Free Morning by Nancy Thayer Page A

Sara. “It sounded like you were sticking pins in her,” she said to Sara, grinning.
    “I don’t think she likes having her diaper changed,” Sara said, although that was not what she thought—she thought that there was something so unnatural about her, so unmotherly about her, that the baby had instinctively reacted with fear. Was that possible? She wouldn’t ask The Virgin.
    Now Mary ignored Sara. “But we have to have our diaper changed if we want our bobble,” she said, lowering the baby back onto the bed. She reached out—it was as if Mary had eyes on the side of her head, for she managed to keep both eyes on the baby’s, smiling, and at the same time see and grasp a rattle, which she presented to the baby with a flourish. “Now oo just play with this, little ba, and Mary will get Rosemary all bootiful so oo can have oor din-din.”
    Oh, dear, am I going to have to talk that way if I have a child? Sara wondered. Then, heart sinking, she thought: Maybe I can’t have a child simply because I’m not capable of talking that way. I just don’t have the right instincts .
    Faster than a speeding bullet, Mary diapered the child and whisked her out of the room, saying not another word to Sara.
    Sara followed Mary down the stairs and into the kitchen, searching for just the right words to explain what had happened. The words wouldn’t come. Her mind was a blank. I’m so glad I’m an editor , Sara thought wryly, it’s such a help in my life .
    Jamie was seated at the round oak kitchen table. She reached for Rosemary, brought the baby to her unbuttoned blouse, and watched for a few seconds while the baby began to nurse greedily. She looked back up at Sara, smiling. “I’m sorry she gave you such a bad time,” she said. “She’s at that shitty stage they call ‘making strange.’ She sees a new face and freaks. It’s so fucking embarrassing. Sheldon’s parents came over last week to visit and she screamed at them every time they came near her. I wanted to kill the little monster. Great for keeping pleasant relationships.”
    “I remember when Jeremy was that way,” Carole said, leaning against the refrigerator. “I couldn’t get through the grocery store with him. Every time some little old lady coochie-cooed at him he yelled his head off. I had to leave him at home just to get the shopping done. And it went on for weeks ,” she added ominously.
    “Aren’t you a terrible little troublemaker,” Jamie said to her daughter, her voice thick with love, her eyes gleaming with pride. The baby suckled happily.
    Sara sank down in a chair and listened while the other women talked about babies. At last Annie Danforth started talking about Christmas. Sara relaxed, until the children, exhausted from the celebration, began to fight at high volume and without mercy. Mothers scattered into the dining room to gather up their tired broods; it was time to leave.
    Carole Clark slid up against Sara. “Would you guys drive Mick home?” she whispered. “He’s a little on the drunken side.”
    In fact Mick was a lot on the drunken side, but he was a jolly, hearty drunk. He was hard at work now trying to get into his overcoat. “The Patriots lost, but what the hell, right?” he yelled.
    “What the hell!” Steve yelled back, cuffing his friend. He grinned at Sara. “I’ll go up and get our coats,” he said.
    Sara leaned against the wall in the front hall, as Mick replayed the last quarter of the game.
    “The referee made the wrong call, but what the hell, right?” Mick asked her.
    “Right,” Sara replied. Other couples brushed past, going up the stairs and down again with their arms full of coats, carrying children and foil-covered pans of food out the front door, hugging and calling to one another.
    “The Patriots are the number-one team, right?” Mick yelled.
    “Right!” Sara yelled back, though by now Mick was pacing the hallway and addressing his remarks to a seemingly large imaginary