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Show Motherlunge a novel 178 As Pavia had indicated in her note, she had left me a typed list of instructions taped to the cupboard door, plus a small stack of books on baby care. Still, alone with the infant I was always guessing. X.' face turned red, then back to pale again. Why? He had a scratch beside his eye. Dangerous? Normal? His scalp had tiny yellow shingles in one place. He jerked himself awake and cried. And then later X. was crying again, and I couldn't make him stop: it was a necessary process, neural reorganization? He was overstimulated? He was tired? Life to him seemed pointless and so much of it still to go? Thus in those early days alone with X. I theorized, every hour. And I was reminded of what a certain kind of Buddhist-the kind who writes a book called Vast Compassion, Small Mall-called the Superball Mind, wherein a very small and sometimes colorful idea bounces between the inside surfaces of the brain, losing momentum and force only very, very gradually. This is exhausting; still, the mind springs to even-more active metaphors: you want to bounce the idea off someone else, check in with them, walk them through it, ran it up the flagpole, try it out on them. You want to share your concern. But I had no one to talk to; quickly I developed speculation fatigue. I thought about asking Cassandra to come over, but I didn't. She seemed a little afraid of babies. And anyway, I didn't want to have to talk about Eli. |
