Page 102 of Forever Flames: Padraig & Stevie
Something in between. Something less heroic. Less sure.
Even when he’s sleeping, my body braces for it.
Before he was born, Paula came in from North Carolina and temporarily moved into the guest room. With all of Rafferty’s health issues, she’s taken charge of our household, which is currently Mara’s condo in Valley Village.
Everything about Mara’s mom feels deliberate. Silk robes. Lipstick, even before sunrise. Hair always perfectly coiffed. She doesn’t do sweatpants or chipped nail polish or vulnerability in front of strangers.
She was a news anchor once, too. Long before Mara followed in her footsteps. She’s a big believer in keeping up appearances. I know this because she tells me how important it is about seven hundred times per day.
Rafferty makes a sound. Not a full wail… I hold my breath. My hand grips the bassinet frame, fingers curled where the wood’s been worn smooth from use. We didn’t buy it new. This crib’s been in Mara’s family since the nineties. Paula refinished the edges, stitched new lining—powder blue with silver stars—and shipped it to us.
I hadn’t known how much Mara cared about tradition until she was put on bedrest and we had to postpone the European tour so I could stay with her.
Rafferty’s eyelids flutter. He makes a tiny noise again, like a hiccup with a chaser of phlegm.
I slip one arm under his swaddle and lift him before it can turn into a scream. He’s smaller than he should be. His whole head fits in the cradle of my palm, skin a perfect, pink-tinted map of veins and warmth and newness.
Walking him slowly over to the glider Paula ordered with rush shipping, I sit down and tuck him against my chest. He settles fast, which is a miracle. He smells like lanolin and baby soap. Breath coming out, thankfully, in little puffs. Before too long my shirt dampens at the collar.
I don’t mind. I’d sit here for hours. The depth of love I have for my son is something I never knew was possible.
“You’re a natural.” Paula’s quiet voice cuts through the tranquility like a blade.
I don’t jump. Don’t speak. She knows the drill.
Do. Not. Wake. The. Baby.
She stands in the doorway, arms crossed, designer glasses perched at the edge of her nose. “You should get some rest. I’ll take him.”
I glance down. Miraculously, he’s sound asleep. My whole body revolts at the thought of letting him go.
“Nah, I’m good.”
She hesitates, then nods. “I’ll make you some coffee.”
Paula disappears without another word. The kettle clicks on less than a minute later, followed by the telltale clink of ceramic. Even now, late into the evening, she makes herself useful. She brings order to this place, from rearranging the fridge to restocking the pantry. Last week, she located a bag of baby clothes I forgot we bought.
Even if I wish she didn’t have to be here, Paula is the only reason I can function right now.
Out of the two of us, she knows how to reach Mara when I can’t. Encourages her to get out of bed when the fog won’t lift. Rubs her back when she won’t eat, won’t speak, and won’t acknowledge Rafferty. When I need to shower or use the bathroom, she takes over without complaint even when he screams himself red.
Without her, I’d be failing both of them.
I know Paula judges me. Every time her gaze lands on me, I brace.
Not because she’s cruel. She’s not. She’s measured. Deliberate. Always observing, never accusing. Paula never says it out loud, but her agenda is obvious. Bridal magazines are left open on the kitchen island, turned to pages filled with rings and white lace and words like healing and forever.
In her mind, Mara’s not getting better because I haven’t done the right thing. She assumes a proposal is the missing piece. Paula believes marriage would fix everything including her debilitating postpartum depression.
The thing is, I wasn’t planning on asking Mara to marry me before Rafferty was born. Doing it now would be disingenuous.
An engagement won’t pull her from bed or fill her mind with maternal instinct. It won’t make Rafferty cry less or help me stop feeling like I’m flailing in a life I’m not sure I’m meant to lead.
Besides, while I love Mara as a person, she’s notmyperson.
It’s best to stay quiet and focus on my son. Kiss his soft forehead and sing old Irish lullabies I barely remember while the rest of my family is two-thousand miles away in Seattle looking after my da, who had a stroke not too long ago.
My place is here in Los Angeles, witnessing the woman I’ve tried to love disappear into shadows.
