thank you, my lovely everlarks, for being patient with me throughout this story. im determined to finish it before november hits - so we'll see if i can do that! 3
please dont forget to review!
/
Atlas lies with his little, round head in the crook of my elbow, unbothered as I gently hold his sister by the hand. She's still standing on the kitchen chair, looking rather pleased with herself, but I'm feeling much the opposite.
"Ada, get down," I say quietly.
"Cricket, Cricket, Cricket," she says, leaning over and softly poking Atlas's tummy. He looks at her when she does that, as best as a 3-week-old can, and she makes an amused sound.
I watch the two of them interact and think over what my mother just said. I think of Ada shrieking at him, directly into his ear, and how that didn't catch his attention. But now, when she touches him, he looks at her.
I think of the way his eyes had been trained on my mother's face as she made exaggerated expressions, and I think of the way he always rests an ear on Peeta's chest while he talks.
"I think you all should go," I mutter, absentmindedly lifting Ada off of the chair and onto my hip. It's easier than I ever thought it would be, carrying both of my children at once.
Ada loops her arms around my neck and twines her legs around my middle, doing most of the work in keeping herself upright. As she's in my arms, I feel her peer into Atlas's face and say, "Hi, my brother." She continues to talk to him while I try, and fail, to gather my thoughts.
"Katniss, I didn't mean to upset you," my mother says tentatively.
"I'm not upset," I say, though my chin is trembling and the apples of my cheeks are growing hotter by the second. "I'm fine. I just think you should go." I clear my throat to get rid of the lump growing inside it and blink hard. "All of you."
Even though I have my eyes on the floor, I can feel the three of them - my mother, Delly, and Haymitch - watching me. I don't look up, though. I don't lift my head until after Peeta ushers them out of the room and towards the door, bidding them goodbye with quiet pleasantries.
Ada stays quiet on my hip while I study her brother. To me, he's perfect in every way and he always will be. Just like Ada. I don't take any issue with deafness in general. I've had my own experience with it, and I have the Capitol technology implanted in my left ear to prove it. But I've never met anyone who was fully deaf, and I have so many questions.
I never wanted my children to struggle - not in any way. But, suddenly, Atlas is being met with one of the biggest struggles I can imagine, and he hasn't even been in the world for a month.
I lower my head and nuzzle the tip of his tiny nose with my own, whispering his name as I do. "Atlas," I say softly, grazing his cheek with my lips. "Atlas."
A tear falls from my eye to land on his forehead, and Ada notices. She wipes it away with four chubby fingers and says, "Mama, you crying on him."
I sniffle and turn my head towards her, and she does what she can to wipe my cheeks in the same way she wiped Atlas's face.
"Don't cry, Mama," she says, her expression growing more worried by the second. As she watches me weep, her own blue eyes - Peeta's eyes - start to well up. Tears flood her waterline and drip slowly down her face once there gets to be too many, and she sniffles along with me. "Mama," she whimpers - then buries her face in my hair, not knowing why either of us are in such a state.
Peeta comes back inside a few minutes later and Ada lifts her head when he does. "Is everyone okay?" he asks.
Ada rubs her face on the sleeve of my dress, having not yet dried her eyes. I haven't either. "Dadda," she says sadly, reaching for him.
He takes her easily, and she drapes her arms over him and rests her chin on his shoulder, facing behind him. "Birdie," Peeta says, framing my face with his one free hand. "What's going on?"
"I need to be alone for a little while," I say, my voice coming out as a strangled peep. I blink and a few more tears fall, sliding down my face to reach my neck. "Just for a little while."
"Okay," Peeta says, nodding surely. "Me and honeybee will start dinner."
I make a teary, affirmative sound and head out the front door to sit on the porch. I cradle Atlas close and try to dry my tears - and it works, eventually. By the time I see Haymitch coming back up the path leading to our house, I've stopped crying and gathered myself up.
