I Like You Just Fine When You're Not Around (18 page)

Tig reached for Clementine. “Cover for me. I gotta get out of here.”

“Dr. M? What are you going to do? About Clementine?”

“Stop asking me what I'm going to do. Everyone needs to stop asking me. Didn't you hear the show? I can't do this anymore. Tell Jean.”

Tig grabbed the diaper bag and tenderly placed Clementine into her car seat. She buckled her in and exited the studio. In the car, the roar of the motor and the white background street noise quieted Clementine. Tig's phone rang in her purse, but she ignored it.

She drove past her house twice in indecision, hoping Clementine might fall asleep. On the third pass, the baby was quiet. Tig slowed and crept into the driveway, holding her breath while she slid the car into park, unbuckled her seat belt, and tried to open the car door without waking Clementine. When the back door hinge creaked, Clem gave a start, raising one fist and then dropping it in slow motion. Tig breathed a quiet sigh and unhooked the car seat.

When she inched her way to the front stoop, Tig had to place Clementine on the cement step and, like a pickpocket, slide her keys silently from her jacket pocket. Whether it was a tiny clink of keys or the lack of sustained movement, Clem screwed her face into a human pinwheel and began to cry.

Tig pushed into the living room with Clementine wailing like a tornado siren. Thatcher, surprised at being caught industriously cleaning her privates, stopped licking, held her leg up at attention and watched Tig wrestle the child free from her seat. “Up we go, Clem,” she said, hoisting the almost ten-pound child high. She noticed the sweetish, not-unpleasant odor. “Oh, honey. Your diaper.” This was so like babies.
You might need to think about a possible lawsuit, but a baby demands maintenance.

She laid Clementine on the changing table, and grimaced as she eased down leggings and pulled the tabs loose on the disposable diaper. Between Tig's racing thoughts and her unskilled movements, Clementine screamed louder and Tig started to sweat. “Oh, God, Thatcher, it's all the way up her back.” With great care, she wrapped the angry, covered-in-crap child in a swaddling blanket and dashed into the kitchen for scissors, thinking she would cut the turtleneck from the child. Thatcher watched as Tig considered what it might take to surgically remove clothing from a writhing baby and how that might sound in the ER after slicing the infant's ear. Instead, she peeled the shirt free, warmed the sink water, and hosed down the still-screaming child in the kitchen sink with the vegetable sprayer.

Her phone rang as Tig diapered Clementine. She ignored it and positioned the hot, already sweaty, screaming infant into the front pack. Remembering Jean's advice, she performed deep lunges, the kind a personal trainer would admire; first in place and then moving from the living room into the bedrooms and back again. The roller-coaster rocking seemed to quiet Clementine enough so that Tig could lunge into the kitchen, open the freezer door and, with a series of timed up and down movements, thaw the breastmilk in the microwave, transfer it to a bottle, and screw the lid on tight. When she finally made contact—rubber nipple to perfect lips—Clem groaned and refilled her diaper.

Clem set the pace for the next few days and nights. When she wasn't a twitchy bundle of sobbing infant, she was asleep with a placidly perfect face, a doughy, powdery sweet roll of a baby who looked nothing like the unglued colicky infant that Tig otherwise juggled to keep content. Whenever the baby slept, Tig would rub her eyes and tell herself to get up and do a load of laundry, but instead she'd stroke Clementine's perfect skin or arrange the binding of a blanket to brush her tiny chin.

If Tig was quiet and patient enough, Clem might open her eyes and stare with what looked like the wisdom of the universe into her aunt's eyes. Once she reached for Tig, and Tig, sleep deprived and emotional, teared up at the missed connection of whatever Clem was reaching for: mother, Tig, or cheek. Then she would remember the man who killed himself and she felt guilt like a fever she couldn't control.

This was the pattern of her days. Some days she was filled with love for Clem and forgiving of her sister; other days she was furious at Wendy for abandoning them. She was used to feeling the furious anger and could recall many times in their past when she'd wanted to throttle her sister. Once, Wendy had brought Tig to a party. Tig didn't know what to expect from the barn party, where the plan was to stay the night so no one drove home. She'd packed her retainer and a change of underwear only to watch people vomit, cry, and wander off with blankets into the loft. Tig had felt unsophisticated, grimy, and forgotten until someone tried to persuade her to hook up in his car. She told him to go find Wendy, she was always up for a good time, and he staggered off. She knew she should just take their car and drive home, but then she visualized her sister in need. She had remained until the end of the party, and so had her anger.

