Cutting Teeth(48)

Doug stands in the doorway, using the frame to stretch his bad shoulder. “Maybe it would help if we—if she—you know…”

She thinks of pitiful Katia in her hospital bed with tubes coming out her arms.

“Sure,” she says. “Okay.” And then she waits.

“I thought we kept some extra in the fridge?” Doug says.

Extra. Does she have extra? Did she make too much, does she have leftovers? She thinks of all the hours in her life she’s spent coaxing her girls to try new foods at the dinner table. Just one bite, she says. Never again, she thinks. She will never say those words.

“We’re out,” she informs her husband, “actually.” She figures there might be some debate about who should do the honors, but he makes no move to volunteer, which would have been gallant. A bit of a turn-on, really.

“I’ll do it,” she surrenders, as if it were an open discussion. Her knees pop as she rises from the bed.

“Where are you going?” Doug turns as she exits.

She returns with a sewing kit and a book of matches. She doesn’t have it in her to get together all the professional-grade medical equipment a feeding would normally require, she simply doesn’t.

She extracts a straight pin and holds the end between her lips as she lights a match and holds the sharp point in the flame, counting in her head to ten. She waves the match into a wisp of smoke and sets it aside before steadying herself. Noelle has quieted, curled in an upright ball against the headboard, her blue eyes watchful over the pink mounds of her knees.

On the second stab, Mary Beth gets a quivering bead of bright red blood. She squeezes it between two fingers until the bubble collapses and a rivulet weaves down her wrist.

Noelle scoots closer until her hip is pressed against her mother’s. She waits, fingers in her mouth.

“Go ahead.” Mary Beth offers her bleeding hand and with her other, pets the blond mass of wavy hair that falls down her daughter’s back. Noelle’s lips are soft as an angel’s kiss and Mary Beth considers all of the gross, unsexy things motherhood has required of her and tries to figure out where this one falls on the list.

At the sound of a soft grunt, she looks up to see Doug with his eyes closed taking deep breaths in through his nose, out through his mouth—heave-ho, heave-ho.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Blood.” He swallows hard. “I’m not good with blood. It makes my stomach—”

“That’s not true,” she says. “You’re fine with blood.” She thinks she would know if her husband of twelve years had a problem with blood.

He barely shakes his head.

“We’ve got two children, Doug. You were in the delivery room with both. Blood. Lots of blood.”

He opens his eyes but trains them at the ceiling. “I knew I needed to be brave for you,” he says with such a dollop of pride.

He does look pale.

Noelle looks up, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. A smear of pink washes down her chin. Mary Beth is about to blot her own hand on her jeans when Noelle touches her gently. “Mommy,” she says. “Can I have some more, please?”

Doug lets out a small gag.



* * *



Doug’s feet are already on the ottoman when she returns, the remote pointed at the television screen. The girls are in bed. The dishes are close enough to the sink and, as long as you don’t squint too hard at the Brandts’ floors, they can pass for clean.

“All good?” He looks nervous, but she nods. She’s taken care of it. “It seems like we should be doing a victory dance.”

She tumbles onto the couch beside him, resting her head on his shoulder. “What’s your victory dance like?”

“I twerk.”

“Hm. Yeah. I can see it.”

He flips through the channels. His breathing is so familiar to her. “Good thing they’re cute,” he says.

“We’re cute. Aren’t we?”

“Very.”

“I mean not just cute. We’ve still got it. We’re sexy.” She recoils. “Sorry. It’s impossible to say the word ‘sexy’ and still sound sexy, I guess.”

Doug grins. The screen’s blue reflections bounce in his eyes. “And to think you nearly got away with it.”

“So.” She shifts. “Speaking of. Are you ready?”

“For what?”

“Before we get too comfortable.” She pushes upright. Post-bedtime sex is a stunt with a high starting difficulty value; one wrong move and either she or Doug could lose their concentration and wreck the whole thing. Every precaution must be taken. “You know? Oh, don’t make me say the word again, that’ll ruin it all.”

His eyes pull away from the screen and he catches her expectant look. Turns out the light is still on downstairs, she’s pleased to find. Single vacancy.

Could they do it here? Now? On the sofa? Dare they?

“Oh. Honey.” He lowers the remote. “Do you think we could take the night off?”

“But…” She sputters. “It’s day fourteen. We have momentum.”

“But I mean, aren’t you kind of drained? I know I am. I almost threw up back there.”

She bristles. “Yes. Yes. But that’s the point. I’m tired of feeling drained, Doug.” He’s missing it. “We’re doing so well at the Sexy Back Challenge.” She laces her fingers through his.