Page 23 of Keeping the Score

“Okay, back to the bath. Does she have a little tub or something?”

“No, she has a bath seat that you put in the big tub.” He walks over to the pile of stuff in the corner that could rival the inventory of Babies“R”Us and nudges it with his toe. “There’s a bag of bath stuff here.”

I locate the bag and carry it and the seat to Ford’s bathroom. I’ve been to Ford’s condo lots of times, but now I realize this bathroom doesn’t have a tub.

“My room,” he says. “I have a tub in the en suite bathroom.”

“Okay.”

We walk through Ford’s bedroom, which I have never seen. It’s gorgeous—a massive king-size bed with a gray upholstered headboard fills the center of the room, with modern marblecubes as nightstands. Big glass globes provide light, and dark floor-to-ceiling curtains are open to let in late-afternoon sunlight. His bed looks luxurious. Comfortable. For some reason, though, looking at his bed disturbs me. I look away.

In the bathroom, he rocks Matilda while I run warm water and rummage around for a small cloth, some baby wash and shampoo—the girl’s got a head of thick, dark hair—as well as lotion and a cute hooded towel.

By the time everything’s arranged and there’s enough water in the tub, Matilda’s cries have eased off somewhat. Her eyes are puffy and drooping closed. “I think she tired herself out,” I say quietly. “Should we still do this?”

“I have no fucking clue.”

“Language.” I catch his eye and reluctant amusement tugs his lips. “I guess we need to get her clothes off her.” She’s wearing a little cotton dress in a pink and green floral pattern with a matching pair of… shorts?… under it.

“Right. I’ll take her to the bed.” He carries her back into the room and carefully lays Matilda down on the puffy duvet. He pulls the dress up to her chin and she starts fussing again.

Gingerly, he tries to ease her arms out of the sleeves. “I’m afraid I’ll break her,” he mumbles.

“Don’t break her.” I watch anxiously. “Babies are fragile.”

“I know.” Eventually he has her out of the dress. Her chubby arms and legs are constantly kicking and waving. I almost laugh.

“Did you put this on her?” I ask him.

“No. This is how Willa brought her.”

“Hmmm. Do you think she’s crying because she misses her mom?”

He looks up at me, open-mouthed. “Jesus. Of course! Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Well, there’s not much we can do about that.”

“You could hold her. Maybe she needs a woman.”

“No, no.” I shake my head violently, backing away with my hands raised. “I can’t hold a baby. I don’t know how.”

He gives me a look as if I just deserted him in the high Arctic and peels the shorts down her legs. Now the little girl is just in her diaper.

“I’m afraid to take this off,” he says. “She might pee or poop.”

“I think we have to risk it.”

He takes off the diaper and picks her up with awkward care. I have to say, the sight of his big man hands holding a tiny naked baby gives me a twinge in my previously unnoticed ovaries.

He carries her back to the bathroom and stands and looks down at the water.

“Well, put her in the tub.”

“She could drown in there.”

I nod seriously. “Valid concern. How do people do this?”

“Christ. Willa went over a bunch of stuff with me.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “But when it comes to actually doing it, I’m lost.”

---