2 Unhitched (14 page)

Chapter 11

T
HE CLICKETY-CLACK SOUND OF GALLOPING horses and loud whinnies awaken me. Downstairs, the grandfather clock gongs twelve times. Sunlight pours into my room. Holy crap! It must be noon; I’ve overslept once again. Oddly, my stillborn baby nightmare never interrupted my sleep. I must be moving forward in some way, yet sadness envelops me.

I have no idea if Gallant came home last night. One thing for sure, he didn’t kiss me and awaken me from
my
deep sleep. A painful knot forms inside my stomach. What if he spent the night with that other Sleeping Beauty? Did he meet up with her at Sparkles and carry her away on his horse? The thought sickens me. I fight the nausea brimming inside me.

Rising from my bed, I stumble to the window and gaze outside. I’d recognize that pumpkin-shaped coach anywhere. It’s Cinderella. Miss Fashionably Late and Indecisive is already taking me up on my offer? I’m so not mentally or physically prepared to take care of Princess Swan.

When I get downstairs, Cinderella is already there, holding Swan in a basket in one hand, and an oversized pink suitcase in the other.

“I just couldn’t make up my mind where to go with Charming,” she says cheerfully. “So we’re going on a road trip. I can’t wait!”

Dressed in a stunning blue velvet cloak, Cinderella is considerably more chipper since I saw her last. And gorgeous. A nauseating pang of envy courses through me as I admire her perfectly upswept golden hair and the sparkle in her blue eyes. Lucky her! Her Prince is taking her away. On a romantic getaway.

With a twirl, she hands the baby off to me.

“Caring for her will be a breeze. All you have to do is change her diapers and sing her nursery rhymes.”

What! I’ve never changed a baby’s diaper in my life. And I don’t know any nursery rhymes. Not even one. Trust me, they were not in my wicked mother’s repertoire. And it’s no secret, I’ve got the worst singing voice in all of Lalaland. It even scares off warthogs. I can’t imagine what it will do to an innocent baby.

I glance down at the tiny, squirming infant. I have to admit that Swan’s gotten a lot cuter. Her skin is now vanilla silk, and her head no longer looks as if it will topple off her long, slender neck. Clad in a delicate pink silk gown, she has filled out a lot and begun to grow into her features. Fanta’s blessing of beauty must have already kicked in. The little ugly duckling has swan potential after all.

“Jane, why don’t you hold her?” Setting the basket down on the floor, Cinderella carefully lifts the baby out of it and places her in my arms. My skin prickles and my heartbeat speeds up. I’m simultaneously awed and frightened by this tiny miracle of life.

I gently rock the baby in my arms. So far so good. Then, without warning, Swan’s puckered mouth opens wide, and she begins to wail. Louder and louder. Turning an awful shade of crimson, her face scrunches up while her tiny arms and legs flail wildly. Tears soak her little body and gown. I clutch her tighter, afraid she’ll wiggle out of my arms. Cripes! What have I gotten myself into?

“She’s probably hungry,” says Cinderella.

Wait! There’s a way out of this
! I can’t feed her!
She needs
her
mother’s
breast!

“Don’t worry,” chirps Cinderella. She unlatches the suitcase. Inside are dozens of baby bottles filled with an icky, yellowish, milky substance. “I pumped my milk into these,” she says proudly. “You wouldn’t believe how time consuming it was!”

Spare me the details.

“Give her one whenever she is hungry. And don’t forget to burp her after each feeding.”

Burp her? Huh? How do I do that? A distraction at the front door cuts my thoughts short. Heaving, Cinderella’s driver lugs a humongous wardrobe across the threshold. I’ve actually never seen such a large wardrobe. It can barely squeeze through the doorway. What on earth can be inside?

“Where should I put this?” asks the driver, barely able to catch his breath.

Cinderella scratches her head and ponders. “Hmm… I don’t know. Let’s see, we can move it into the great room, but then again maybe it would be better to bring it upstairs… ”

I cut her off before her indecision will kill the poor driver. I tell him to leave it right in the hallway. The panting driver breathes a sigh of relief.

