Page 51 of Hush, Little Baby

I don’t know.

I only know that my body slowly, slowly gives up its rigidity.

My shoulders drop first. Then my hands stop clenching the robe. My cheek sinks more fully into his thigh, and the space between my face and the warm fabric completely disappears. I curl one hand under my chin, fingers tucked into the edge of my hoodie sleeve, and breathe out so softly I barely hear it.

Nikolaus’s hand stills. “Charlie?”

His voice is different when he says my name this time. It sounds like awe and gentleness, like he has found a small animal cupped in his hands and is trying not to startle it.

I make a sound.

Not a word.

Just a tiny, questioning hum that leaves my throat before I can decide whether I want to give it permission.

The room goes quiet for half a second before his fingers resume, even gentler than before.

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

I’m not really sure what he’s thanking me for, but that’s okay. Right now, everything is distant except his lap and the soft petting and the cartoon animal talking about pancakes or puddles or friendship or whatever bright, harmless crisis is happening on the screen.

“Did you decide on breakfast, sweetheart?” Nikolaus asks. “What looks good?”

I should answer. It’s an easy question. I know how to talk. I have spent twenty-five years talking. Too much sometimes. Too little other times. But the pathway between my brain and my mouth feels weirdly long now, like I would have to climb over something to reach the words, and I’m too tired to climb.

My eyes open halfway to gaze at the menu that is still there. The room is silent as I stare at the options, blurry words slowly coming into focus the longer I look.

No one rushes me, no one tells me to use my words, or asks if I’m being difficult, or makes the terrible silence bigger by pointing out that I’ve forgotten how to be normal.

My gaze drifts down the page, past pancakes, past eggs, past the things that sound too rich or too heavy or too much.

Then I see it.

A strawberry banana smoothie.

It is in a little section under beverages, almost hidden between fresh orange juice and some green thing. Strawberry banana is simple. Safe, sweet. Something I can imagine swallowing without my stomach turning inside out.

I lift one hand from the robe and point.

My finger lands a little to the left of the words, but close enough.

Nikolaus leans forward slightly, following my finger. “Strawberry banana smoothie?”

I nod lazily against his thigh.

“Good choice, baby.”

The praise hits me like warm water.

My eyes close again, and I tuck closer into him. Not a lot. Just enough that my forehead presses more firmly into his lap and my hand curls into the fabric of his sleep pants. I realize what I’m doing a second too late, but by then Nikolaus’s hand has settled over my hair again, broad and comfortably heavy, and moving away feels impossible.

A low sound leaves him. Something satisfied and soft enough that it makes the floaty place inside me go even softer.

“My sweet, soft baby,” he says, quieter now, like the words are only meant for me.

My fingers curl tighter into the fabric, the tips of my fingers able to feel the roughness of his leg hair through it.

“Smoothie,” Nikolaus says from above me. “Toast as well. Plain. Some fruit. Scrambled eggs on the side, but light. No butter. And whatever you’d like as well, of course.”