He scuffled about, mixing the formula with the water he boiled last night. Whew. Babies weren’t much for sleep, but eating on the other hand . . .
Harvey fumbled her into his arms. Such a tiny, fragile thing. He brushed the rubbery tip of the bottle against her lips. Perfect and pink, they flared and latched as her tongue curled around the bottle’s nipple. She sucked noisily with satisfied grunts between gulps.
“Easy there. Slow down. There’s plenty, little piggy.”
He held her close, inhaling her scent. Delicate, sweet, and something more, a quality he couldn’t name.
Her initial hunger satisfied, her swallows took on a regular rhythm. She stared up at Harvey, her expression entirely open—not questioning or trying to make sense of him. Blissful acceptance.
Propping the upturned bottle under his chin, he stroked the top of her head. He could sit all day, just looking at her. He didn’t know his heart could feel like this—aching but full.
What kind of person could leave this child to die, forgotten in the scrub brush?
Her diapered bottom rumbled against his hand. “Nice, Ivy.” He scrunched his nose. While he’d clumsily managed a few wet diapers in the twelve hours she’d been his, this was a first. She paused her suckling, and her lips stretched, pleased with herself. Her eyes fluttered closed as she continued her breakfast.
Harvey squirmed. He could let her finish the bottle and then change her. But maybe he was supposed to do it immediately. The baby book, just out of reach, probably had the answer.
Disgusting. She couldn’t be left sitting in a dirty diaper. He wriggled the bottle, trying to break her suction. Ivy clamped her pink gums in a vice grip. Her eyes flashed open.
Whoa. Never mind. Diaper change after breakfast.
Harvey focused on her warm featherweight in his arms. Ivy’s swallows slowed, punctuated by brief pauses. Her bottom lip quivered against the nipple.
Her pauses lengthened until formula dribbled out of one corner of her mouth. The bottle slipped from between her lips as he pulled it away.
Harvey’s voice was soft and low as he crooned, “Oh, Ivy. You weren’t supposed to fall asleep. How am I going to change you?” Laying her on the bed, he tugged the purple blanket away from her bottom a fraction at a time—a man disarming a bomb. Her lashes fluttered but stayed closed.
He had those elbow-length kitchen gloves in the supply bin. Harvey shook his head. She was tiny. How bad could it be?
His fingers fumbled as he pulled both diaper tabs loose at the same time. Ivy twitched. He froze.
Harvey inched open the diaper. Ivy’s entire body tensed, and she let out a piercing wail. Her scrawny legs scrunched and kicked. He jerked his hand back, and his heart went to his throat.
Ivy’s bottom—and now her legs—were smeared with an inky tarlike slime.
He’d chosen the wrong formula or something. Nothing like that should ever come out of a human being.
Harvey reached for the baby care book. His fingers turned to sausages trying to turn pages that stuck together in the humidity.
Ivy kicked, arched, and flailed—streaking her hands, her hair, the blanket.
Harvey let out a breath in a whoosh when he landed on the desired page. Meconium. It was normal. She was okay.
But she was mad. And disgusting. He pulled two handfuls of baby wipes from the plastic box and scrubbed. It smeared.
Finally, he abandoned his lost cause and stoked the fire to warm a little bathwater. She cried harder, gasping and coughing. Harvey’s chest tightened. She was going to choke herself.
He grimaced at the filthy writhing thing on the soiled blanket, sighed, then scooped her to his chest. In a second nature born overnight, Harvey crooned, bouncing at the knees.
She stilled and stared up at him, her rosebud mouth in a perfect pout, meconium smeared across her cheek.
Then Harvey’s arm grew warm. Very warm. And wet. She blinked at him. “It’s a good thing you’re cute, kid.”
An hour later he had her bathed, dressed, and settled. He sat down on the mattress beside her. As he peered out at the new day, with the twitter of birds lulling his tattered nerves, Harvey’s eyelids lowered, wavered, but then shot wide.
The time.
Harvey didn’t live by a clock, and if he did, it would have exactly four segments. Eating, fishing, scavenging, and dark. It had to be at least nine already. He’d be fired before his first day started.
Better to be a no-show than face the pastor’s disappointment.
Harvey held up the formula tin, already lighter. Although, the guy was crazy enough to give him a job in the first place, so maybe he was crazy enough to give him another chance.
At the supply bins, Harvey pulled out the bolt of gray knit cotton. He rolled out about three yards and snipped a straight line. Grasping the middle of the train of fabric, he placed it against his chest, remembering.
The foster mother had cradled her newborn baby to her chest and wrapped the fabric. Eleven-year-old Harvey would watch, entranced, memorizing the pattern in which she crossed and wound the fabric into a labyrinth from which the tiny babe couldn’t wriggle free. No matter how her baby fussed against her chest, he was protected and bound tight until he ceased his fretting and settled to sleep.
How he’d longed to be that woman’s son. But Harvey had always been more like a kite at the end of a string, buffeted and jerked in the middle of a gale until the thin line snapped.
Ivy Rose now rested, perfectly wrapped to his chest with her mouth parted in sleep. He planted a kiss on the top of her head. She was no kite on a string. They were bound. Together.
Pulling on his largest shirt, yellow with palm trees and waves, he buttoned her beneath. The loose fit allowed the air to flow freely. Her tiny curled form gave him a Santa Claus paunch on a tall scarecrow frame.
Before leaving camp, Harvey pulled a utility knife from his pocket and made a notch in a thick cedar beside his lean-to. If by some miracle he made it back at the end of the day with Ivy still wrapped to his chest, he’d put another notch next to the first and add one every day he succeeded in keeping her safe. He loaded his bag with diapers and formula and hiked toward town.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
PRESENT DAY
Ivy stood in front of her mirror, wincing at the discoloration below her eye. The swelling had mostly receded. A thick layer of concealer might be enough to disguise it. She couldn’t afford to take a sick day. Not after the time she’d just taken off for Grandma’s funeral and Seth’s threats hanging over her head.
More than that, her kids with special needs depended on her to be their testing accommodator for their end-of-year tests today. She couldn’t let them down when they needed her familiar presence the most. If she could just get through the next couple of days, she’d return the car Seth had bought for her and find a new place to live. Cut all ties.
Makeup on, she checked her reflection. She straightened a few wayward brown strands and tilted her chin in different angles, catching the light. Maybe no one would notice the bluish tinge coming through.
Ivy grabbed her purse and headed for her car. Seated, she pressed the start button. Nothing, not even the familiar beep signaling her car coming to life. She pushed the button again, making sure her foot rested heavy on the brake.
Still nothing.
Had she left the key inside her apartment? She riffled through her purse, searching for the key fob. Maybe the remote’s battery was the problem. She grabbed it, held it against the start button, and pressed.