I'm not really in the mood to socialize, but I don't turn Haymitch away. Instead, I make eye contact with him and he interprets that as a welcoming gesture, one that invites him to sit down in Peeta's rocking chair. And, as usual, he interpreted my nonverbal signal correctly.
Neither of us speaks for a long time, but our surroundings are far from silent. There are mourning doves and finches singing high in the trees, and Honk and Whiskey are making their usual racket across the way - probably wondering where Haymitch went off to. I can hear Hopscotch and Marigold, too, bleating for the dinner they'll get after we eat.
Peeta and Ada aren't quiet in the kitchen, either. I hear the tones of their voices through the open window - Ada's high and Peeta's low - I can't discern what they're saying, but it makes me smile when they laugh.
Haymitch speaks first. His voice joins the creak of my rocking chair when he asks, "So, how're you feeling?"
I look at my baby, now fast asleep. His arms are thrown loosely over his head, just like Ada used to sleep and still does to this day. His mouth is moving rhythmically, sucking, which lets me know that he's nursing in a dream.
I press my nose to the warm, velvety crease of his neck and take a deep breath. There's nothing like the smell of a baby - especially your own baby. It's intoxicating and comforting and it ignites every protective instinct within me.
"I don't know," I answer honestly.
Haymitch nods and takes a deep breath, folding his hands over his stomach. He stares into the distance, towards his own house, and seems to let his thoughts simmer before speaking again. I wait for him without prompting.
"You know, my brother was deaf," he says finally. His voice is quieter and rounder around the edges than I've heard it in a long time. If sounds were colors, his voice would be deep blue. The corners of his lips twitch upwards in a small grin when he says, "Couldn't hear shit. Didn't stop us from getting into all sorts of trouble, though."
I stop rocking, coming up short as his words register. "You have a brother?" I ask.
He shakes his head just slightly, and won't meet my eyes. His gaze is still directed off the porch - at what, I'm not sure. But I don't try to catch his attention.
"Had," he says. "We were close."
"What was his name?" I ask.
"Reese," he says. The word is heavy as it comes from his mouth, and I wonder how long it's been since he spoke his brother's name aloud. "Died in the mines when he was 19." He looks at me with a forced smile and glassy eyes. "I always said - hey, at least he never heard the blast coming."
I don't laugh. Neither does Haymitch.
I continue to rock with Atlas and think of what this means. Not only has Haymitch gone through what I've experienced with the Games, he's also experienced the loss of a sibling, and the loss of a family member inside the mines. All these years, I had no idea of just how eerily similar we are - but he did.
"I didn't know," I say, frowning.
He moves his hands then, making gestures in quick succession. I stare at him hard, eyebrows low, and blink quickly. I've only seen sign language a few times in my life; there were interpreters in the Capitol during our interviews with Caesar, but I've never seen it up close. Not until now.
"What?" I say.
"I said, there are a lot of things you and the boy don't know about me," he says. Then, he sighs. "Sometimes, it's just better that way."
…
When I go inside, Ada is standing on the counter wearing her child-sized apron, handing Peeta the correct number of bowls from the cabinet. She hears me come in and looks over her shoulder with a smile, saying, "Yay, Mama!"
"You're just in time," Peeta says. "We were about to set the table."
"Perfect," I say. "Can I help?"
"No," Ada says, shooing me towards a chair. "Mama sit. Me and Dadda are doing a surprise!"
With a small smile, I head to the table and sit down, thanking Peeta and Ada as they come over and set everything up for our meal. It looks like we're having shepherd's pie, which I'll never complain about. It's one of Peeta's favorites, too, and Ada has never left a crumb on her plate, no matter what we're eating.
Ada wears her apron during dinner and tells me about the steps that Peeta led her through in order to make what we're eating. I listen with rapture and eat until my stomach is full - I always forget the way food makes me feel more stable. Because, after dinner, I'm firmly planted and less weepy, less likely to burst into tears at any given second.
