Page 10 of Surrender

“Shh. Shh.” I pick him up and hold him against my shoulder. My torso bobs jerkily on the bed as I regain my bearings enough to stand. The sleepiness abates enough that I won’t stumble with him in my arms, and I pace across the room as his little cries twist my heart.

The dimmer switch in the bathroom lowers the light. If Lucy can sleep through his cries, I don’t need something else to wake her.

In the near darkness, I fix him a fresh bottle with one hand. The minute the silicone nipple touches his lips, he arches his mouth away with a gasping cry, and his wails begin anew. I wipe the dribble of milk off his cheek with the corner of my sleeve and prop him against my shoulder.

“Shh,” I coo, alternating between rubbing his back and patting him. Maybe it’s gas? He acted like this a few nights ago before we left for the trip, but I assumed it was a one-off.

Burping him fails to yield any real results. I lay him on the bed to check his diaper. Clean. I change it anyway to assuage the hopeless feeling creeping into my sleep-deprived subconscious.

Bennett cries the entire time.

I snap up his onesie as quickly as I can and pull the inconsolable baby into my arms.

“What is the matter?” A hint of desperation infiltrates my whisper. Every few minutes, my eyes slide to the door. I’m almost certain the entire floor can hear Bennett’s protests. We begin a new trek across the room, slightly faster than before.

I bounce him. I whisper and coo soothing words that he’s too little to understand. I try holding him on my shoulder, then on his back. I tuck him beneath my arm on his stomach like a football and rock him side to side.

My arms grow heavy with his weight. The lack of sleep frays my nerves as minutes turn into hours of his nonstop discomfort.

Every so often, he cries himself out, falling asleep with a furrowed brow and a frown on his puckered lips. The first time I try to lay him back down, he startles awake for an encore performance.

The second time, I tuck him close and sit in the chair, but the moment I stop moving, he thrashes awake again.

At one in the morning, I call Alice, who offers moral support from afar.

By two, tears start to slip from my own bleary eyes.

At three, I nearly wake Lucy and drive us all to the nearest hospital, convinced something has to be wrong, but before I come to a decision, Bennett falls asleep again.

For the next hour, I stand, swaying in the middle of the room, my heavy eyelids repeatedly attempting to fall shut and whisk me into a deep sleep. Each time, I startle awake with a gasp and check the sleeping baby in my arms.

When the red glowing numbers on the alarm clock read five thirty, I can’t take standing anymore, too afraid I could actually pass out on my feet and accidentally drop him. I risk settling back into bed.

I ease Bennett into the space next to Lucy, and without removing my arms from around him, I collapse onto my side on the empty mattress. My head settles half cocked onto the pillow, and I hold my breath while I study his face.

His eyes remain closed.

Finally.

Within seconds, I follow him into sleep.

4

Jack

Puffs of exhaled air float around me in the early December chill. I gaze off into the wooded area beyond my back patio, a cup of fresh black coffee warming my palms while Cooper does his morning business. His dark fur contrasts sharply against the unblemished snow beneath the tall evergreens.

A stagnant energy has followed me this week. With the snowmobile races postponed and few guests at the motel, my schedule is uncharacteristically empty. I offered a hand to my brothers at the Sanctuary, but both Lee and Jude declined my help.

This time of the year tends to be slower. Fewer strays roam in the cold, and people are less eager to take home a new pet when they need to housetrain them during a zero-degree Minnesota winter.

Life will pick up in a week or two. It always does. Travelers show up in town to enjoy the winter events. Mom’s annual Christmas party is in a couple of weeks, followed by the actual holidays, when we gather for more days than necessary.

I’m used to a life of peaceful quiet. But I’m not used to having nothing to do.

The shrill ringtone from my phone disturbs the placid air. The motel number flashes across the screen, almost like an answer from the universe to my morning musings.

“Hello?”

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