Chapter 8 - What I Did Before The Apron
Nico started to fuss before the phone rang.
It was a thin sound at first, a hitch in his breathing against my apron. His little fists curled in the cotton of my top and his head turned, searching. I didn't think. I just shifted my weight side to side and made that low shush under my breath, the one that comes from way back in the throat.
"Hey," I whispered. "You're okay. I'm right here."
He settled before I finished the sentence. His breathing evened out and his cheek went heavy on my shoulder again. The warmth of him sank right through the gray apron into my skin.
The man watched it happen. He was sitting across the small cleared table now, his suit jacket pulled tight around Nico's empty carrier like he needed something to hold. His eyes didn't leave my mouth.
"How'd you know to do that?" he said.
It wasn't the same as before. Not shouting. Tired. That scared me more.
My name is Elena. I was clearing table twelve when his son started screaming, and I hadn't told him everything.
The pendant lights buzzed faint above the wood panels. Our little back room smelled like lemon oil and warmed milk. The diaper bag sat open on the chair between us, the pediatrician card on top of it face-down. The deputy's hold music was still leaking thin from my phone speaker on the table.
"I've done it before," I said.
"Done what."
"Held newborns. When they cry like that."
He leaned forward. "You work here."
"I do now," I said. I kept swaying. Small steps, heel to toe on the carpet. "Last month I did nights. For families. Newborn care. Just for a few weeks."
His jaw tightened. "You were a nanny."
"A night nanny," I said. "Bottles, diaper changes, walking the hallway from two to five a.m. while the parents slept. That's all."
"You didn't say that before."
"You didn't ask that before," I said, and then caught myself. My voice had gone sharp. Nico stirred. I softened it again, rubbed slow circles between his shoulder blades. "Sorry. You asked how he calmed down. I'm telling you."
He stared at my hand on Nico's back. "That's why he went to you. You're used to it."
"Maybe," I said. "Part of it's just the position. Upright on the chest. Tight hold. White noise. He was overtired and overstimulated out there. It isn't magic."
"Show me," he said.
"Show you what?"
"Proof you did that work. Anything."
I stopped swaying for a second. The request felt fair and not fair at the same time. I slid my personal phone from my apron pocket with one hand, keeping my right arm locked around Nico. My thumb was clumsy on the screen.
I found the pay app first. Two deposits, three weeks apart, from a family account with only initials. Then a text thread with a reference letter saved as a screenshot because the agency told us to keep copies.
I set the phone on the table and turned it so he could read without touching it. "That's my pay stub. And that's a reference. No last name on there. They keep it private."
He read, his lips moving slightly. His stubble caught the warm light.
"E. R. was punctual and calm with our infant daughter during overnight shifts," he read out loud. His eyes flicked up. "Daughter."
"Yes."
"When was this?"
"Ended four weeks ago. I picked up shifts here after."
He sat back, but his shoulders didn't drop. If anything he looked more awake. More afraid.
"Who was the family?" he said.
I shook my head. "I can't give you that."
"Why not?"
"Because it's another family's home address and their baby. I signed a privacy form. I won't hand that to anyone but the deputy."
His hands flattened on the table. "You don't get it. What if it was us? What if you sat in my house and now you're—" He stopped and looked at Nico. He swallowed. "I need the name to check if it was Nico."
"It wasn't," I said quickly. Too quickly.
"You don't know that. You don't know my last name. I don't know yours. How do you know it wasn't my son?"
The hold music cut. A recorded voice said our wait time was approximately nine minutes. Then the music started again, thinner.
I looked down at the light blue sleeve bunched around Nico's wrist. The cuff was damp where he'd chewed it in his sleep.
"I know because the baby I cared for was a girl," I said. "Six pounds at birth. Blond fuzz. She hated the blue blanket and loved the white-noise machine shaped like a lamb. That's not Nico."
He didn't blink. "You could be mixing them up. Or lying."
"I'm not lying."
"Then let me see the name and I'll know."
"No," I said.
It came out quiet, but it stopped him. For a second the only sound was Nico's breathing and that stupid music.
"Please," I added, because my mother raised me better than a flat no. "When the deputy gets here, I'll show her everything. The agency number. The dates. She can call them with me right there. But I'm not putting another baby's name in the middle of this."
He stood so fast his chair scraped the wood floor. Nico flinched but didn't wake. I turned my body half away by instinct, cupping the back of his head.
"You're holding my son and telling me you won't answer," he said. His voice shook. "Do you hear yourself?"
"I'm answering what I can," I said. "I'm staying in this room like they told us. I'm keeping him where you can see him. I'm not running."
"You held back the nanny thing until now. What else are you holding back?"
"Nothing about tonight," I said. "I was embarrassed. It sounds bad, right? I touch other people's babies for money and now yours won't leave my shoulder. I didn't want you to think—"
"Think what?"
"Exactly what you're thinking," I said.
He stared at me. The red was back high in his cheeks. His hands opened and closed at his sides. For a moment I thought he was going to reach across the table and take Nico while he was sleeping, and my whole arm went tight.
Then he looked at the pediatrician card on the diaper bag, at my phone with the reference still glowing, at the door that was still closed.
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"Sit down," I said softly. Not an order. Almost a plea. "He's sleeping. Let's not start him up again before they call back."
He didn't sit. But he didn't come closer either. He stayed standing by the table, breathing hard through his nose, watching my hand move in slow circles on his son's back like he was trying to memorize it to do it himself later.
