I tried to drift off, too, but couldn’t seem to manage it. And I was just about to try to induce sleep with a glass of the wine I’d poured when the high-pitched screams of a little girl had me leaping out of bed and sprinting across the apartment.
That’s where I am now, frantically trying to soothe her. I hold her in my arms, this small bundle who is half-in and half-out of sleep. Who is crying out, her body red from the effort of trying to breathe through the tears and the convulsions. Who is screaming for her Grammy, but Betty isn’t here to help her, and I’m too flustered to know what to do. Me, who has lived with nightmares my whole life and still doesn’t have the power to help this poor child.
I think that hours must have passed and my ears are splitting from her cries and Jackson hasn’t come and my body aches with the effort of holding her. But still she is crying and now I’m crying too, and I’m about to start screaming myself, I’m so lost and afraid and impotent.
And that’s when Stella rushes in, her bathrobe half-open over a long cotton nightgown, her hair that is usually pulled back into a sensible bun falling loose around her face.
“Oh, baby,” she says, and I feel a sudden stab of self-loathing when I see that her words are directed at me. At the fact that I must look so rattled and so helpless. “Here, let me have her.”
She takes Ronnie, then bounces her on her hip. “It’s okay, precious. Stella’s here. Did you have a bad dream?”
As Stella coos to her and bounces her, the little girl’s sobs slow into hiccups, and then, miraculously, fade away. Her body softens with exhaustion, and her thumb goes to her mouth.
“I’ve got her, Miss Sylvia,” Stella says, finally looking up at me. I realize I’ve been standing there, frozen, watching her work some sort of magic that I don’t possess.
“Right,” I say. “Thank you.”
And then I head out of the room and back to my bedroom, feeling a little bit lost, a little bit useless, and a whole lot scared.
twenty-seven
“So what do you think?” I ask Ronnie, who’s standing beside me as we peer into the refrigerator. Nikki stocked it for us with kid-friendly yogurt, milk, and juice boxes, and those refrigerated staples are supplemented in the pantry by blue boxes of macaroni and cheese, some cereal with cartoon animals on the box, and a huge bag of goldfish crackers.
There isn’t, however, much in the way of grown-up food.
Apparently, I need to make a grocery store run.
It’s mid-morning on Sunday, and Jackson, Ronnie, and I have been up for a few hours. We’ve watched morning television and snuggled on the couch, and had cereal for breakfast. As far as I can tell, Ronnie has no lingering effects from her nightmare last night.
The same can’t be said of me. I feel a bit like I’m walking on glass, but I’m determined to put it behind me and write it off to simply being both surprised and unprepared. I haven’t told Jackson about it, though, and neither has Stella, who has gone out to do some sightseeing at Jackson’s urging.
“Apple juice,” Ronnie demands, holding out her little hand for the box. I pass it to her, help her stab the straw through the hole, and frown at the refrigerator.
“Why don’t we make a special dinner for Daddy? We can pick up something yummy when we go to the store.”
“I heard my name,” Jackson says, coming in from the other room where he’s been working on his laptop.
“We’re planning dinner,” I say, accepting his kiss, and then moving in for another.
“Ice cream?” Ronnie suggests, her expression entirely serious.
“I think we might need something that’s not dessert,” Jackson says.
Her lips pucker as she thinks about it. “Why?”
I glance at Jackson. “She has you there.” To Ronnie, I say, “How about meat loaf?” I can actually make meat loaf, and according to the notebook that I now consider my personal bible, Ronnie will eat it. Three-year-olds, it turns out, have a rather limited palate.
“With ice cream?” she asks, because she’s clearly inherited her father’s determination.
I glance at Jackson, who is fighting a grin. Then I turn back to the little girl. “Perfect,” I say. “And maybe some green beans, too?”
She sticks her tongue out and wrinkles her nose. Jackson grabs up the dish towel and pretends to sneeze, but it’s very clear to me that he’s laughing.
“Fench fies!” Ronnie says. “Pease, Sylvie?” She makes prayer hands and looks up at me with eyes so blue and familiar it makes my heart squeeze. “Pretty pease?”