Twenty-three hours a day, the baby is either nursing or crying.
The only hour that the baby will sleep soundly is the hour after JP comes home from work at Island Fog Real Estate. Carson’s cheek hits her father’s shoulder and she instantly conks out. This, at least, gives Vivi a chance to make dinner.
“We were spoiled with Willa,” JP says.
Yes, Willa was a perfect baby. She slept all the time, peacefully, faceup in her bassinet and then her crib. She comforted herself without a pacifier; she nursed beautifully but never minded a bottle.
Carson, however, has both colic and reflux. She eats, she spits up, she cries. Vivi has her on the breast, gives her breast milk from a bottle, gives her formula from a bottle—there’s no difference, no improvement. She’s happier sleeping on her stomach, but what kind of irresponsible parent puts a baby to sleep on her stomach?
There are days Vivi cries right along with Carson, but she lets herself do that only when Willa is napping.
She tries not to think of the girls as good kid/bad kid or even as easy kid/difficult kid because what if these labels follow them into adolescence and then adulthood?
“They’re just so different,” Vivi says. “How did this happen?”
“Happens all the time,” JP says like a man who is an expert on siblings, although he’s an only child just like Vivi.
On the night that Vivi thinks might be the worst night ever—Carson is screaming bloody murder and her face is as red as a Bartlett’s Farm tomato; Willa is doing this new low-key whimpering thing （which is even more grating on Vivi’s nerves than the baby’s crying）; and JP is off-island taking the test for his real estate license, so Vivi has no backup—Vivi gets an idea for a novel about two sisters. It comes to her whole, like a neatly wrapped present. The Dune Daughters.
Charlotte and Evangeline. Their father is a scalloper; he raises them by himself in a dilapidated fishing shack out in the dunes by Long Pond. One sister marries a local boy and the other marries a rich summer kid. Who will be happier?
Willa and the baby don’t fall asleep until well past midnight, but Vivi, thinking about the novel’s plot, doesn’t care. When they’re finally quiet, she grabs a notebook and a pen and brews a cup of herbal tea （she wants coffee but there can be no caffeine while nursing）。 She inhales the silence and exhales words onto the page. It is just that easy, that natural; it feels like breathing. Two hours later, like clockwork, the baby cries and Vivi’s milk lets down, but she keeps writing. Miraculously, Carson stops crying on her own; the front of Vivi’s nightgown is soaked, but she doesn’t care. She keeps writing.
Eight months later, the first draft of The Dune Daughters is finished. Vivi wrote it during the girls’ naptime and late at night. She learned to live with less sleep the same way people learn to live with less food during wartime.
On the night she completes the novel, she wakes JP up by sitting on the edge of the bed and kissing the crook of his neck. JP has endured one hell of a summer. As low man at Island Fog Real Estate, he was assigned the least desirable rentals, which always seemed to attract the most demanding families. JP spent twelve consecutive summer weekends meeting people with keys, chasing down plumbers to fix leaky outdoor showers, running to Yates Gas because the propane tank on the grill was empty. JP likes his boss, Eddie Pancik—everyone on the island calls him Fast Eddie—but JP knows he would be happier if he started his own business and could be his own boss.
“Don’t quit,” Vivi told him all summer long. “We need the money.” They used the fund set up for JP by his grandparents to put a down payment on the house on Surfside and the rest went into a “contingency account,” which is almost depleted. Kids are expensive. Life is expensive.
“I finished the novel,” Vivi says once JP’s eyes open.
He props himself up on his elbows. “You did? Just now?”
“I can’t tell if it’s any good,” Vivi says. She has given the novel a dozen read-throughs and sometimes thinks it’s inspired and other times thinks it’s cheesy and clichéd, a vanity project by an overtired housewife. “I’m too close to it.”
JP pulls Vivi to him and kisses the part in her hair. “Of course it’s good,” he says. “You wrote it.”
When Vivi tells the women in her Mommy and Me group that she has finished writing a novel, half of them are skeptical about its prospects, the other half patronizing.
JP assures her those mothers are just envious because Vivi found the time to do something for herself.