Most common reason for tears, it says: The baby has gas. Following the cute little mom-and-baby emojis on the screen, I put Lily over my shoulder and pat her on the back, hoping there’s an air bubble, burp, or fart waiting to happen.
Nothing comes up or out. Just more tears.
Next suggestion: Check her diaper. I hold my breath as I slide my hand in. It’s dry. But Lily’s still crying.
She was fine when her mother was here. So I scroll pastthe other possibilities—I know she’s nothot, cold, hungry, overtired, overstimulated,orbored.
That leaves justlonelyandoverwhelmed. Like me.
According to Google, I should try to distract her with some sort of white noise—run a blender, vacuum cleaner, dryer, or microwave. I’m sure they’re all behind these panels. But which ones? Meanwhile, Lily’s face is getting redder and redder, puffing up like a balloon ready to pop. I need to distract her before she explodes.
And then I think of it: Keys! Babies love keys. That’s what all those hapless husbands in romcoms use when they’re left alone on Girls’ Night Out. I grab my key ring and jiggle it in front of her. Sure enough, Lily stops crying. Success! But then she reaches for it. Not good. I think of all the places my keys have been. The bottom of my purse next to a bunch of old tissues. The floor when I’ve dropped them at my apartment door. What if they’re dripping with bacteria, salmonella,E. coli? Can a baby die from sucking on keys?
I put them behind my back, out of her reach. Bad move. More sobs.
She was so happy earlier, just holding a potholder. I carry Lily back to the family room. The potholder is still on the floor where she dropped it. With her in one arm, I kneel to pick it up. My knees crack in protest. But wait—it’s not just a potholder. It’s an oven mitt! To stop the bawling as soon as possible, I slide my hand inside it and pretend it’s a puppet.
“Hi, Lily,” I say in the ridiculously high-pitched squeakyvoice people use when they’re talking to babies or puppies. “I’m your puppet pal. My name is… Potsy.”
I flap Potsy around, tickling Lily’s neck and ear with it.
She smiles.
I’ve got her attention. Good first step. With my non-puppet-covered hand, I grab a tissue and wipe her little nose. Cute nose. Lily is actually quite beautiful. I hadn’t noticed before, but now that she’s stopped crying, I can see it. Green eyes like her mom. Pink cheeks that match the tiny pink piglets on her little yellow pinafore.
“C’mon, Lily girl,” I continue in the same dopey Potsy voice. “I want to be your friend. I really, really do. Even though I couldkillthat mean ol’ Mr. Metcalf for putting me in this situation.”
The bobbing oven mitt makes her giggle. I put it on her hand and show her how to wiggle it herself. She’s fascinated. More than fascinated. Not since Juliet first set eyes on Romeo has anyone been as totally absorbed. I put Lily back in her floor seat just as my phone buzzes. It’s a text from mean ol’ Mr. Metcalf.
Heard you got the job,he writes. (How did he know?)Are you alone?
I text:With baby. But ok to text. She can’t read.
He writes:Will need all Harrison phone numbers, contacts.
I text:How do I get them?
He writes:Check refrigerator door. Should be there.
I remember that from my babysitting days. Mothers always leave lists. But it won’t work now.
I write:No door. Refrigerator paneled.
Now he must be getting irritated, because he texts back in all caps:LOOK AROUND KITCHEN.
He doesn’t add the wordasshole. But it’s clear he’s thinking it.
Now what? I can’t leave Lily alone in the den. (Can you choke on an oven mitt?) So I have some choices: I can lift her out of the baby seat and carry her with me to the kitchen. (She’ll scream.) I can kneel down again and lift her upinthe baby seat. (I’ll scream.) Or I can slide the baby seat from the den into the kitchen with my foot.
My knees, back, and rotator cuffs all vote for option three.
Slowly, so as not to destroy the Zen-like connection between Lily and her oven mitt (great name for a rock group), I start to push. My rubber-soled nursing shoes squeak with every step.
Sure enough, once we’re in the kitchen, I see a built-in desk with a bulletin board above it. On it is a list of phone numbers: the Harrisons’ neighbors, emergency contacts, and friends. I text a picture of the list to Metcalf.
I ask:Planning triangulation on his cell?(That’s a fancy word for surveillance.)
He writes:Maybe.