Now, in addition to this new love and old anger, came this ferocious guilt of hurting someone with her off-handed reckless ways. Maybe Tig was more like Wendy than she wanted to admit to herself, and that thought was truly exhausting.

Over the next two weeks, Tig gave little thought to Pete except in a dreamy, reminiscing way. She felt like she was on the bottom rung of Maslow's hierarchy of needs: her life was all about survival of the fittest. Her greatest desires were to eat something other than a granola bar and sleep through the night. She considered Wendy, felt a looping connection with her that comes with the beginning of understanding another person's struggle.

Tig called the nurses at Hope House to get reports about her mother and apologize for not visiting, but the phone calls were short and frantic and left Tig feeling even more scattered. She considered driving Clem to Phil's house, calling Child Protective Services, and drugging Clementine, but did none of these things. Finally, after spilling breast milk on the floor one morning and watching Thatcher lick it up, she said, “Let's go, Thatcher. We're going to Grandma's.”

“Dr. Monahan. Tig? Wake up! How long have you been here?”

Tig opened her eyes and looked slowly around. Pam Gibson, the head nurse for the night shift, stood over her, a gentle hand on her shoulder. Tig sat up, bumping a water bottle to the floor and knocking her reading glasses under the chair where she sat. Her mother slept soundly with Thatcher curled at her feet and Clementine between her body and a padded bed rail. “It's after midnight. They said you and your sister's baby were here with Hallie for dinner. I didn't realize you were all still here.”

Tig said, “Yeah. We're still here.” Tig checked on Clementine, tenderly touching her head.

Pam straightened and appraised Tig from head to toe. “How long have you been here? Is that your mother's robe you're wearing? And her slippers?”

“What day is it?”

“What day? We just finished Thursday. We're into Friday.”

“I've been here three, no, four days. Where have you been?”

“I've been off. My niece got married.”

“Oh. Congratulations.” Tig dropped her head back and stretched, yawning. “I have to pee.”

Pam stood to the side as Tig shuffled to the bathroom, the tie of the light blue terry cloth robe trailing behind her.

When Tig returned, she saw the room as it must look through Pam's eyes and shuddered. A bag of dog food rested against the wall, her mother's walker straddling it like a cage. Thatcher lifted her head briefly and slapped a cheerful, brief hello with her tail, then settled her head back onto Hallie's legs. Clementine sighed. Baby diapers, wipes, and rattles littered the windowsill, television top, and tray table. A series of bottles and nipples dried on the sink just outside the bathroom.

The room was a mess, but Tig cared about one thing only: Clementine was asleep.

“Shhh, don't wake the baby,” she whispered. “It's a bitch to get her back to sleep when my mom is sleeping. She's the only one who can quiet her. Do you have an extra toothbrush? I dropped mine into the toilet yesterday.”

Pam cocked her head and said, “Are you telling me that you've been here all weekend? Without going home?”

Tig sighed. “Yeah. No, we went home to get supplies.”

“You're living here? My staff is letting you live here?”

Tig scoffed. “No. Kind of. But no, we just have extended visits. It's nice for the residents to have a baby around.”

“You can't live here. You can't. It's illegal.”

“Is it?”

“Isn't it?”

“We're not hurting anybody. In fact, this is the happiest Hallie and Clementine have been for a long time. Well, not that long. Clem's only, like, two months old.” Tig laughed a little. “I'm really tired. Can we talk about this tomorrow?”

“Where's your sister?”

“You tell me.”

Tig picked up her cell phone off the bedside table and idly looked at the screen. “Man, I should charge this thing.”

“You can't stay here, Dr. Monahan. I'm sorry if my staff misled you, but I'm sure there is a policy against family camping out long term.”

Tig's temper flared. “Really? Since when? You had no problem with it when my mom was having trouble acclimating. Nobody minded when I was here helping my mom calm down. Well, now I'm having some trouble acclimating.”

“Are you pushing me to call security? Is that what you're saying?”

