I rock Kai silently and treasure the peace that I feel throughout his body. He’s reacting differently today. Every time he hears Garrett’s voice, he sinks further into my chest. How can he know who Garrett is?
Garrett hasn’t been this close to his son since the first day Kai came home. Maybe it’s the tone of his voice that’s soothing? Or the tenor?
“He’s reacting to your voice,” I say and lift the blanket slightly so he can see how relaxed Kai is against my chest. His tiny hands fall at my sides and his cheek is glued to my skin just above my heart. Garrett eyes his son and raises his eyebrow.
“You know you’re not wearing a shirt, right?” he says, and I feel warmth spread through my entire body. I’m blushing everywhere. My cheeks flush. I lower the blanket over Kai so as not to wake him, at the same time covering myself. Thank God I’m wearing my sports bra.
I’m mortified.
“Please leave,” I say, completely embarrassed.
What the hell was I thinking?
Garrett smiles and pulls a pillow out from behind him. He lies down on his side, tucking his hands underneath. The reflection from the stars on the ceiling catches his eyes just right. They’re dark and soft and, for once, not angry or aloof. And for first the first time, I can’t help but notice how strikingly handsome he is. His eyes are framed by the longest, thickest lashes I’ve ever seen on a man. His face is perfect and smooth, like he just shaved five minutes ago. His lips part slightly, and I suddenly realize he’s caught me staring.
I blush again and look away from him and focus on the mobile hanging above the crib. Soft instruments dangle above the bedding. Aunt Peggy insisted on a musical theme for Kai’s bedroom, for obvious reasons.
Garrett doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to leave.
“How long will he be like this?” His interest appears genuine, and I want to help him understand Kai’s health situation as best as I can. I guess now is as good a time as any. Tomorrow, he may go back to ignoring the fact that his son is now living under his roof.
I sigh heavily, knowing the reality I’m about to share is likely going to send Garrett running. Again. “It could be up to six months or more. I’ve seen babies get better sooner with early intervention.”
“Like what you’ve been doing with Kai?” he asks.
“Yes.”
His face looks drawn and worried. I realize that I may be scaring him with some of the worst-case-scenario stuff, and I try to shift the vibe in the room.
“With this type of care and comfort, I’ve seen symptoms gradually decline over a shorter time period.” Best case scenario.
“So you’re doing the right thing for him?”
“Absolutely,” I say confidently.
“What do you think he’s going to be like?”
“What do you mean?”
“When he’s older? Will he need special care? Or special schools?”
“Every baby with NAS is different. Some have a really rough start and gradually get better and can function normally throughout their lives. Others need constant care and therapy. Some are in between. There’s really no clear outcome.” It’s hard to describe the spectrum of problems that an NAS baby may have.
He looks even more drawn and says, “I don’t know if I can do this.”
“Do what?”
“What you’re doing. I don’t think I have it in me to be like you.”
I’m surprised he’s even thinking about taking care of Kai. It tells me that he’s contemplating his options and that maybe, just maybe, he actually cares.
“Every living person has the capacity to provide care for another; some people just have to dig deeper than others to find it.”
“I respectfully disagree,” he says, shaking his head.
“Then we agree to disagree,” I reply.
“Why are you doing this for me?” he asks, quickly changing the subject.