As Peeta is cleaning up, I ask Ada, "Do you want to help me give your brother a bath in the sink?"
"Yes!" she says, hanging up her apron where it belongs and hopping down from her tall kitchen chair. She brings her cleared plate to Peeta, lifting it above her head, and he thanks her by ruffling her hair.
I fill up the kitchen sink with a couple inches of water and Ada asks to be set on the counter. As I carefully take Atlas's socks, soft pants, and tiny onesie off, Ada makes sure the water is a good temperature.
The baby fusses in my arms and Ada looks on with worry. "Him's cold, Mama," she says, creasing her brow. "Can we get him in the water now?"
It's nice and warm in the kitchen - I'm not worried about Atlas, but it is sweet to see Ada concerned about her brother.
"It's not too hot or too cold," she says. "Just right, like Goldilocks."
I smile at her reference to the children's story - it's one of her favorites, included in the book that Effie sent us for her second birthday. She has it memorized by now.
"Can you use your gentle hands and help me wash his hair?" I ask Ada after Atlas is in the sink.
She perches on her knees and gives Atlas a confused look. "But he doesn't have hair," she says, "He just has bald."
Peeta laughs from where he's putting away leftovers, and I do too. "Well, let's wash his bald then," I say."
With careful fingers, Ada massages the baby shampoo onto Atlas's head, swirling it around and singing nonsense tunes. He watches her the whole time, and seems especially enthralled when she lifts her suds-coated hands and claps them together.
I continue to wash the baby with Ada's help, and a few minutes later, she asks, "Can he really not hear, Mama?"
Her words catch me off guard. It's not like I haven't been thinking about it, but in this second, it wasn't the first thing on my mind. Not with Atlas wet and slippery in the tub in front of us.
"I don't know, honeybee," I say, carefully rinsing the baby's hair and body.
"Why you don't know?"
I lift Atlas out of the tub and bundle him in a small, white towel, then hold him close to my chest. "He can't tell us," I say.
"No, Mommy, he cannot talk," Ada says matter-of-factly.
I laugh, just a puff of air from my nose, and say, "Right."
"So, we have to wait until he can talk?"
"No…" I say, "but we have a lot of things to figure out before I can answer your questions."
"Patience, patience," Ada says.
Peeta spends some time with Atlas while I give Ada her own bath in the tub upstairs, then he brings the baby to me so I can nurse both of our children to sleep. While Peeta puts on more comfortable clothes, I sit with my back against the headboard, Ada lying across my legs, and Atlas cradled close to my chest. Both of their eyes are closed, they're in soft, warm pajamas, and I feel peaceful for the first time today.
Ada plays with my necklace like she always does while she nurses, turning the ring between her fingers and tracing the chain that rests on my collarbone. Atlas, wrapped in a blanket, lies with his hands tucked close to his face. The only sound in the room is their quiet breathing, Peeta's rhythmic footsteps, and the beat of my own heart.
Once they're both asleep, Ada having not once put up a fuss about sharing me, Peeta gently takes Atlas and lays him down in the bassinet near our bed - the same place that Ada slept for the first few months of her life. Once the baby is settled, he picks Ada up and holds her close, kissing her face as he walks down the hall to bring her to her own room.
I use the time that Peeta spends tucking Ada in to wash my face and change into pajamas myself. Once he comes back, I'm in an old, loose t-shirt that used to be his and has since become mine, and a pair of cotton shorts.
He gets comfortable on the bed after taking his prosthetic off and says, "Come here, birdie."
I crawl onto the bed and fall in close to him, resting one hand in the middle of his chest with my ear pressed against his heartbeat. I close my eyes and just lie there for a moment, enjoying the rise and fall of his inhales and exhales, then wrap my arm around his waist.
I crane my neck to see his eyes, and he looks down to meet mine. "Did you know that Haymitch had a brother?" I ask.
