Page 397 of The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The Second Collection

She nods but I don’t see any spark of understanding in her eyes. “My little boy liked to play airplane, too.”

I don’t remember that. Frances is older than I am and must have been out of his airplane stage by the time I came along.

“My little boy’s dead,” she says.

My throat seizes. “No, Maman. Frances is alive. He has a little boy of his own. They’ll come visit after Thanksgiving.”

“My little boy’s dead,” she repeats.

I don’t know what to say. In my bag, my phone pings and I know it must be Daddy, worried about my heart rate, which I can feel thudding in my temples.

She thrusts the bouquet at me. “Would you put these flowers on my little boy’s grave? They won’t let me leave here to visit him.”

“I’ll buy a big bouquet for his grave,” I promise, feeling a hot prickle in my eyes. Am I doing the right thing, going along with her delusion? Or should I argue with her? I don’t know what to do. “You keep those. I brought them for you.”

She nods. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Will you go now and buy the bouquet? I don’t like to think of his grave without flowers.”

“Yes, I’ll go now. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it,” I promise, dashing wetness from my eyes with my fingertips. I stand jerkily and Livvy wakes with a wail. I try to shush her but she won’t be appeased and I hurry out of the building, just stopping to sign out.

Out on the street, I take a deep breath and try to pull myself together. I knew this was coming. Her doctors in Syracuse warned me. I just didn’t know . . . I didn’t realize how stupid and helpless I’d feel.

I blow out a long breath and say my mantra. It centers me and helps me block out Livvy’s cries for a moment. I’m no good to the baby if I’m falling apart myself. I repeat my mantra a second time, reminding myself that Daddy loves me and holds me in his hands. I’ll ask Daddy what I should have said to Maman, what I should have done. If he doesn’t know, he’ll help me find out. I’m not alone.

My Daddy has me.

Once my breathing’s normal and my head no longer feels a second away from exploding, I check my phone. The ping was from Daddy, so I send him a text to reassure him that I’m okay and am setting off for the park now. I check the time. It’s twenty minutes off when Livvy can have her next feed, according toGracie’s schedule, so I open up the insulated bag I’ve brought and crack the heat pack to warm the bottle. Then I bounce on my toes to see if that quiets Livvy. When she settles from a wail back to fussing, I set off for the park.

Daddy’s waiting for us on the street. When he sees me coming, he strides to me and wraps his arms around us both.

“What happened?”

I tell him. He kisses my eyelids and wipes his thumbs under my eyes. “We’ll call her doctors when we get home but I’m sure you did the right thing, baby doll. There’s no point in arguing with her. It would have agitated her and the doctors have told you that’s not good for her.”

I nod sadly. “It just felt like everything I could say or do was wrong.”

He strokes his hand down the fall of my curls over my shoulders. “I understand, sweetheart. I’m very proud of you. It’s not easy, what you’re doing.”

After comforting me for another moment, he wraps his arm around my shoulders and leads me down the street and into the park. There are people playing ball on the basketball courts, mostly men but seeing a woman among one group, her pigtails flying as she chases the ball down the court, makes me smile. We stop to listen to a busker singing Simon and Garfunkel. “Bridge over Troubled Waters” seems apropos for the moment and I smile up at Daddy.

“Are you relaxing, baby?” he asks, although I’m sure he can see that I am.

“Much better now. Can we find a bench and feed Livvy?”

“Sure.”

We walk until we find a bench in the sun, facing a copse of trees that have lost their leaves. I unclip the chest harness and pass Livvy to Daddy, who cradles her in his arms with the same tender expression as last night. I hope he never stops looking athis daughter that way. I check the temperature of the milk on my inner wrist before passing it to Daddy. Livvy stops fussing as soon as Logan offers the bottle to her and for a moment I doubt Gracie’s schedule. Maybe I should have fed her as soon as I woke her?

Trust the process, I remind myself. There’s a big-time difference between London and New York. Livvy’s system will be all out of whack. It’s a minor miracle she slept as long as she did last night.

When Livvy starts spitting the bottle’s nipple out, I put a cloth over Daddy’s shoulder and show him how to burp her. His deep laugh bursts out when she rips off an amazingly froggy burp close to his ear.

I check her diaper before I put her back in the chest carrier. It’s dry which probably means she’s dehydrated from the plane flight. It’s also warmer here than she’s used to. I make a mental note to give her an extra few ounces with her feeds. That could be why she’s fussy: she might just be thirsty.

Daddy encourages me to put her in the stroller after she’s fed and burped so that he can push her. I dig out the many stuffies that are occupying the seat and put them in the mesh carrier bag hanging off the back of the stroller, keeping a Little Larry to carry myself.