Page 81 of Hush, Little Baby

“Good.”

We stare at one another for a moment, Constantine clearly disapproving of me blowing off work, but then he looks at Charlie, his expression softening just barely.

“Get some rest,” he tells him.

Charlie blinks in surprise. “O-okay. Um… thank you.”

With that, Constantine turns and heads in the opposite direction, already bringing the phone back to his ear.

I watch him disappear around the corner before guiding Charlie the rest of the way toward the staircase.

As we climb, I feel something inside me slowly begin to settle.

The doctor has left me furious; not at him specifically, but at so many others. At every person who looked at those symptoms and failed to keep digging. At every doctor who allowed a twenty-five-year-old man to become convinced that debilitating pain and exhaustion were simply facts of life. At every employer who treated him like a burden. And at every person who taught him to apologize for being sick.

The more I learn, the stronger my conviction becomes.

Charlie needs me.

Someone who won’t leave when things become complicated.

Someone who will make sure he eats, sleeps, rests, and takes his medication.

Someone who will fight for answers when he’s too exhausted to fight anymore.

Someone who will take him from surviving to living.

Someone like me.

By the time we reach the nursery, Charlie is practically swaying on his feet. I open the door and usher him inside, feeling warm as Charlie lets out a sweet little exhale.

I lead my baby over to the daybed beneath the window and kneel in front of him as he practically collapses onto the mattress.

“Would you like to be diapered, or do you want to stay in your training pants?” I ask, placing my hands on Charlie’s thighs.

He refused to see the doctor in anything “too little,” as he put it, which was fine, especially since either way, I have complete control over his wardrobe. In lieu of a diaper, I’d dressed him in a pair of adorable training pants; they had a bit more padding than typical underwear, and would still feel nice and secure for Charlie, but wouldn’t be noticeable under clothing the way diapers sometimes are.

I also have enough sense to understand why Charlie wouldn’t have wanted to feel too small for a meeting like that.

Now, though, he has a choice.

Charlie doesn’t answer right away. He lets his head loll to the side, cheek mashed into the daybed pillow, arms flopped at his sides. In the silence, I trace the faint purple shadows under his eyes. The urge to gather him up—scoop him into my lap, press his face against my throat, and rock him until he remembers he’s safe—flares so hard it’s almost an ache.

I knead my thumbs into his thighs, slow and steady, and repeat the question in a murmur. “Diaper, or training pants?”

He shrugs, then, voice gone rubbery at the edges: “Whatever you want. I don’t care.”

For some reason, this breaks my heart a little. I cup his knee, squeeze it, and say, “Let’s get you cozy, then. You did so well today. I’m so proud of you, Charlie.”

He closes his eyes and lets me do the rest.

I strip him with a minimum of talk—just the faintest checks to make sure he’s not too cold, not ticklish, not in pain. The training pants are a little damp and clinging, which he tries to apologize for, but I shut that down with a finger to his lips.

“Baby,” I say, “it’s what they’re for.”

He blinks up at me, that enormous trust-dazed look again, and for a second I wonder how anyone could mistake him for a burden.

The changing table is already ready for him, so I lift him in both arms and set him there as if he’s weightless. He barely moves as I clean him, powder him, and fasten the diaper in place, only offering a soft sound when the fresh padding hugs him tight. His arms curl up on instinct, hands balled near his chin, his breathing shallow and even as a sleeping infant’s.