Chapter 7: Dell
The time arrives to take Grace to the pediatrician. I refuse to feel anxious. If the pediatrician feels as though she must take the child to protect it, then that is just the way it is.
I’ve made fifty circles of the living room. I’ve mastered holding her.
Arianna stands by the window, checking over the carriage. She isn’t sure it is roadworthy.
“This silly thing is more like a decorative rolling bed than a stroller,” she says.
“Stroller?” Half the time this woman is speaking Greek.
“Normally you walk with something a lot more sturdy and a lot less frilly.” She sets the baby in the cart and pushes it back and forth, bending to look at the wheels.
I force my gaze away from her sweet ass and examine the useless object along with her. “It’s only a few blocks, you said. I suppose she can just be carried.”
Arianna stands and twists her lips in the most adorable way. I squash the urge to run my thumb across her mouth, and ask, “Is that terrible?”
“It’s just hard to carry a baby free-handed very far.”
“She weighs less than my briefcase,” I say.
“Your briefcase has a handle,” Arianna quips. “Babies get fussy if they are handled too roughly, and walking through a jostling crowd isn’t easy.”
“It will be fine,” I tell her. “Once we settle the situation, we’ll stock everything we need.”
Or let it be someone else’s problem, I think, but don’t say it. I have to tread carefully, lest I piss this woman off enough that she abandons me.
But her concern persists. I can see it in her posture, her hand on her hip.
“How about we just take a car?” I suggest. It's more private anyway. I prefer to avoid being spotted with an infant. Particularly by anyone with a cell phone and Twitter. I’m not often a target of the tabloids, but occasionally they decide to shine their glaring light on me. An unidentified baby in my arms would definitely grab their attention.
Arianna takes Grace, holding her high against her neck. “Without a proper car seat, it’s not legal for her to ride in a car.”
Right. Car seats. I hadn’t even thought of that. The whole baby business is a racket. I wonder if I own any companies in this market. Perhaps I should.
Then I shake my head. No doubt all this will be straightened out shortly. Either the child will not be mine, placed by some desperate building worker who had access to this floor. Or the mother will be located and forced to reclaim her offspring.
I see no scenario where the infant finds a permanent home here.
“If we’re walking, we should probably head out soon,” Arianna says. “I’m sure you like to be punctual. We can stop by the child spa on the way down.”
“Do the five minutes of working apply to you as well?” I don’t mean for my voice to have a hard edge, but it does. Arianna turns to me, startled.
Her reply is measured, as if she is holding her temper. “I’m just going to pick up a baby wrap so we can carry her more securely.”
I don’t respond to that. She knows more about these matters than I do. But my chagrin is pricked. I feel bad for upsetting her. She is going out of her way for a stranger.
“Hey,” I say, reaching out to touch her slender arm. “Thank you.”
She pats the baby’s back. “I’m not doing it for you,” she says. “It’s for her.”
“Fair enough.” I turn to the carriage. “What do we need to bring?”
“Have Bernard fix another bottle. And whatever diapers are in there. We absolutely have to pick up more. The way she’s going through them, we won’t last the evening.”
I like the way she says “We,” as if the two of us are in this together. I suppose we are. I’m not sure what is keeping her here, other than perhaps fear that I will cause harm to the child.
I pick up the bag from her child spa. Arianna continues to hold Grace. I have to hope everything else today works out.
Hope. It’s an unfamiliar feeling. I’m accustomed to everything turning out the way I plan. Foresight. Expertise. Competence. In most things, I can force the issue if necessary.
But nothing has prepared me for this.
We ride the elevator down in silence. Grace makes gurgling noises on Arianna’s shoulder. She seems happy finally. Arianna pats her absently, her mind clearly on other things.
We exit the elevator and turn down a side hallway I’ve never noticed. It’s a service corridor with entrances to the coffee shop, a clothing boutique, and then finally, Arianna’s spa.
She swipes a security card and we enter a small break room. A long cabinet holds a microwave, coffeepot, and other items.
We pass through, and I follow her down another hall. A large digital screen displays a list of names and rooms. She pauses at it and nods with satisfaction.
We pass the woman who changed the baby’s diaper that morning. She seems surprised to see me again, but just says a quiet hello to Arianna and walks on.
Several rooms are filled with children engaged in various activities. Art. Dancing. Singing. Another is darkened, a woman in a rocking chair with an infant. Other cribs line a wall.
Arianna pauses here to watch. For a moment I sense something is amiss, then another woman enters the room with another baby. Arianna sighs and moves on.
“It’s Maria’s first day in the baby room,” she says.
We enter another door. This room is bright white and filled with drawers.
“The diaper room,” Arianna says. “We store everything for the babies here.”
She passes all the drawers and opens a tall cabinet in one corner. She pulls a purple swath of heavy fabric off a hook.
“What is that for?” I ask.
“A baby wrap,” she says. She lays Grace on a smooth pad. I expect the baby to wail, but she doesn’t. She just watches Arianna expertly twist and turn the fabric and tie a knot.
“The baby goes in that?” I ask.
Arianna just smiles as she picks up Grace and tucks her securely in the folds of the fabric. Within seconds, the baby is yawning and closing her eyes.
“Incredible,” I say, but I get it. She’s snuggled up against Arianna’s chest. I could get lost there myself.
As we walk through the facility, I have to admit to being impressed by the scope and quality of what I see. Babies. Toddlers. Small children. Everyone is calm and happy. Everything is perfectly organized and clean.
“You run a solid business here,” I say.
“I do.” She presses a code on a door and we’re back in the foyer where we met.
The girl behind the desk looks up, her expression also giving away the shock of seeing us together. These people would never make it in a boardroom. The infants have better poker faces.
“Let me know if anything is amiss,” Arianna says to her.
The girl simply nods.
Then we’re out in the warm air of a Manhattan summer.
I’ve come to appreciate the lack of searing heat you find in the south. Nothing in these months compares to the shimmer off the asphalt on a hot Alabama day.
I do not remark on this out loud. No one knows about my upbringing, not here. Everyone says they love a rags-to-riches story. A poor shit-shoveling kid hitting the big time.
In reality, they like tradition. Old money. Pedigrees. So I changed my name at age twenty-three. My past remains a mystery.
The sidewalks aren’t too packed, so Arianna and I walk in companionable silence along the city streets. We pass small businesses, a bakery, a florist, a jeweler. I picture her inside each one, examining a necklace, sniffing a rose, choosing a pastry.
I don’t make small talk. I’m not able to categorize her properly, so I don’t have a script. She’s not a date or a conquest. Not a business partner. Not an employee or service provider.
She’s just… Arianna. The sun glints on her hair as she walks, occasionally looking down at the baby’s head peeking out from the bright purple wrap. An oddly contented feeling washes over me, looking at the two of them. There’s no strain here. No push-pull of conflicting interests.
Just a walk. A baby. A woman.
My loins stir and I drag my attention away from her. We pause at a crosswalk, and the exhaust of taxis brings me back to the New York I know.
This is just a walk to a doctor. The fate of the child will be decided by a test. Only if she is actually mine do I have any additional decisions to make.
And the likelihood of that is virtually nil.