Peeta, with the corners of his mouth turned down, shakes his head no.
"Me, neither," I say, then run my blunt nails across my husband's stomach, over the fabric of his sleep shirt. "But he did."
"When did you find this out?" he asks.
"Today," I say, resting my ear against his chest again. "He came back over when I was sitting on the porch with Atlas, while you and Ada were making dinner." I blink for a few moments, recalling Haymitch's words. While he might not have spoken for very long, he shared so much. "His name was Reese. He was deaf, and he died in the mines when he was 19."
"Oh," Peeta says, going still.
"Haymitch knows sign language," I say. "He signed something for me. He's fluent, he…" I trail off, then sit up so I can see Peeta's face more clearly. "I'm not upset because Atlas might be deaf," I say. "Might be, or probably is…" I shake my head. "I don't know. But deafness doesn't scare me, or make me sad, or… anything like that." I glance at the bassinet, where the baby is sleeping soundly. "He's our son, and he's perfect."
"I agree," Peeta says.
"But I don't want him to struggle," I say. My eyes grow hot again - and I thought I wasn't in danger of crying any more today. "And I want to be able to give him everything he needs. That's all I want. I feel like we're out of our depth, and I don't like feeling that way."
Peeta reaches for my hands and takes them both. He brings them to his mouth and kisses my knuckles, closing his eyes and breathing against my fingers for a long moment. "I know," he says quietly.
"So, what's next?" I ask. I couldn't give Ada answers earlier because I sincerely don't have them. "What do we do?"
Peeta takes a long time to think over what I've asked. He lowers my hands and instead reaches for my body, pulling me onto his lap like I weigh nothing. I think, to him, I do.
"We take him to see Dr. Aurelius," Peeta says, stroking my hair. "When we feel ready. We get him diagnosed. We make a plan. We work things out - both of us, together." He kisses the side of my face. "Through it all, we'll protect him. Keep him safe and warm, feed him and our girl like you did tonight." He kisses me again and rocks me from side to side. "We take things day by day. We learn as we go. And we do the best we can."
…
Five weeks later, we have an appointment with Dr. Aurelius in the Capitol. I wake up nervous, and Ada does too. Peeta and Atlas, on the other hand, are as steady as ever.
"I don't wanna ride the big train, Mama," Ada says, trailing after me, right on my heels, as I pack up the last of what we need for the trip.
Peeta overhears his daughter and says, "You didn't want to ride it last time, either. Then we ended up at the beach, and you loved it."
Ada gasps, bouncing in place. "We're going to see the beach?!" she squeals.
I cast Peeta an exasperated look and he says, "No, not this time," in a defeated tone.
Stricken, Ada throws herself onto the ground, face-down, and cries. "I don't wanna go!" she wails. "I wanna stay home. I don't wanna ride the big train! Please, don't make me go."
"We'll only be gone for a few days," I say.
"I stay here," Ada says, sticking her thumb in her mouth as she continues to cry. "With Aunt DayDay and Grandma. Or Papa Amith! I don't wanna go, I don't wanna go."
Peeta and I look at each other, and I know we're thinking the same thing. The time that we'll spend at the hospital with Atlas and the doctor won't be quick. We might be there for a full day, running tests and waiting for results. It might be easier for everyone if Ada stayed home in 12.
"Ada," I say, handing the baby to Peeta so I can kneel down and pick her up off the ground, "do you want to stay with Papa Amith while me and Dadda go on the train?"
Delly has enough on her plate, taking care of my mother. Plus, I don't know what the presence of Ada might do for my mother's confusion - I don't want to risk it. Haymitch's schedule has become much more regular since he's gotten sober, and he's right across the street.
"Yeah," she whimpers, still sucking her thumb.
"Okay, we can do that," I say, situating her body on my hip. Her bag is already packed, so I sling it over my shoulder and put on my shoes while Peeta packs up the last of Atlas's things.
