“So you’ll be in a group with all sorts of grown-ups?” Angie asks. She picks up her sandwich and takes a bite.
“We are grown-ups,” I remind her before returning to my smoothie.
“Yeah, but how are you going to relate to someone in group therapy who’s, like, thirtysomething?”
I chew on my straw. “I don’t know. I figure Dr. Singh must have a reason.”
Guinevere squawks and shakes her teether with a tiny clack-clack. There’s a satisfaction to her sound that tells me that she’s solved her riddle, and I’m pleased for her. Angie smiles at her and touches her small foot.
“Oh my gosh, Autumn,” she says. “I thought the baby was dead this morning!”
“What?”
“Yeah, she slept in a little, so when it was time to take Dave to school, I went to the crib, and she was so still, I really thought that she wasn’t breathing. When I picked her up, she didn’t stir for a second, so for this horrible moment, I really, really thought she was gone.” She laughs. “But then she woke up and was so grumpy with me! She must have been having a good dream.”
“Why would she be dead though?” I’m confused by her story.
“Sometimes babies just die,” Angie says. “I’m serious. Usually, it’s in the first couple of months, but sometimes”—she shrugs and winces simultaneously—“infants stop breathing, and no one knows why.”
“No one knows why?” I repeat, my brain trying to process. I thought when it came to babies, doctors knew everything there was to know. “How can they not know?”
“There’re theories,” Angie says, “and stuff you can do to lower the risk. It’s rare. It’s unlikely to happen to Guinnie or your baby. It just scared me this morning when she was sleeping so deeply.”
I go back to drinking my smoothie. I also have a sandwich, but I don’t care about the sandwich, at least not right now. Angie is cooing at her daughter, who she had believed to be dead. I wonder if she always carries that fear. It’s probably not at the forefront of her mind. She probably always expects her daughter to be alive, yet that knowledge, that you could be one of the mothers whose baby never wakes up…I don’t think that ever leaves you. I don’t think it will leave me now that I know it.
Angie tickles her daughter’s socked feet. “What were you dreaming about that was so nice?” Her cell phone rings, and she smiles before answering. “Hey babe.” Her smile melts, and she bites her lip. “Well, I have to take Autumn home after lunch, and then it will be time for Guinevere’s nap. I—maybe—” She looks over at me and puts her phone to her shoulder. “Autumn, after we’re done eating, do you mind if we pick up Dave? Both of his afternoon classes were taught by the same guy, and he’s sick.”
“It’s fine. Not a big deal at all.” This smoothie is the only thing on my schedule today.
“Okay, but after that, I’ll have to put Guinnie down for her nap before I can take you home. I can’t mess up her schedule. What, Dave?” She puts the phone back to her ear. “Oh. Or Dave can take you home.”
“It’s all fine.” I’m almost done with my smoothie, and I’m going to ask for a box for my sandwich and another smoothie before we go. Guinevere gurgles thoughtfully, turning her teether over in her hands again.
“Okay,” Angie says into the phone. “Yeah, we’ll be there in an hour. Because we have to finish eating and then drive all the way out there! Webster Groves? What does it matter? Because I thought I was dropping Autumn back and going home to put Guinnie down and then would have two hours before picking you up! Oh my gosh, I’ll see you in an hour.” Angie rolls her eyes at me. “He’s annoyed that he has to wait.”
“It’s not like you knew this would happen,” I offer.
“Yeah, but he’s in a bad mood a lot of the time.”
“Why?” I slurp the last of the smoothie.
She shrugs and looks at the baby. “I mean, we’re both tired. Even when she sleeps through the night, we’re tired. And he’s going to school and working sixteen hours at the burger place on the weekends. I don’t know. I feel like I have more to complain about than him since nobody spits up on him at school or work, but I see why everything is hard for him too.”
“He does get thrown up on at home sometimes,” I point out. “You were telling me that story about his favorite shirt.”