Page 97 of Hush, Little Baby

The daybed creaks as I settle down, pulling Charlie down with me. He nestles in without hesitation, head resting beneath my chin, arms curling around my sides. I drape a blanket over us both and let a hush settle in the room.

Charlie shifts once, then tilts his head toward me, a silent plea shining in his tired eyes. I offer two fingers, and he sucks them right into his mouth, tension seeping out of his limbs. I stroke his hair, each pass a wordless promise.

You’re safe. I’m here. Nothing bad happened. Nothing bad will happen.

His breaths deepen, then even out. A soft sigh escapes him as sleep finally claims him, his body going slack in my arms, and the sucking rhythm of his mouth slowly fades away until he’s just barely suckling on my fingers every so often.

I close my own eyes, though the adrenaline rush will probably keep me up for at least another hour. I listen to Charlie’s breathing and think about how tired he must be. How brutal it must feel to breach the surface of a safe dream and find yourself smothered in acid shame, in someone else’s bed, in someone else’s arms. His body’s need to regress into comfort, to suck my fingers as if he were starving for safety, tells me more than anything he’s ever said aloud. I let him keep them there—a simple, steady anchor. I find that I like it, the small, wet pressure. I feel, in some convoluted way, honored by his trust.

There’s still a faint sourness in the air, but I can’t bring myself to get up and chase it away. I don’t want to risk waking him, don’t want to lose the fragile equilibrium I’ve coaxed out of all this brokenness. I imagine the stain bleeding outward on the sheets in the dark room down the hall, and I think about how many times he must have cleaned up alone.

How often he’s curled around a garbage can or cold tile, rubbing his own forehead raw and shivering, apologizing to no one as if that would make it less humiliating. I’d combed through his medical paperwork numerous times, but numbers on a page, even tragic ones, don’t prepare you for the hollow, desperate sound of someone crying in the dark.

Not like this.

When I next open my eyes, the nursery is lighter. I check the time—barely six—and start to extricate myself, but Charlie clamps down on my fingers, his teeth pressing until it almost hurts.

“Hey,” I whisper, my hand trapped by his jaw, thumb pressed just behind the hinge like I’m holding a wild animal still. “Charlie.”

He doesn’t open his eyes, but his grip relaxes, just enough for me to slide my fingers free. He instantly curls tighter, knees folding to his chest, fists balled beneath his chin. The sleeper bunches at his ankles, making him appear even smaller than he already is.

I tuck the blanket around his shoulders, careful not to startle him. I’m already thinking about what comes next—what he’ll need this morning to feel okay, to believe that this overnight incident hasn’t nullified the fragile trust we’ve built.

I get up as quietly as I can and shuffle down the hall back to my bedroom, closing the door behind me. The sourness is worse now, amplified by the morning light. I open a window and decide to take the lump of bedding down to the laundry room for Marta.

After dropping that off, I head to the kitchen to set about making breakfast for Charlie. Something bland and easy, that will hopefully sit well on his stomach.

I end up with a bowl of warm oatmeal, sprinkled with a dash of cinnamon and two spoonfuls of brown sugar. It’s probably too much sugar, but I’m sure my baby will appreciate it.

As I’m pouring a large glass of cold apple juice, the penthouse elevator beeps, and Elise walks in, nursing a cup of to-go coffee.

She’s halfway through a slurp when she catches sight of me with the oatmeal and freezes mid-step. She just stands there in the entryway, her lanyard with its key card dangling from one finger, mouth parted in surprise. She blinks, then blinks again. You’d think she’d found me naked on the marble island, not just putting together a simple breakfast.

“Morning, sir,” she says, her voice laced with confusion. “I didn’t expect to see you up this early.”

I glance at the oven clock, the red neon digits reading 06:08. Early, by most standards, but not for me; I’ve always been a morning person. If anything, she’s the one who’s early since her work day doesn’t start for another 22 minutes.

I offer a nod. “Good morning, Elise. I made oatmeal for Charlie. He had a rough night.”

Her brow furrows from empathy. “Is everything alright?”

I retrieve a tray from a cabinet and begin loading the small meal onto it.

“Yeah,” I answer. “He just got a little sick, so I want him to eat something that won’t bother his stomach. Our bedding needs to be laundered, which Marta is aware of. Could you let her know when she comes in that I’ve already brought it down?”

“Absolutely,” she says. Her eyes never quite leave the tray, as if the idea of me spooning brown sugar over oatmeal has created a cognitive jam in her morning circuits. Not a single question about who made the mess or why. Elise seems to realize she’s staring and makes a show of checking her phone, sidestepping me with a polite “Excuse me, sir,” as she journeys farther into the apartment.

I don’t bother to explain myself. There are no words for the way my hands shake when I think about leaving Charlie alone upstairs, even for a few extra minutes.

I balance the breakfast on the tray and carry it upstairs, careful not to spill on the way. At the nursery door, I pause, taking a moment to reassure myself that I can and will prove to Charlie that last night was nothing; that this Daddy won’t back down just because of a little puke.

I push the door open with my hip.

* * *

By the time I step into my office the next morning, we’ve already squeezed in a doctor’s visit, kicked off genetic testing, and increased Charlie’s muscle-relaxer dosage.

I’ll need a second cup of coffee soon.