Chapter 11: Dell
When Arianna and I walk into the bright, overstimulating explosion of baby goods, my first instinct is to shield my eyes.
But, if I’m honest with myself, it reminds me of Wal-Mart. And after growing up in Birmingham, Alabama, it’s practically home.
I feel myself slipping into my old way of walking, more casual, arms swinging. It’s the jeans, the tennis shoes, the lightweight shirt. And the store.
Arianna adjusts the baby in the purple wrap. She looks comfortable here despite the work blouse and skirt. Just a career mom picking up a few things.
I wonder if she plans to have kids.
“Grab a cart,” she says. “We’ll be getting some big boxes for the stroller and car seat.”
I’m about to counter that we can have things sent back to the penthouse, but then I just roll with it. A silver cart breaks free of the line with a sharp tug. I push it, Arianna walking beside me with the bundle in her wrap like we’re any couple with a newborn.
Everybody smiles at us. There is zero recognition of me in a place like this. It’s mostly harried mothers with a baby in padded seats, holding another toddler by the hand. Their carts are full of diapers and little jars and usually a toy or two. One small boy crosses our path with a truck under each arm.
“Nice negotiating,” I tell him. His brown eyes glance up at me for a minute, then turn back to his mother.
“Generally it’s more emotional blackmail,” Arianna says.
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, generally the child will ask for something. Mom will say no. Then the kid will scream or kick or make such an embarrassing fuss that she caves.”
“I’ve seen boardroom meetings go much the same way.”
Arianna laughs and the way her face lights up teases another level of relaxation for me. This is enjoyable. The store, the lights, her company.
She points us in the direction of an open aisle with dozens of padded seats like the one in the Lexus. There are so many choices, sizes, colors.
“Are there salespeople to tell us what to buy?” I ask.
“Good luck finding anyone,” Arianna says. “But this is a good brand.” She points to a navy blue seat that allegedly works for infants through larger children.
“But the other mothers have those buckets.”
“You’re observant,” she says. “If you get one of those, you just have to buy a whole new seat when she’s a year old.”
“Why do they buy the buckets, then?” I glance around. Virtually every woman with an infant has one tucked in the front section of her cart. I push on the flimsy metal cart. I can’t imagine trusting it to hold your child.
“Because you can take a baby in and out of a car without having to wake them.”
I look around for the boxes of buckets. “I’m sold.”
She laughs again. “It is a good feature.”
I find a box and load it into the cart. “I’ve already figured out that if she is sleeping, let her be.”
She glances down at Grace’s head. “That might be the most important lesson for the early days.”
“So I’m not hopeless,” I say.
She tilts her head, her grayish green eyes on me. “I can’t imagine anyone trying to tell you that you are hopeless.”
She didn’t talk to my father, I think, but I don’t say that. She’s already learned more about my past than anyone else. My lawyers have had all photos prior to my name change purged from the Internet. There is no connection between my new name and my old. I’m a man without a history. No references to my kennel cleaning. My terrible upbringing. My lack of pedigree. And that’s the way it will stay.
I’ll get on to Bernard for keeping those silly clothes close at hand. I had no idea they were anywhere that could be found. Maybe it’s time to just get rid of them.
But just the thought of that last connection with my childhood stabs me, so I push the thought away. I won’t have anything to do with this Arianna woman after today, so it doesn’t matter. She claims to be discreet, so it will be fine. Serves me right for allowing a woman into my bedroom. I should have known better.
“Oh, there’s the strollers,” Arianna says. “You think we should pick one up? You’ll be taking her back to Dr. Lilluth on Monday.”
“Will she have to go with me for the results?” I ask.
“I guess not.” Arianna twists a bit of her hair. “Sure, you’re right. But the nanny might want to take her to the park.”
We walk along the aisle. “Why do there have to be so many kinds?” I ask. “You just need something to push the kid in.”
“There’s jogging ones. And ones with more storage. Bigger wheels for different terrain.” Arianna keeps listing the various qualities.
“I like this one,” she says finally. “Narrow enough for stores but big enough wheels for a smooth ride.”
“Works for me.” I heft a box into the cart. The two items almost fill it.
“Let’s get the small stuff,” Arianna says. “Maybe we can make a run out to the car and come back in for more things.”
We head to the diaper aisle and I pile more boxes on top. Then formula and bottles and little scrubbies to clean them. Bibs and blankets and burp cloths. Baby soap and brushes.
“This is a crazy racket,” I say to Arianna. “Why does she need her own soap? Do you really need a bib AND a burp cloth?”
She laughs. “You’ll see.”
