"I'm ready," came Mama's voice behind me, and I picked Carrington up.

Mama was in a wheelchair, dressed in a new blue robe and matching slippers. She held the flowers from Marva in her lap.

"Do you want to take the baby and I'll carry the flowers?" I asked reluctantly.

She shook her head. "You carry her, sweetheart."

The baby car seat was webbed with enough buckled straps to restrain a fighter pilot in an F-15. Gingerly I settled the squirming baby into the seat. She began to squall as I tried to fasten the straps around her. "It's a five-point safety system." I told her. "Consumer Reports said it was the best one available."

"I guess the baby didn't read that issue," Hardy said, climbing in on the other side of the car seat to help.

I was tempted to tell him not to be such a smart-ass, but remembering my rule about no swearing in front of Carrington, I kept silent. Hardy grinned at me.

"Here we go," he said, deftly untwisting a strap. "Put this buckle over there and cross the other one over."

Together we managed to fasten Carrington securely in the seat. She was revving up. shrieking in objection to the indignity of being strapped in. I put my hand on her, my fingers curving over her heaving chest. "It's okay," I murmured. "It's okay, Carrington. Don't cry."

"Try singing to her," Hardy suggested.

"I can't sing," I said, rubbing circles on her chest. "You do it."

He shook his head. "Not a chance. My singing sounds like a cat being run over by a steamroller."

I tried a rendition of the opening song from Mister Rogers' Neighborhood, which I had watched every day as a child. By the time I reached the last "won't you be my neighbor?" Carrington had stopped crying and was staring at me in myopic wonder.

Hardy laughed softly. His fingers slid over mine, and for a moment we stayed like that, our hands resting lightly on the baby. Staring at his hand, I reflected that you could never mistake it for someone else's. His work-roughened fingers dotted with tiny star-shaped scars from encounters with hammers, nails, and barbed wire. There was enough strength in those fingers to bend a sixteen-penny nail with ease.

I raised my head and saw that Hardy's lashes had lowered to conceal his thoughts. He seemed to be absorbing the feel of my fingers beneath his.

Suddenly he withdrew and pulled out of the car, going to help Mama into the passenger seat. Leaving me to grapple with the eternal fascination that seemed to have become a part of me as surely as a hand or foot. But if Hardy didn't want me, or wouldn't allow himself to. I now had someone else to lavish with all my affection. I kept my hand on the baby all the way home, learning the rhythm of her breathing.

CHAPTER 7

During the first six weeks of Carrington's life, we developed habits that later proved impossible to break. Some would last a lifetime.

Mama was slow to heal, both spiritually and physically. The baby's birth had depleted her in ways I didn't understand. She still laughed and smiled, still hugged me and asked how my day at school was. Her weight receded until she looked almost the same as she had before. But something was wrong. I couldn't put my finger on it; it was a subtle erasure of something that had been there before.

Miss Marva said it was just that Mama was tired. When you were pregnant, your body went through nine months of change, and it took at least that long to get back to normal. The main thing, she said, was to give Mama lots of understanding and help.

I wanted to help, not just for Mama's sake, but because I loved Carrington so passionately. I loved everything about her, the silky baby skin and platinum curls, the way she splashed in the bath like a baby mermaid. Her eyes had turned the exact blue-green shade of Aquafresh toothpaste. Her gaze followed me everywhere, her mind filled with thoughts she couldn't yet express.

My friends and my social life didn't interest me nearly as much as the baby. I pushed Carrington in her stroller, fed and played with her, and put her down for naps. That wasn't always easy. Carrington was a fussy baby, just shy of being colicky.

The pediatrician had said that for an official diagnosis of colic, the baby had to cry three hours a day. Carrington cried about two hours and fifty-five minutes, and the rest of the day she fretted. The pharmacist mixed up a batch of something he called "gripe water," a milky-looking liquid that smelled like licorice. Giving Carrington a few drops before and after her bottle seemed to help a little.

Since her crib was in my room, I usually heard her first at night and I ended up being the one to comfort her. Carrington woke three or four times a night. I soon learned to fix her bottles and line them up in the refrigerator before I went to bed. I began to sleep lightly, one ear pressed to the pillow, the other waiting for a signal from Carrington. As soon as I heard her snuffling and grunting. I leaped out of bed, ran to warm a bottle in the microwave, and rushed back. It was best to catch her early. Once she started crying in earnest, it took a while to settle her down.

I would sit back in the slider rocker, tilting the bottle to keep Carrington from sucking down air. while her little fingers patted mine. I was so tired I was nearly delirious, and the baby was too. both of us intent on getting formula into her tummy quickly so we could go back to sleep. After she had taken about four ounces I sat her up in my lap, her body folded over my supporting hand like a beanbag toy. As soon as she burped, I put her back in the crib and crawled into bed like a wounded animal. I had never suspected I could reach a level of exhaustion that actually hurt, or that sleep could become so precious I'd have sold my soul for another hour.