“C'mon, Pam. Just give me a diagnosis for the night. Painless baggie colon, antisocial liver disease, bad chi rising. I guarantee I have a diagnosis pending. It wouldn't be a total lie.”

With a silent push, Fern rolled into the doorway. “What's a gal gotta do to get some rest around here?”

Pam started. “Mrs. Fobes. What are you doing out of bed?”

“Well, I can't sleep with all this yakking going on. Leave the girl alone and let's all get back to sleep.”

“Oh, Mrs. Fobes. You and I both know you don't sleep at night. We're not keeping you up.”

In her wheelchair, Mrs. Fobes fluffed up to her full hip-to-head height. “You wake that baby and nobody's going to get any rest. Can't you see Dr. Monahan needs a good night's sleep? One more night isn't going to matter. Leave her be.”

Tig had already turned her back to the women and settled herself into the reclining chair. She curled on her side away from the door, reached through the bed rail and held onto Clem's foot. “Shut the light off when you're done, girls,” she whispered.

From the doorway, Fern said, “She'll be leaving tomorrow now that the jig is up. Can you just give her tonight?” She sighed and added, “I can't begin to tell you how nice it's been to have an intact brain, baby, and dog inside this stuffy barn.”

The words floated around the ceiling tiles, ricocheted off the prefab doors, and into Tig's ears. She stared at her sleeping mother, who looked almost normal with the baby in her arms and a live animal at her feet. She considered the jig being up. She stared a bit longer at their reflection in the window, held the stare with her mirror self, and slowly let her eyelids close.

• • •

The next morning, Tig woke to whispering voices. Her mother sat propped up in bed, the very picture of a new mother save for the wrinkles, white hair, and age spots. Hallie had on a housecoat, buttoned at the throat, and two pillows supported arms that cradled baby Clementine. A small fist held Hallie's pearls in her hand and the expression on both of their faces said rapture. The morning nurse, Serena, stroked Thatcher while feeding her cinnamon toast and calling her “good girl” repeatedly. In the doorway, Dr. Jenson stood quietly watching the scene.

From her vantage point on the reclining chair, Tig was able to observe him before announcing to the small group that she was awake. The formal tightness previously noted around his mouth had given way to a strange, unclear emotion. She had seen gazes of gratitude from Hallie's clients at the vet clinic and looks of respect, reverence, and trust, but this was different.

“Good morning, everyone,” said Tig. Thatcher was the first to respond with a wag and a pant. “I'm sorry for sleeping so late. I have the Lethargy.”

Dr. Jenson tore his gaze away from Hallie and laughed. “Is that like
the
cirrhosis or
the
gout?”

“Yeah, except without the death and toe pain. I only have a tired feeling, really, and my pants chafe.”

“That's the exact diagnostic criteria for the Lethargy.” Dr. Jenson took a step into the room. “Good morning, Serena. Hallie.” Serena nodded and made room at the bedside while Hallie beamed into Dr. Jenson's weathered face. “I was at a conference all week. Did you miss me, Hallie?”

“I always do, Dan.” Holding the baby forward, Hallie said, “Isn't she a beaut?”

“She sure is. May I hold her?”

Hallie frowned. “I don't know. You were never very good with babies. Remember when you almost dropped Tiglet on her noggin? If I hadn't been there, well, it could have been a disaster.”

Tig blinked in surprise.

“I'll be careful. You can help me.” Dr. Jenson sat on the bed near Hallie's leg, and reluctantly she nestled the infant into the doctor's arms. The baby seemed to be the weight that had given Hallie's arms purpose. Without her, Hallie twisted her rings, touched her hair, fixed the neckline of her robe, and tried to smooth the covers. Clementine had her own reaction. Her relaxed face contorted and she did a kind of sit-up while twisting her fists into her mouth. She inhaled a mammoth breath and let out a wheezing, piteous cry.

Hallie bit her lip. “Oh, give her to me. You're hopeless.” Taking the child from the doctor, she deftly placed Clementine on her shoulder and checked her diaper.

“Mom,” Tig said, embarrassed.

Dr. Jenson held up his hand to Tig.

Hallie spoke again. “Hand me a diaper and get me a bottle, if you want to be useful.”