I knock on Haymitch's door, but he comes around the side of the house instead, with Honk and Whiskey right behind him. "What's goin' on?" he asks, smiling when he sees Ada.
"I'm staying with you," she says, wriggling to be let down. Once I free her, she scampers over to Haymitch and he picks her up instead.
"You're not going to the big city with your Mama and Dadda?" he asks, turning in to look at her face. She shakes her head no.
"Is that okay?" I ask, setting her bag on the porch. "Can she stay? If it's too much, you can say so."
"Sweetheart, when have I ever sugar-coated things for you?" he asks, chuckling. "It's fine. I'm feeding your pack of animals while you're gone, anyway. What's one more mouth?"
I ignore the way he lumped Ada in with the goats and Fern, and instead feel grateful for what he's offering. "Thank you, Haymitch," I say.
"You better get going, or you'll miss that thing," he says.
I thought Ada would be the one who wouldn't let me go, but as the thought of taking the train without her and traveling hundreds of miles away hits me, I can't move.
"Sweetheart," Haymitch says, "you can go. I've got her. She'll be just fine here with me." He tickles Ada's belly. "Papa Amith will keep you safe, right?"
"Yeah," she says, giggling that hearty little giggle.
I left her once before, to go to the Capitol. But even that time wasn't for a negative reason. She was too young to remember, but she was in capable hands - Peeta's. And now, when both Peeta and I need to leave to get her brother the help he needs, she'll have Haymitch to watch over her.
I'm not leaving her. I'm just leaving - only for a few days, at that.
I'm okay. Ada is okay. This is okay.
"Alright," I say, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly.
"Hug and kiss, Mama," Ada says, reaching for me.
I take her back from Haymitch and she wraps her arms around my neck, her legs around my waist, and buries her face in my hair. I hug her back just as tightly, closing my eyes and swaying back and forth, then kiss her round cheeks once we both pull away. "I love you," I whisper. "Dadda loves you, too."
"I love you," she whispers back, matching my tone of voice and tapping my cheeks with both pointer fingers. She smiles, those little teeth gleaming white, and kisses my lips. "I love you, Mama. I see you soon."
…
The train ride takes quite a few hours. I lose track of how much time passes because I sleep for so long, but it feels nice to rest - the lull of the train is soothing, and Peeta, Atlas, and I spend most of the ride with our eyes closed.
I'm looking out the window, nursing the baby, as we pull into the city. The sun is high in the sky, and the way it reflects off of the nearby buildings is nothing short of magnificent. I stroke Atlas's head, the downy tufts of blonde hair that are just beginning to come in, and marvel over the sight.
It's different from how it was before. It's still hulking and much too massive for my liking, but there's nothing foreboding about the Capitol anymore. It's just a place, a place where we spend time when we need things that aren't available at home.
I carry the baby and Peeta takes our bags - the one that we're sharing and Atlas's diaper bag - as we deboard the train. A car is waiting to take us to the hospital, and it's fancier than anything I've ever been inside. I hold Atlas close the whole way there, not knowing the protocol of infants inside moving vehicles, and I'm relieved once we arrive.
The relief doesn't last long, though. Once we enter the hospital, I grapple for Peeta's hand and hold it tight - I don't have good memories of this place. It's not like I was tortured or anything like that, but when I stayed here after Ada was born, I ached so badly to be home that it caused me physical pain.
I remind myself that Peeta is right beside me. We're here to get help for Atlas. We're not staying long. Everything is as it should be, everything is right. I can get through this - we can get through this.
Dr. Aurelius sees us in a comfortable, quiet room. He looks older than he did the last time I was here, but his smile is just the same.
"Mellarks," he says, grinning warmly. "It's nice to see you. Who's this handsome young man?"
I look at Peeta. Just like old times, I need him to do the talking.
"This is Atlas," Peeta says. "He was born on May 18th."
