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Show Motherlunge a novel 15 Dorothy pouted. "I don't know," she said, and she applied the baby to her nipple as you would hang a picture to a hook on the wall. "Anyway, I want to keep breastfeeding. Keep trying, I mean." She winced a little as Pavia slid off her breast. "Alva said she was calling all day," Walter said. Dully, he watched Dorothy try again. She pressed the baby's dark-haired head into her left breast like a nametag. "You slept a lot again? What about Pavia?" Dorothy set her soft mouth in a hard line, frowning at Pavia. "Dr. Keller says that it can take several weeks before breastfeeding is well established. You've got to keep at it-and get plenty of rest." "But Jesus Christ, Dorothy." Once again, the baby failed to adhere, and now Walter felt the air thicken with the sound of her bleating cry; it sifted like a damp powder through the room. He was suddenly very sorry he'd finished all the beer he'd taken from the store that night. He wiped his mouth with his fingers and took a deep breath through his teeth. "You've got to give her a bottle then. She's probably dehydrated." Walter had already abandoned the pre-medical coursework he'd started with, but he'd had a semester of human biology. Dorothy looked down at the baby. She stuck a dimpled index finger into the baby's mouth where strands of spit draped the gums like cobwebs. "Well, you get her a bottle then." She held the baby out to Walter straight-armed. He took her, and Dorothy fell backward into the mattress. He carried Pavia to the tiny galley kitchen off the front room, and wedged her onto the counter against the tile |
