaves him. “I can walk.”

“Probably, but I like carrying you.”

“I’m not helpless.”

“Sure, you’re not,” I say to humor him. His cheek turns against my shoulder, whether by accident or surrender, I do not know. His hair drips onto my shirt. He smells clean now, all citrus and honeysuckle and warm skin, with the acrid bite of fear finally washed thin enough for me to ignore.

“I don’t like you,” he whispers.

I press my mouth lightly to his damp hair.

“I know.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because you keep needing to hear that I’m listening.”

He falls silent. In the bedroom, I set him on the edge of the bed and kneel in front of him with another towel. He clutches the first one around himself, watching me as I dry his calves, then his feet, taking each ankle in hand and working between his toes.

The intimacy of it embarrasses him more than the nudity, I think.

That interests me.

Perhaps being looked at frightens him, but being cared for undoes him.

By the time I stand, he is blinking too slowly. His head tips, catches, tips again. If I left him sitting upright, he might simply fold over and sleep where he is.

I open the wardrobe and take out the softest robe the hotel has provided. It is white, plush, absurdly large, and exactly what my boy needs.

Charlie eyes it warily. “Is that mine?”

“For tonight.”

“I can wear my hoodie.”

“No.”

“It’s my hoodie.”

“It’s filthy, and we only just got you clean.”

“But it’s mine,” he says again, and there is enough despair tucked into the word that I pause.

I look back at him and see he’s gripping the towel with both hands, shoulders hunched, eyes glossy. Not defiant this time. Bereft. The hoodie is not simply clothing. Shit. Of course it isn’t. For a boy who owns so little comfort, even a worn-out piece of fabric can become something cherished. I glance toward the bathroom, where the heap of his clothing sits damp and wrinkled on the floor.

“I’ll have it cleaned,” I say.

His face shifts with immediate suspicion. “You won’t throw it away?”

“Not if you want it.”

He stares at me like he does not trust kindness when it comes attached to conditions he cannot see.