Chapter 2
I was afraid that if I said anything, the fragile peace in the room would shatter.
Willow wiped Isobel's mouth with a tissue.
Her phone buzzed in her apron pocket.
She glanced down at it.
I heard her set the bowl down.
Then, she answered the call in a hushed voice.
"Hello?" she said. "Yeah, she's asleep. The baby's eating right now."
She paused for a moment.
"I didn't let anything slip," she said.
My heart sank.
After she said that, she looked up at me.
I kept my eyes shut, not moving a muscle.
A few seconds later, she seemed relieved.
I had no idea what the person on the other end was saying.
Willow let out a soft sigh.
"I know," she said. "But she's just so much like him, especially when she's eating egg custard like this."
Isobel giggled again.
Willow gently patted her head.
Then, she said something into the phone.
Her words were soft, but it felt like a bucket of ice water had just been dumped over my head.
"In a few days, when her brother comes back, Isobel will get to see him," Willow said quietly.
Willow hung up the phone.
She tucked her phone back into her apron pocket and went right back to feeding Isobel.
She didn't even flinch, just kept going like nothing happened.
It was like she'd been talking about everyday family stuff.
I slumped back on the couch, my fingers loosening and then tightening again.
The fever meds left me feeling weak all over.
But my mind was clearer than ever.
I couldn't ask, at least not right now.
If I sat up and asked her who this "brother" was, she'd change her story.
She'd claim it was just a slip.
She'd say she had looked after so many kids that sometimes she got names mixed up.
She'd been with us for three months and even remembered Taylor's favorite coffee. Someone that sharp wouldn't let anything slip by accident.
I kept pretending to be asleep.
Once Isobel was done eating, Willow carried her off to wash her hands.
The water was a trickle from the faucet.
As she washed Isobel's hands, she started humming that same tune again.
"Moon so bright, lamp alight, sleep till morning light," she sang softly.
The more I listened to that tune, the more uneasy I felt.
I'd never sung it to Isobel.
My mom never sang it either.
But Isobel was so calm, just listening.
She rested her head on Willow's shoulder, her tiny hands gripping Willow's collar.
My heart ached a little.
Isobel was still so little that whoever spent the most time holding her, she'd end up treating them like family.
It wasn't her fault.
Willow carried Isobel into the bedroom to put her down for a nap.
Her footsteps faded away.
I slowly opened my eyes.
All that was left in the living room was that little white bowl.
There was still a bit of egg custard left, the surface marked with a few faint lines from the spoon.
I stared at that bowl for a long time.
Then I grabbed my phone and saved the recording from the living room.
Luckily, I always kept a journal.
After giving birth, my emotions were all over the place, and I was afraid I'd forget things, so I'd often record things to keep track of what Isobel ate and how long she slept.
Today, I was planning to log her baby food.
I didn't expect to catch something else.
I renamed the recording. "March 17th, Egg Custard."
After I finished, I realized my hands were shaking.
The bedroom door opened.
I quickly tucked my phone under my leg.
Willow came out, saw me awake, and gave me a gentle smile.
"Mrs. Francis, you're awake?" she asked.
I nodded.
"Yeah," I replied.
"Still running a fever?" She walked over, reaching out to feel my forehead.
I turned my head away.
It was a small movement.
Her hand paused in midair, then she smoothly pulled it back, like nothing was out of the ordinary.
"I made you some oatmeal. It's still warm on the stove," she said.
"Thanks, Willow," I replied.
I tried to keep my voice steady.
She glanced at me.
"Isobel's asleep. She ate pretty well today," Willow said. "She finished almost half a bowl of egg custard."
"She never used to like it."
Willow smiled. "Kids are all like that. You just have to be patient."
"You're really good at feeding her."
"After looking after so many kids, you get the hang of it."
"Have you looked after babies this young before?"
Her hand froze for a second, still clutching the rag.
It was a split second, so quick that I almost missed it if I hadn't been watching her so closely.
She answered quietly, "Yeah, I have."
"Boys or girls?" I asked.
"Both."
She kept wiping the table, her eyes downcast.
"After so many years in this job, I've seen all kinds of kids," she said.
I let it go.
If I kept pressing, she'd start getting defensive.
*****
Later that afternoon, after Isobel woke up from her nap, I held her close.
Her little face pressed against my collarbone, her warm breath against my skin.
As I looked at her, my heart tightened again and again.
"Brother", "Siblings", and "He'll be back in a few days", those words kept echoing in my head.
Taylor didn't get home until eight that night.