I lie here trying to figure out when that happened. When she stopped being the nanny and started being the person I wanted totell things to. I think it was gradual, the way things that matter usually are. The way she handled Harper from the first moment, like she already knew her. The way she never made me feel stupid for not knowing things I had no reason to know. The way she defended me to strangers at the park without hesitating and then looked away like she hadn't done anything. She's been taking care of my daughter, and somewhere in the middle of that, I started to feel like she was taking care of me too, without either of us agreeing to it. Without her even knowing she was doing it.
That's why I told her. Not because she pushed. Because she never did.
That's enough to get me through.
12
NORA
Harper has been in a sleep regression for three days, and I am existing on caffeine and the specific stubbornness that comes from knowing it will end, probably, at some point, eventually.
She starts screaming again. Ninety minutes since the last time. Reliable, I'll give her that.
I'm already sitting up when I hear Tyler in the hallway. We nearly collide in the dark, both of us zombie-slow, looking at each other for a moment.
"Your turn or mine?" he mumbles. His hair is doing something structural. He's been wearing the same t-shirt for two days.
"Mine. You got the last one."
"Did I?" He blinks. "What day is it?"
"Still Thursday. Technically."
He follows me into the nursery anyway, and we both stand looking at Harper, who is extremely furious about the general situation of being a human being.
"She hates us," Tyler says.
"She doesn't hate us. Her brain is developing."
"She sounds like she hates us."
I pick her up, and she grabs my shoulder. "Living room. I need to sit down before I fall."
We migrate downstairs in the dark. Tyler drops onto the couch with a sound that goes all the way to the soul. I settle at the other end with Harper, and we don't talk because we're too tired for words; we just exist here while Harper gradually runs out of fury and shifts into something more tired and manageable.
"How long does this last?" he asks the ceiling.
"Could be a few more days. Could be two weeks."
"I'm going to die from lack of sleep."
"You're not going to die."
"You don't know that."
I adjust Harper, trying to get her to take a bottle. She's fighting it, thrashing around, making the whole process significantly harder than it needs to be. Tyler is lying there with his eyes closed, existing.
The sound of Harper gradually calming, the house settling around us, and the refrigerator humming from the kitchen. Somewhere next door, and a light clicking off are the only things we can hear. The neighbours have been patient about the crying—or at least quiet about it—but there's a particular awareness that comes with thin walls and a baby in a sleep regression, the knowledge that you're not the only one losing sleep tonight.
Thirty minutes pass. Maybe more. Harper's eyes are drooping. Not asleep but getting there, her breathing evening out against my chest. I lean my head back against the cushion and close my eyes for a second.
"Red."
Tyler's voice. Low and rough. Very close.
I open my eyes. He's turned toward me, and in the dim light, his eyes are exhausted and something else underneath that I'm not letting myself name.
"Come here," he says. "Just for a minute. Please."