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Show Motherlunge a novel 198 into our department on the 21st floor, Xavier gurgled in a wet and unmistakably infantile way, prompting my coworkers to begin to poke up like otoscopes over the top of the cubicle walls, beaming at us with focused delight They gathered around us, my fellow medical writers. Flint, the pear-shaped grammarian, hitched up his trousers and declared Xavier "exceptional." Tina, who decorated our break room for every holiday including President's Day, flapped her hands in a curious, special-needs way, recalling her own children at that age (more hair, less chubby, real handfuls). Charmaine swung her bolt of long red hair to the opposite shoulder as she bent down and lifted Xavier up out of the stroller. She set him up on the ledge of her bony hip and looked around at the rest of us expectantly. "He likes me," she told us. Flint and Tina nodded. It seemed to be true. Xavier was smiling at her, open-mouthed. So was I, I realized, my mouth flooding with saliva in a way analogous to the way my heart was suddenly awash with gratitude for my nephew's undeniable appeal, which he'd inherited from his mother, who would be coming home soon. "He does like you!" I said, swallowing hard, and at the sound of my voice my perfect nephew twisted toward me and held out his arms to me. "Awww," said Tina and Flint. Charmaine handed him over. We chatted for a few more minutes. I patched up the explanatory screen for Pavia's absence-"family issues; Jack's side of the family"-and related, in an excess of detail, how Xavier and I spent our days at home together. Flint, Tina, and Charmaine cooed and prodded at Xavier, my irresistible exhibit. My lanyard badge, my key indicator, my initial public offering! When I heard Charmaine's phone ring in her office, |