"Big boy," Dr. Aurelius says. "Let's get your weight. All up to date on vaccinations?"
"Yes," I say, "our healer administered them - we got your shipment."
"Good, good," he says, then presents a small baby scale. "If you'll just set the little guy right here for me, and we can see how much he weighs." Carefully, I lay Atlas on the scale and Dr. Aurelius smiles when he sees the number. "I was right," he says. "He is a big boy. Almost 15 pounds, Atlas Mellark."
"Is that normal?" I ask.
"He's a healthy guy," Dr. Aurelius says. "I'm guessing he eats well."
"Very," I say.
"That's great," he says. "I'm going to do a few more routine exams here, then ask you some questions. Sound good?"
I nod, and he tells me that I can hold Atlas while he looks at his eyes, listens to his heart, feels his pulse, and checks his hips.
"He looks wonderful," Dr. Aurelius says. "Katniss, how are you feeling? Your last postpartum period wasn't easy; are you feeling anything similar this go-round? Any anxiety, depression, feelings of paranoia or loss of control?"
"No," I say - and it's the truth. "All I've been able to think about is his hearing."
"Yes, you mentioned that on the phone," he says. "The ears looked fine, but in order to get a good idea of what's going on inside, I have to run a few tests. Is that alright?"
Peeta and I look at each other, then nod at the doctor. He explains what the tests are - that they won't hurt Atlas, that they shouldn't be uncomfortable at all. The first one entails inserting a small earphone into his ear and watching to see if the ear responds to sound. If it doesn't, he'll move onto another test that involves electrodes being placed on Atlas's head. He assures us that both tests are non-invasive, painless, and relatively quick. We can stay in the room for both and even hold him while Dr. Aurelius conducts them.
Atlas is an easy-going baby, looking at Dr. Aurelius's face with fascination as the doctor maneuvers about his head. I don't like the wires and gadgets being attached to him, but I know it's for a good reason. These two simple tests will give us the answers we need.
Dr. Aurelius talks to the baby while he gets him set up, and I appreciate that. He makes the three of us feel comfortable. I wonder if he's always been this kind and congenial, and I've just been too mentally unwell to notice. I'm glad, at least, to notice now.
"There was no echo for the OAE test," Dr. Aurelius tells us after he removes the earphone from Atlas's tiny ear. "That might mean hearing loss, or it might not. To be sure, I'll need to complete the ABR test. Is that alright with you both?"
"Yes," Peeta and I say, answering at the same time.
He places small, circular stickers on Atlas's head, and immediately Atlas raises his arms to try and swipe them off. Luckily, he doesn't have much dexterity in his hands or fingers yet, so they don't go anywhere.
"I know, I know," Dr. Aurelius says. "But, I promise, I won't mess up your hair too much."
I allow myself to chuckle, albeit nervously. I don't know what Dr. Aurelius is seeing as he conducts the test, and his facial expression doesn't give anything away. Once it's over, he removes the electrodes from Atlas's head and the baby nuzzles my chest, as he's hungry and wants to nurse. While the doctor prints out the results and analyzes them in another room, I nurse Atlas and sit in silence beside Peeta.
I'm not nervous anymore, now that the tests are over. I'm not nervous because I already know what Dr. Aurelius is going to say. My mother might be losing her memory, but she was a healer for many years. I have no doubt that she was correct when she told us that Atlas can't hear, and I've only been noticing more signs as weeks have gone by.
So, when Dr. Aurelius comes back into the room, my stomach doesn't jump with anxiety. Peeta keeps an arm wrapped around my shoulders, holding Atlas and me close, while the doctor tells us that Atlas has profound hearing loss - meaning a complete loss of hearing - in both ears.
I don't cry. Having it confirmed is jarring, but not shocking. I bring back the words that Peeta spoke weeks ago: We take things day by day. We learn as we go. And we do the best we can.
"How can we help him?" I ask.