“What is this?” I ask, not really wanting to know.

“All of Swan’s favorite clothes and toys,” says Cinderella brightly after the driver slumps out the front door. “I just couldn’t decide what to bring, so I packed her entire wardrobe and toy chest.”

“Great,” I say, gritting my teeth. The baby is still wailing and squirming in my arms.

“Do you think you’ll be okay?” asks Cinderella.

“No worries.”
Am I kidding?
Panic is already gripping me.

Cinderella gives the wailing baby a light kiss on her forehead. “Be a good girl for Auntie Jane.” The baby wails even louder. Maybe the baby really doesn’t like her.

“We’ll be back on Sunday night by 6:00 p.m.,” croons Cinderella, waltzing toward the front door. Singing “lalala,” she disappears. Through the window, I watch her pumpkin-shaped coach fade into the distance. Baby Swan continues to cry at the top of her lungs. Every muscle inside me clenches.

Don’t be late Cinderella. Just don’t be late
. I gaze down at the tear-soaked baby. Or your baby’s going to turn into pumpkin pie.

Grrr. Why did I ever volunteer to take care of Swan? She’s a handful. Much more than I bargained for. So much more!

Feeding her is a nightmare. When I give her a bottle, she spits it out. Then she becomes a little wise-ass and refuses to open her mouth. I have to manually part her lips and shove the bottle in. She tries to spit it out again. But I don’t let her. Holding the bottle firmly in her mouth, I make her suck it dry. HA! Score one for me. But then the little sucker spits it up all over herself and me. Ewww! I guess I didn’t burp her in time.

Changing her into a clean outfit isn’t fun either. I grab one of the hundreds of little look-alike pink dresses Cinderella packed and place her on the middle of my bed. She doesn’t stop squirming or wailing as I wiggle off her stained, drenched gown and struggle to put on another. I had no idea how hard it is to get a squirmy baby’s tiny arms and head into those tiny openings. As soon as I can claim victory, a squalid odor, something beyond horrid, rushes into my nostrils. Crap! She’s pooped.

Time for a diaper change. Putting one on her is no picnic either. She won’t stop squirming. And I have no clue what corners to pin together. Her flailing makes me prick my fingers. Droplets of blood are everywhere.
Give me a break, Swan
! Finally, once I have it securely on her, she kicks it off. I grunt in frustration. She obviously doesn’t like her new diaper. Repeat performance and finally success.

Okay, now time it’s for a little nap, Princess Swan.
I need a break. Desperately. I lower her into her basket and cover her with one of the three dozen cashmere shawls (one in every color) Cinderella packed. “Okay, Swan, go to sleep.” She looks up at me with her big blue eyes as if I’ve spoken in a foreign language. “Make night-night.” Maybe she understands that. As I tiptoe out of the great room (sprinting is what I should be doing!), a shrill cry stops me in my tracks.
Whaaaaaaa!
Swan’s wailing again.

Damn! She obviously doesn’t want to take a nap. I guess she’s not tired, even after all that sucking and wailing. I know. I need to wear her out. Play some games with her. That’ll do it.

Let’s see. What kid games do I know? Hide and Seek. Chess. Gin Rummy. Oh, yeah, and Dress-Up. Dragonballs! Swan is too young to play any of these games. What am I going to do? Suddenly, I remember, my favorite game as I child. Make-believe.

Hovering over her basket, I make-believe that I’m a dog. “WOOF! WOOF!” Then I’m a lamb. “BAAAH! BAAAH!” And then I’m a pig. “SNORT! SNORT!”

Swan’s watery eyes stay riveted on me. Her sobs turn into sniffles, and her tears subside. With her teeny weeny fingers, she clutches the mirrored locket that I always wear around my neck—a treasured gift from Shrink—and does something amazing that I’ve never seen her do before. She smiles. My heart melts.