An employee spots our precariously stacked cart and offers to take it up front and bring us another.
“Huh, you can get service here,” Arianna says. The baby yawns at the sound of her voice and opens her eyes.
“Uh-oh, the tyrant awakes,” I say.
“Your turn,” Arianna says.
Just as the baby starts to fuss, she pulls her out of the wrap and hands her to me. She digs through the tote I’ve slung over my shoulder and produces a bottle. “You can take this one.”
Arianna stretches out her arms and unwraps the purple cloth. Her silk blouse clings to her from the warmth of carrying Grace. I’m momentarily distracted by the depth of her cleavage and how the fabric hugs her body.
Then Grace brings me back with a wail.
Arianna laughs and uncaps the bottle. “Here you go,” she says.
The employee comes back with an empty cart. Arianna takes it. Grace greedily gulps the bottle as we head toward another section of the store. Clothing.
“Sleepers,” Arianna says, holding up a soft pink number.
“Does it have to be pink?” I ask her. “Anything with proper girl things? Like ‘I’m the CEO’ or ‘Glass ceilings are for people without hammers’?”
For this I get another throaty laugh. “You might have to custom-order those,” she says. “Baby clothes aren’t quite caught up to feminism.” She holds up a frilly dress with “Princess” etched across it.
“I’m okay with Princess,” I say. “Just some balance.” I spot a shirt with “Genius” written across the front. “What about that one?”
She turns to look. “That’s for three-year-old boys.”
“Bullshit,” I say. “Put it in the cart.”
She rummages through the rack and locates a smaller one. “Okay, okay. Let me find something to go with it.”
She selects some blue tights with hearts on them to match the color of the letters. “We can make this work.”
We pause in front of a display of one-piece outfits in animal themes. They all have hoods, complete with ears.
“Let me guess,” I say. “The pink kitties are for girls. And the lions are for boys.”
“Pretty much,” she says.
I glance down at the baby girl fiercely downing the formula. “If anybody ever calls you a pussy, I will kill them with my bare hands.”
Arianna slides the lion outfits along the rack and pulls one out. “Her size.”
“Done,” I say.
She watches me as she pushes the cart over to packages of little accessories like socks and hats. I focus on tilting the bottle the right way as it empties so Grace doesn’t suck empty air. Arianna drops more things into the cart.
“You are going to take every dime of mine, aren’t you?” I say to Grace. I realize my voice has automatically taken on a higher, lighter tone and clear my throat. “Just like a woman.”
Arianna looks up from a package she’s examining and lifts an eyebrow. “You want to buy her ‘Genius shirts and then accuse her of fleecing you like a trophy wife?”
I have nothing to say to that. Arianna is far more combative than my usual companions. It’s refreshing, even if infuriating.
The bottle empties. I stick it in the tote bag and lift Grace to my shoulder like I’ve seen Arianna do several times now. “Here comes the sailor belch,” I say.
Arianna reaches out. “I wouldn’t do that on your —”
I hear the burp. “That’s right, baby.”
Then I feel it. Hot and wet and sticky.
“What the hell?” I ask, lifting Grace from my shoulder.
A torrent of white goo streams from her mouth. It splatters on the front of my shirt, my shoes, the floor.
“Yeah, that’s why you need burp cloths,” Arianna says. She breaks open a package and wipes the baby’s mouth. “Here, I’ll take her.”
“No, just get the…whatever it is.”
“Spit-up,” Arianna says. “Sometimes when they burp, the milk comes back out.”
“So this is normal?” I ask.
“Very normal.” She wipes my shoulder. I hold the baby high so she can get the front of my shirt.
She’s close. Real close. Her hand glides down my chest to my belly.
Despite the situation, the baby, the store, the mess, I feel it. And it’s not just the physical thing. Her touch. It’s all of it. The family feeling. The ability to laugh at yourself. The closeness and rolling with the spit-up.
“I think I got it,” she says. “Good thing your shirt is moisture wicking.”
“Yeah, good thing.”
She rolls up the towel and shoves it in the front section of the cart. “I’ll let someone know about the floor.” She heads off toward the main aisle.
I bring Grace down. “I guess it’s just you and me,” I say. I tuck her in the crook of my arm.
She gazes up, all awake and happy now that she’s caused her chaos.
“You think it’s funny, don’t you?” I ask her. That tone has crept back in. The lightness.
I know where it comes from. I remember my dad, talking to my little sister that way. I’m sure he also did it to me. I hadn’t consciously thought about what he must have been like when we were small.
That man decided I was worthless later on. But just now, with this little sprite in my arms, do I realize that maybe, before all that, he did something right.