Chapter 7
The effect was immediate.
The little guy's crying stopped abruptly.
His big, shiny eyes went wide, his head wobbling as he took in everything around him. His mouth hung open, and he even forgot to drool.
His mind buzzed with excitement: [The curtains are blue. That lamp is round. There's a spider web on the ceiling.
[I see it. I see it. Something's moving over there. What is it? Get closer. I want a better look.]
I carried him around the room, letting him check out everything as his eyes darted from one thing to another.
He was so excited, flailing his arms and his tiny feet drumming against my chest.
After five minutes, his urge to explore was satisfied for the time. He let out a satisfied yawn, his head nestled into my shoulder, and he drifted off to sleep.
Jasmine stood off to the side, staring at the scene, and her jaw dropped so wide with shock.
"Seriously? That's all it took? He's not crying anymore?" she blurted out.
"He's not sick, and he's not uncomfortable," I said, gently laying the sleeping baby back in his crib. "He's bored. Three-month-old babies are super curious.
"If he's stuck lying on his back staring at the ceiling all day, of course he'll get restless. When he's awake, hold him upright and walk him around.
"Let him check out different things, and give him some bright, colorful toys to look at. He'll stop fussing."
Jasmine's eyes grew red, not from sadness, but from a mix of anger and concern.
She said, "My son has been crying for three months because he was bored? I hired four nannies, took him to the doctor three times, and spent over ten thousand dollars because no one thought to hold him upright?"
I couldn't tell her the real reason was that I could hear her son's thoughts, so I smiled and said, "Every kid's got their own personality. Some are quiet, and some are energetic.
"Your son is the active type. When his needs aren't met, crying is the only way he knows how to let you know."
Jasmine grabbed my hand so tight that my bones creaked. "Mia, you're my miracle worker."
She spun around and yelled at the butler, "Send back that expensive rocking chair the expert everyone raved about. We spent 27 thousand dollars, and holding him upright works better."
As I was leaving, George personally walked me to my car and handed me an envelope.
"A little token of our appreciation," he said.
I tried to refuse, but he insisted, pressing it into my hand.
Once I was in the car, I opened it up. Inside was a bank card with the PIN taped to the back, and it had fifteen thousand on it.
All I did was hold his kid upright, and I got fifteen thousand dollars for it.
Suddenly, Felix's voice burst into my mind. I realized that when I got farther away, most babies' thoughts faded, but Felix's voice came through loud and clear, like he was broadcasting straight to me.
[Hey, Mia, out there making some side money? Don't forget I'm your number one. I want to be held upright too. I need attention as much as anyone else.]
I looked at the bank card in my hand, then out the window at the city rushing past.
It turned out this ability of mine was worth way more than I ever imagined.
Word about the Hunter family spread fast in their circles.
The rich had a small circle. If a kid had any issue, it was the hot topic at dinner, over drinks, or at the card table. News traveled faster than the internet.
And Jasmine was like a walking loudspeaker.
She hyped me up like I was some miracle worker in her wives' group. "You have no idea. My son cried for three months. Four nannies and three doctors couldn't fix it.
"Then Mia showed up, held him upright, and he stopped crying right away. Instantly."
It sounded unbelievable, but Jasmine had before-and-after videos on her phone, and she'd play them right there. Seeing was believing.
Anthony's speech at the Barton family's baptism party, plus the Hunter family drama, set things off. Within two weeks, my phone was blowing up with calls from strangers.
Every call was from some wealthy household.
The first family to come knocking was the Manning family.
The Manning family ran a building materials business. They weren't among the city's top families, but when it came to building materials, they were the leaders in their field.
Their eldest daughter-in-law, Mabel Manning, had a six-month-old daughter, and her problem wasn't crying. It was that she wouldn't eat much.
To be precise, she was an extremely picky eater.
She refused breast formula, wouldn't touch any of the seven or eight formula brands they tried, and wouldn't even look at baby food.
Every feeding was a battle. Her mouth was sealed tighter than a bank vault, and no amount of coaxing could get her to open up.
Mabel was so worried that her hair was falling out by the handful.
When I arrived at the Manning family's house, Mabel was holding a small spoon with some steamed, mushy pumpkin puree, waving it in front of her daughter's mouth.
"Come on, sweetie, one bite, please? Mommy's begging you," she pleaded.
The baby sat in her high chair, turning her head away with a blank look. She wasn't crying or fussing. She flat-out refused to eat.
A crisp little girl's voice echoed in my mind, unhurried and clear, every word distinct.