"Cochlear implants are an option," Dr. Aurelius says. "They're electronic devices that stimulate the auditory nerve so severely deaf people can perceive sounds. I don't typically like to surgically implant those until about 12 months, but it's something to think about."
That's a lot for me, for both of us, to consider right now. Surgery is intimidating - especially for someone as young as Atlas. I can't think about that yet. I'll have to learn more before I consider it.
"What about right now?" Peeta asks.
"Right now, there's not anything specific that you need to be doing," Dr. Aurelius says. "Just encourage plenty of visual communication. Always make sure to face him when you talk, or when you sing, so he knows you're addressing him." He grins at the baby, who's studying him intently. "Cuddling, comforting, rocking, smiling, and singing are all forms of communication - and a loving, nurturing environment is all Atlas needs."
I smooth my hand over Atlas's head in a continuous, repetitive motion. It's comforting, hearing Dr. Aurelius say those things. We've been doing all of those things with Atlas since the day he was born. It's reassuring, knowing we've been making good decisions.
"I'll want to see him back here in a few months," the doctor says. "And I have some resources for you in the meantime." He reaches towards the desk and pulls a book called 'Baby Sign Language' from a drawer. "As of right now, Atlas is living in a silent world. As he gets older and wants to communicate, signing will help him do that." He hands the book to me and I look at the cover. "With cochlear implants, he'll be able to recognize sounds, voices, and patterns of speech, but even with implants, signing is a huge asset for deaf children."
"Okay," I say, then look at Peeta. "Haymitch knows how to sign. We can use this, and he can help us learn."
Peeta smiles and it brightens his face. "That would be good," he says.
Dr. Aurelius stands up and shakes both of our hands. "You have a thriving, healthy baby on your hands," he says. "He's developing a little differently than some, but I'd like you to remember that there's nothing wrong with him." He gives us a warm, sure smile. "Congratulations on your baby boy."
…
When we get home the following evening, Ada is beside herself.
"My brother, my brother!" she cheers, standing on her tiptoes to see him. "Mama, can he hear? Can I see him?" She hugs my legs. "I missed you, Mama!"
"Hey, what about me?" Peeta asks jokingly.
Ada lets me go and scurries over to her father, hugging his legs in the same way she'd hugged mine. "I missed you, Dadda! I have to show you something."
"Let me get my shoes off, honeybee," Peeta says, sighing in pretend exasperation.
"Not just you, Dadda. You, Mama, and Cricket. Come to the couch! I need to show you it. Papa Amith taught me. Sit down, sit down!"
I smile to myself and sit on the couch like Ada told us to do. I hold Atlas on my lap and lean against Peeta's chest as Ada positions herself in front of us, poised to perform.
"Watch," she says. She points to her face, "I…" She crosses her arms over her chest in an X-figure, her fists bunched, "Love…" She points at Atlas. "You." Then she lifts one hand and raises her pinky and pointer fingers, sticks her thumb out, and keeps her middle and ring fingers down. She moves that hand subtly from side-to-side, then bends in half to touch the tip of Atlas's nose with her own. "I love you," she says.
My eyes well up with tears - but not because I'm sad. Because I'm happy; so, so happy, and grateful that I have a daughter like Ada, a surrogate grandfather for her like Haymitch, a husband like Peeta, and a son like Atlas. I never thought I would have this; not ever.
Peeta lifts his hand and carefully watches Ada. She straightens her arm to show him the way her fingers are formed, and when Peeta mimics her correctly, she grins and says, "Like that!"
"I love you," Peeta says, moving his hand slightly in the way that Ada had done.
"Now you, Mommy," Ada says, urging me on.
I wrap one arm around Atlas's tummy and form the fingers of my free hand into the shape she showed us. Once it's right, approved by a nod from my daughter, I move it back and forth towards her, towards Peeta, then towards Atlas.
"I love you," I say quietly, nearly whispering. "I love you, I love you, I love you."