Page 58 of Someone Like Me
And then I snap on Gem’s harness and leash, gather up all of my bags, and head out the front door.
Before I even reach Janine’s porch, I hear Aaron’s sustained and impressive wailing. The door swings open as Gem and I approach, and the moment I see my friend, I stop in my tracks.
“Oh God, Janine. If this is too much—”
“No, no. Don’t even think that,” she says, cradling her squalling infant in one arm and gesturing us inside with the other. She’s wearing a giant T-shirt, a pair of what I am pretty sure are James’s pajama bottoms because the cuffs drag the floor, and a burp rag over her shoulder that bears a suspiciously milky-white streak. About fifty percent of her hair is tied back in a band, but the rest of it falls in a light brown aurelia around her face.
She is the picture of new motherhood.
“He’s going to cry all night whether you’re here or not, and the way I see it, at least now you can hold him while I run to the bathroom.”
I drop my bags inside the door, divest Gem of his harness — even though he hasn’t moved from the door and is eyeing the tiny, deafening human with caution — and hold out my arms to take the baby.
He’s bigger than he was eight weeks ago when Janine and James brought him home from the hospital, but he still can’t weigh more than a dozen pounds. I clutch him to me as though a gust of wind threatens to carry him away.
He rails and squirms and cries real tears. His little body is hot with the effort, his face as flushed as a nectarine.
I immediately start bouncing and swaying. “Every night, Janine?” I look at her with sympathy to find her fairly sagging with relief. I can’t help but ask. “Why isn’t James helping?”
A gentle smile claims her mouth. “He does. We’ve just decided to take it in shifts. If we can each get four interrupted hours, it doesn’t feel like the roof is caving in.”
“Well, tonight you are both getting more than four hours,” I vow. “There’s no way I can sleep after the night I’ve had. I’ll stay up with Aaron. Just tell me what to do.”
She’s shaking her head before I even finish. “No, I couldn’t ask you—”
“You’re not asking,” I interrupt. “In fact, I’m telling. This is how it’s going down tonight.”
She stares at me for a moment, and only the sound of Aaron’s cries pass between us. Crossing her arms over her chest, she eyes me hard. “Let’s try something. I haven’t bathed in two days. I’ll go grab a shower and come back. If you are still able to take it, I’ll lie down for a little while.”
I nod. “Sounds good. Though we’ll be fine.” The staccato of Aaron’s cries hasn’t eased at all, but I take it as a good sign that it also hasn’t gotten any worse. I can do this.
But Janine just stares at me, worry plain on her face.
“We’ll be fine. I promise.”
She covers her mouth in obvious horror. “I’m a terrible friend,” she says, shaking her head. “You came here needing a place to stay in the middle of the night. I haven’t even asked what happened. How can I think of leaving you with my inconsolable infant? What’s wrong with me?”
She looks so distressed, I don’t know who’s more upset, her or the baby.
I hold Aaron against me with one arm and use the other to pull Janine in for a hug. “Nothing’s wrong with you. You’re the perfect friend.” When I draw back, I see she’s close to tears, and that makes three of us. And this thought, as sad as it is, makes me laugh a teary-eyed laugh. “You’re taking me in in the middle of the night without demanding an explanation. You’re giving me a way to help you in return. Plus—” I press a kiss to Aaron’s scrunched up brow. “Looking after Aaron means I can focus on something besides my own problems. What more could I ask?”
Janine rolls her eyes, but she does it smiling. “How do you always know the exact, right thing to say?”
I think about the fight with my mom and the run-in with Tori that led to it all, and I can’t agree. Still, I might have gotten a few things right when Drew and I talked about his grandfather earlier tonight. But two out of four is still pretty weak.
And maybe Aaron likes what I have to say, too, because his cries seem to downshift to serious whimpers with a few hiccupping sobs. Janine looks down at him.
“Poor darling. We’ve changed formulas. We’ve seen two different pediatricians. We’ve tried baby massage.” She draws in deep sigh and lets it go. “He just seems to need to wear himself out every night. Twice a night.”
The fight seems to be going out of him even as we talk. “Go take your shower.” I gesture toward the back of the house. “I’ll rock him and see if he’ll settle down. And if not, we’ll both have a good cry.”
She gives me a sympathetic smile. “I’m not going to demand an explanation, but I’m ready to listen when you want to talk.”
I nod. “Maybe in the morning.”
“Okay,” she whispers before kissing Aaron on the back of the head. “I’ll just be a few minutes.”
“Go.” I shoo her away and carry the baby to the recliner. Sinking into it is like landing in an upholstered hug, and something inside me lets go. Tears rise, and one or two fall, but I don’t come close to rivaling Aaron’s downpour.