The rest of the afternoon goes surprisingly smoothly. Swan takes to her bottles nicely. I have the burping thing under control, and I’ve become a diaper-changing maven. She even takes a long nap, letting me take one too, on the couch right next to her. We awaken at the same time. When she sees me, she coos. We’re bonding. Maybe I’ve got a knack for babies after all.

As the clock strikes three, Calla comes racing into the great room, back from her standing Saturday playdate with Winnie’s daughter, Gretel. I’m seated on the couch, feeding Swan yet another bottle. This baby has some appetite. No wonder she’s grown so much since her birth.

Calla’s face lights up. “What’s baby Swan doing here?” There’s excitement in her voice.

I tell her that I’m taking care of her so that Aunt Cindy can go on a little vacation with Uncle Charming.

“Can I feed her?” Calla asks, her big brown eyes begging me to say yes. “Please. Pretty please!” She plops down on the couch next to me.

After a moment of hesitation, I gently place the baby in Calla’s lap and hand her the bottle. Cradling the baby in her arms, my sweet little girl feeds Swan as if she’s done it every day of her life. The baby voraciously sucks the bottle. Calla beams with joy. How much she would love a little sister or brother! As I take in this tender scene, a bittersweet smile crosses my face. A tingling sensation accompanies the unexpected maternal feeling surging inside me. YES! I’m finally ready to take Dr. Grimm’s
“Are You Ready for a Baby?”
quiz. Trusting Calla with Swan, I dash to my desk where it has been stuffed in the bottom drawer for months.

I find the quiz quickly and don’t even bother sitting down. With my stylus in hand, I read each question aloud, answering it with one single gaspy word.

1. Do you long to feel the warmth of a baby nursing against your breast
?
YES!

2.
Do you crave to inhale the warm toasty scent of a baby’s head?
YES!

3.
Do you yearn to run your fingertips over a baby’s silky skin and tickle its
sweet little toes?
YES!

4.
Do you dream about hearing the sound of little pitter patter feet?
YES!

5. Do you long to change stinky diapers for the next three years of your life?
YES!

I can’t believe I even answered “YES” to that last tricky question.
YES! I’m ready! I want to have a baby!
Joy swells in my heat. And then tears spring to my eyes. I have to stop fooling myself. There is only one man whom I want to father my child
. Gallant.
The man I still love.

My heart clenches in my chest as tears cascade down my face. He’s no longer mine; he belongs to another. Having a baby with him is a forgotten dream. I roll my gold wedding band with my thumb. I should just take it off. Throw it in the hearth. I start to wiggle it off, but it’s stuck.

Hold on! There’s a reason it’s not coming off. He’s still not hers. For the moment, at least officially, he’s
mine!
Yes,
My
Prince.
“Don’t let him go. Your Prince comes along only once in a lifetime.”
Those were once Elz’s words of wisdom. They echo in my head.
“Don’t let him go.”

Brainstorm! I’m going to win him back. When Gallant comes home and sees me with Princess Swan and Calla—such a blissful picture of love and domesticity—he’ll want to sweep me in his arms, carry me to our bed, and make a baby immediately.
Our baby!
He’ll drop Aurora like a hotcake. And I’ll forgive him for his errant ways. My heart pounds. I can hardly wait for him to return home!

Now, I’m sorry I tossed Dr. Grimm herbs and birthing stones. A hot, romantic bath with Gallant, washing each other in the magic water, would have been the perfect prelude to a session of explosive let’s-have-a-baby lovemaking. But if Elz could get pregnant without all these aides, so can I. It can’t be that hard, now that I’m over my maternal ambivalence.

Determined and full of desire, I head back to the great room where I find Calla, still on the couch, playing a game with baby Swan’s tiny toes. She tugs on each toe, coming to Swan’s teeny pinky toe.

“… and this little piggy went crying all the way home.”

The baby gurgles in delight.

“What are you doing?” I ask upon moving to the couch.

“Playing
This Little Piggy.”