“Technically, I volunteered myself out of that.”
I folded my arms.
“So your back?”
“Technically, I volunteered myself out of that.”
Greg looked guilty.
“Actually hurts now.”
“From sleeping down here?”
“…possibly.”
I covered my face with both hands.
He waited.
Then I remembered the missing blanket.
“Why that one?”
Then I remembered the missing blanket.
Greg’s eyes moved toward Susan.
She was now curled against my chest, asleep inside the faded blue knitting.
“I don’t know.”
“You kept that blanket through three moves, Greg.”
“I know.”
“You wouldn’t let me throw away Michael’s kindergarten lunchbox because, according to you, it had historical significance.”
“You kept that blanket through three moves, Greg.”
“It had his dinosaur stickers.”
“It smelled like old peanut butter,” I shot back.
“History isn’t always pleasant, darling.”
“Greg.”
His eyes widened.
He reached out and touched one corner of the blanket.
“When I picked her up, she was cold.”
“So?”
“When I picked her up, she was cold.”
He swallowed.
“So I went looking for something soft. I’d taken it to the rescue a few nights ago. One of the bottle babies was cold, and I…” He looked down at the faded knitting. “I guess I reached for what used to work.”
“There are a dozen towels in this house.”
“I guess I reached for what used to work.”
“I know.”
“Then why this? And why has it been missing for days?”
Greg sat down in the rocking chair.
Susan stirred in my arms.
Without thinking, he held out his hands.
I gave her to him.
“Then why this? And why has it been missing for days?”
He tucked the blanket around her expertly, tested the bottle against his wrist, and settled her in the crook of his elbow.
Every movement was familiar.
Not because I’d ever seen Greg feed a kitten.
Because I’d watched those same hands hold Michael.
Then Emma.
Support the head.
Angle the bottle.
Rub the back.
Wait.
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