11
Being born is tiring work, Victoria thought, gazing down at her newborn daughter. She hadn't any idea what time it was. The heavy curtains in the bedroom were closed and the fire was burning hot and bright against the stormy October chill, and the lamps were lit. She'd been tucked up in bed, resting with the baby, ever since the birth. Was it early evening? Late afternoon? Was she somehow outside time?
Lydia had been asleep for most of her brand-new life, when she was not eating. The baby was so long and lean and bundled, Victoria felt as if she were cradling a baguette. My baby, she kept thinking to herself, nearly unable to believe it. My own little baby, all mine. The cradle waited beside the bed to receive the sleeping infant, but Victoria did not want to put her down. Instead she gazed at Lydia's small features, her closed eyes, her forehead wrinkled with worry even as she slept.
Being born must be confusing work, as well as tiring. It was no wonder the tiny thing was so concerned. Victoria tightened her hold, adjusted the blanket, kissed the baby's forehead, stroked her little mop of dark hair. Inhaled her smell. Brand-new and yet familiar, a scent Victoria somehow knew in her bones.
"My own little baby," she whispered, not wanting to wake the baby up. "My own little Liddie. I love you so."
This immediate depth of feeling surprised Victoria, truth be told. She'd worried, in bleaker moments, that she would feel nothing. Or worse, she would feel the same resentment and distaste her own mother did. A part of her still worried that such feelings might come, that this rosy glow would be fleeting. The thought made her ache, and she quickly pushed it away.
No. Her love for her little daughter was immediate and fierce and she never wanted to leave this spot. Never wanted to be parted even long enough to set the baby in her cradle to sleep. For now, she knew that she loved her Liddie deeply, wholly. They were of the same blood. Liddie was hers. Her own little baby. Always, no matter how old she grew or how many other children Victoria might have. Liddie would always be the first, her greatest and most surprising achievement so far.
Victoria leaned in to put her nose against her daughter's head again, and closed her eyes.
12
I'm imagining it, someone would have said something, Victor fretted to himself. He was sitting in the armchair in the bedroom, cradling his sleeping newborn while Victoria slept in the bed. Early morning sunshine peeked through the half-shut curtains. Lydia was four days old, and this was the longest he'd held her.
Victoria would have noticed, certainly, he reasoned, glancing at his sleeping wife. All the same, after a moment's indecision, Victor once again unwound baby Lydia's blanket, just enough to carefully peel out one teeny, long-fingered hand, and then the other.
Every time he counted, he only came up with nine fingers.
He mouthed the numbers to himself as he lightly touched her thumb, her index finger, all the way down to her pinkie. Then the next hand. Six, seven...
Suddenly, Lydia jerked her hand away, pulling it up to her face. Victor jumped at the sudden movement. He was always startled when she moved, as he'd really only seen her asleep. Not only that, though. It was still so strange, so deeply strange, to hold such a fully formed small person that could move all on her own. To know, as well, that he'd had some little bit to do with her.
More than a little. Victor tucked her blanket back around her snugly as he could, and studied her face. His face, no mistake. Even at just a few days old. Her little fingers curled around her narrow chin, as though she was deep in thought. Then, amazingly, her eyes opened, and she looked up at him. Victor gave a little gasp.
He hadn't any idea if she could see him well or not with those brand-new eyes, so he leaned down a little closer. Was he imagining it, or was she studying his face, looking into his eyes? He'd never seen her with her eyes open yet. They were so dark and big in that little face, so serious and bright. Her mouth, milky at the corners, turned down just a little. Thoughtfully, Victor fancied. Profoundly. His heart felt as if it were melting.
She was so small. She was so new. So serious. And his.
"Liddie," he whispered, a grin spreading across his face. Lydia blinked slowly. He reached and touched her fingers, held tightly against her cheek. She curled up her little fist. He could feel her other arm moving about in her blanket, little fingers wiggling.
One more count couldn't hurt, he thought, and unwound her blanket again.
0-0
Author's Note:
Hi friends! Not sure how back I am but I am definitely here to tell you that love stories are different after you have a baby.
Your pal,
PlayerPiano