Page 28 of Carver
It’s so different, climbing those old wooden stairs today, though. The house might look the same, with pretty much the same artwork and furniture, but everything has changed.
Bronte’s bed has been moved against the wall to accommodate Elowen’s crib. The dresser from the guest bedroom has been moved up here. It stands beside Bronte’s own wooden antique tallboy. She could have had something newer but she likes the old stuff.
She gets a fresh blanket out of the bottom drawer and hands it to Elowen. She clutches it with a big smile. It’s little more than a faded scrap of flannel fabric, but clearly a favorite.
“I usually change her diaper and her clothes if she needs it, but she’s managed to keep pretty clean today, so just a bum change it is.”
She lays Elowen down on the bed. Even though I’m here, standing awkwardly behind them, Ellie is obviously used to this routine.
Bronte unsnaps the pink overalls and has Elowen changedfast. I can’t help but see myself down on my knees, struggling.
Instead of berating myself and letting that shit in my head take over and tell me that it’s just another reason I’d never bea good dad, I talk myself down instead. I could watch a damn instructional video if I had to. If I can carve a fucking statue basically one-handed, I can change my daughter.
Eat shit, intrusive thoughts. I’m fucking over it.
Bronte lays Elowen down in her crib, passing her a super soft stuffed giraffe and tucking the small blanket around her. There aren’t any other blankets other than a crib sheet over the mattress, and maybe that’s for a reason. Maybe babies can’t have blankets until they’re older. That’s one thing I didn’t think to look up.
Ellie seems happy enough with her giraffe and the small blanket. The crib is only a few feet from Bronte’s bed. She sits down, reaching for the book of children’s fairy tales from her nightstand. It’s an ancient copy, tattered and worn. My lips twitch when I think about how politically incorrect it probably is.
“I change what I have to.” Bronte flips open the book.
Reading my thoughts again, so effortlessly.
She pats the other side of the double bed. I walk around it and sit down, propping my back against the metal headboard, mirroring her position.
She flips open the book and starts reading. It’s a story I’m not familiar with. Not something that’s been glammed up and made into a movie. Ellie watches us through the espresso colored slats of the crib, a little smile on her face. She seems so content. Her world is completelyright, even if there’s a strange man sitting on the bed next to her mom.
She reminds me so much of Bronte. Not just in her features, but already in the way that she has a huge heart that is utterly pure.
I’d die to protect that.
I sit and listen, but more so to the tones of Bronte’s voice. I love watching Ellie’s eyes get heavy and close. Her breathing changes a little as she falls asleep. She was adorable awake, but in sleep, she’s so sweet. My heart gets big and heavy, taking up my chest, on the verge of bursting.
I’ve never felt such fear or awe, or such immediate, all-consuming love.
Bronte stops reading a few minutes later. She sticks the frayed yellow string bookmark into place and closes the book soundlessly.
She could say anything. Something to reassure me, questions about Hart, something that her mom and sister haven’t already asked me because they weren’t prying. She could bring up old memories of being up here. We were allowed our privacy, but there’s no way I ever would have done anything with Bronte here with her family in the house. Even if they weren’t, it just wouldn’t have felt right. Weeks before we ever had sex, she told me that she’d discussed it with her mom. She had protection and she felt she was ready to take responsibility for her own body and her own desires. She wasn’t afraid. She waited on me, giving me time to get over all my own worries and get out of my head. She was the one who made it special. She’d packed her truck and we drove out to one of her family’s fields to stargaze. She had blankets and pillows. We’d kissed before and explored a little, touching on top of clothes and then under clothes, but it was all very innocent.
I had no idea what I was doing. I had done a little bit of research online, but it’s not like you can learn a lot otherthan basic science. I sure as fuck wasn’t going to teach myself techniques from adult content to use on Bronte.
She showed me what she liked. Slowly. Tenderly. At our own pace, over a few weeks that summer we were sixteen. Like most things, we found our way together. It wasn’t perfect, but it was special because it wasours.
“What are you thinking?” Bronte asks softly while studying the crib.
I glance at her side profile, my eyes raking over my earlobe. I barely stop myself from leaning in and taking it between my teeth before kissing her neck. I’m suddenly hyperaware of her scent. Sugar and cinnamon, mixed with the smells of dinner drifting up from the kitchen.
I didn’t realize how often I was doing that until right this minute. Tuning out. Blocking everything. I wasn’t intentionally doing it right now, but it’s scary how I’ve forgotten how to just be…present.
“I’m thinking that I understand what you were saying about loving your child. How it’s not like any other kind of love. It’s terrifying and exhilarating. I don’t deserve her. I don’t deserve you. But life can’t be about deserving. I know you’ll say it’s about grace, and working hard to try and make a world where the people you love can thrive with you.”
“That’s exactly what I would say.” She turns, her hair brushing against my jawline, she’s so close. Her lips are just a few inches from mine. “You try as hard as you can and I’ll try as hard as I can, and when we can’t, we pick each other up until we can again. That’s what makes my parents’ marriage so successful. They’re partners. They respect each other. They’ve worked hard to understand that kind of love, and to lovethemselves as well. People talk about romantic love like it’s the most important thing in the world, but all love is equally valuable.”
“Which book have you been reading?”
Bronte snorts. “For once, it was a video.”
The urge to claim her mouth and properlykiss heris nearly overwhelming. The pain of missing her hurts just as much as any physical pain ever has. Allowing myself to feel it this week has made it nearly impossible to breathe past the constant ache in my muscles. It’s like getting a bad flu.
