Chapter 7: The Apartment Door
The front door was still open behind us and the air that came through it was cold compared to the kitchen. I had the diaper bag over one shoulder and my son against my chest with my other arm locked around him. His hat had slipped a little and his cheek was damp where he'd been crying. The marble and the cream cabinets were behind me now and the light out here on the front step was brighter and flat.
Ethan was half in and half out of the doorway. One foot on Diane's rug, one on the stone step. His white shirt was untucked on one side where he'd grabbed his keys. Diane stood in the hall with her hands clasped in front of her burgundy dress. She wasn't moving to close the door. She was watching us like she'd already decided how this would end.
I adjusted the bag. The strap dug into my shoulder.
"We're going home," I said. My voice was quiet and it cracked. "The doctor said to keep him isolated and in our own space. Low stimulation, no extra visitors. That's what we're doing. We're going to our apartment. You can come or you can stay."
I didn't look at Diane when I said it. I looked at Ethan.
He didn't answer right away. I watched him breathe. His mouth opened a little and then closed. He glanced at me, at the baby, then back over his shoulder at his mother. His hands came together and twisted.
Diane's expression didn't change. Her gray hair was still pulled back smooth and her dress didn't have a wrinkle in it.
"Ethan," she said, and her tone was even, almost kind. "You're going to regret letting a newborn with a fever go back to that apartment. You know what the heat does in that building. You know you have a proper nursery here. Think about what you're doing."
That word, regret, hung there. She said it like a warning and like a promise. I felt my son squirm against me and I pressed my hand flat on his back. He was still warm through his light blue outfit and his breathing was quick.
Ethan looked between us again. I could see the calculation happening behind his eyes. The doorway was his mother's house, warm and clean and controlled. The sidewalk was cracked concrete and my old car with the dented passenger door that I'd left running at the curb because I didn't want the car seat to be cold. He swallowed. His shoulders came up and his fingers fidgeted with his keys.
It was only a few seconds but it felt longer. I didn't plead. I just held my son and waited.
Then he stepped down. One full step off the rug and onto the stone. Then another, until he was on the sidewalk next to me. He didn't touch Diane. He didn't explain to her.
"Let's go," he said to me, quiet.
He reached for the diaper bag. I let him take it. His hand brushed my shoulder as he took the weight.
Diane didn't follow us. She stayed in the doorway with her hands still clasped. The cream trim around the door framed her and the bright daylight behind us made her face a little shadowed. I could feel her watching as we moved.
We walked to the car together. Ethan got the back door open and I leaned in to buckle the car seat. My arms were shaking. He stood close, holding the door, blocking the wind with his body. The baby made a small sound when I set him down and then went quiet as I pulled the straps tight and double-checked the chest clip the way the nurse had shown me.
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Ethan closed the door gently. He went around to the driver's side. I got into the passenger seat because my hands were still not steady enough to drive.
When he pulled away from the curb I looked in the side mirror. Diane was still in the doorway. She hadn't moved. She just stood there in her burgundy dress with the door open behind her, getting smaller as we turned onto the street and headed toward our apartment where the doctor's monitoring log was waiting on the counter and where nobody would be watching us from a doorway.
