Night, Forgotten

Original Edition - Chapter 7: Now

Waning sunlight pierces the large bay window and illuminates the parlor as I watch Owen feeding Thomas. Dust particles dance above the crib pressed against the interior wall, where the baby spends about half of his daytime hours napping. Sometimes Thomas looks up at Owen hungrily, wonderingly, cheeks and throat pulsing. It's a beautiful tableau, objectively, and if I were a photographer, I'd try to capture it as quickly as I could before it passed.

But as my gaze moves up to Owen's face, my heart saddens. He doesn't appear to notice the baby enthusiastically blinking up at him. Instead, he stares straight ahead at the wall behind the davenport where I'm sitting.

His eyes bore right through me as if I'm not there in his line of sight, also trying to be worthy of his attention.

At some point when I was still in the hospital, Owen purchased the new, red rocking chair in which he's currently feeding Thomas. I came home and it was here, occupying the spot in front of the fire. It's replaced the davenport, which has been shoved back into the corner beside the hearth.

The davenport used to be our favorite place to dream in front of the flames, like they do in Christmas carols. It's now the coldest spot in the room. I would know, because it's often where I find myself huddled beneath an afghan blanket, keeping Owen silent company as he presses a bottle to Thomas's eager mouth every two to three hours.

He has to do that. Because I cannot keep my son alive.

The swaddled little bundle in Owen's arms gives a snort and startles us out of our respective dazes.

"There you are," I tease my husband gently with the phrase he uses to welcome me back to the room when I've been zoning out like that. We haven't been speaking playfully with each other lately, and I'm hoping he'll notice the invitation in my voice.

His eyes align with mine just long enough to register that I'm sitting there. He seems startled by the discovery.

"Juju Bear..." he says, barely loud enough for me to hear.

His eyes are suddenly desperate. I'm about to stand and go to him, rest against the bulk of his upper arm and kiss the top of Thomas's head, cradled there.

But before I can move, we hear the unintelligible conversation of two voices approaching up the driveway. One is deep and resonant, the other delicate, like ice clinking against the sides of a glass. Marcus and Liza.

They've been giving our family space since Thomas's birth. I've appreciated the sensitivity, but I can tell it bothers Owen. He's never really trusted Marcus, and it only got worse after what happened at their Christmas party.

The little lanterns that line our front steps glow dimly through the front window, triggered by the motion sensor I installed a few years back when we were laying the brick walkway. The outlines of the Dolans' bodies are blurry in the deepening gray of evening.

They've walked all the way around to the front door instead of cutting across our back lawn like they usually do. It makes their arrival feel oddly formal.

Owen stands, holding the baby out unnecessarily far away from his body, as if that space will protect it somehow. I watch him carefully place the bundle, heavy and still now, into its crib. He leaves the room to greet the Dolans as the sun finishes its descent.

Our moment of connection has disappeared with the day.