I moved around to grab the hose to rinse out the watering system I’d built. The girls seemed to love it, and it had significantly lowered my stress about keeping them supplied with clean water. My gushing email of thanks to the people at BeakTime had gone unanswered, but their system design had been such a game-changer, I’d considered sending another one.
Before I could turn on the spigot, I heard a woman’s voice call out. “Yoo-hoo, Diesel, is that you?”
I’d finished installing the fence pickets to hide the chicken enclosure and salvage yard from the street, but it was only six feet tall. That meant four inches of my face and head poked over the top like a nosy neighbor.
I turned to see who was calling me and saw Ava Siegel’s signature blonde curls. She was pushing a stroller with her baby in it and seemed not to notice how out of place her brightly colored sundress looked in my weed-encrusted forecourt.
“Oh, uh, yeah? Hi. It’s me,” I stammered, tossing the hose back toward its coil and shifting Marigold on my hip again. “Be right with you.”
I quickly hustled all the chickens away from the gate before slipping through and slamming it closed again. Hopefully I didn’t smell like chicken poop or have feathers sticking to my clothes here and there.
I tried brushing myself off, but it wasn’t easy with an armful of curious baby. She leaned this way and that trying to get a look at our visitors.
“Oh my goodness gracious,” Ava squealed. “Is this… who is this little one? She is so precious!”
The chubby baby in her stroller was dead asleep. Little blond wisps of hair stuck to his temples with sweat even though the stroller’s sunshade was pulled over him. I gestured her over to the shaded area under the big oak tree where the air was much cooler. There was a wooden picnic table there, and I asked if she wanted a lemonade or something.
“No, thanks. I have a bottle of water here. But you didn’t answer my question. Is this little one yours?”
I didn’t know Ava that well, but I knew her well enough to know she was a smart woman who knew everyone and everything. I wondered what I was willing to reveal about my situation.
“Well, not exactly,” I said, scrambling to come up with an explanation that didn’t include a scary custody battle. “Marigold’s my niece, but I’m taking care of her.”
I slid onto the bench opposite Ava and shifted Marigold until she was standing on my lap pounding the table with her little palms. Ava’s face softened as she reached across the table to slide an index finger into one of Marigold’s hands for a handshake.
“How do you do, princess?” she asked softly. “Aren’t you beautiful? And I can already tell your uncle Diesel adores you, doesn’t he?”
“Pretty hard not to,” I admitted with a laugh. “Even though the dirty diapers are enough to make me question my sanity.”
Ava’s laugh filled the shaded area around us, relaxing me almost instantly. I’d begun to figure out that when another baby person was around, I could let go of some of my crazy vigilance. I seemed to carry around this kind of debilitating stress that I was going to fuck up without even realizing it. But when another parent was around—or Parrish—then I felt less alone. Like I had proper supervision to make sure I didn’t do something awful like tip the baby into the dirt while feeding chickens.
I cleared my throat and tried to be normal. “How old is your baby? I’m sorry, I forgot his name.”
She was a beautiful woman, and her smile was contagious. I could see why the advertising guy had fallen in love with her. “His name is Beau, and he’s eight months. What about Marigold? How old is she?”
“Almost ten months,” I said, pulling out a little baggie of Cheerios to keep Marigold busy while we talked. She liked mashing them between her teeth, and I liked watching her try to pick them up with her bizarrely intense concentration. Cheerio time was one of our favorites. “My friend Parrish says I should start teaching her sign language. Do you… I mean… is that something you do with your baby?”
Her smile softened. “I tried to teach him the sign for help, but he kept signing poop instead. I gave up after I wasted about a thousand diapers, and Paul started trying to talk me into switching to cloth. I’m as environmentally conscious as the next person, but sometimes you have to draw a line, Diesel. You know?”
I laughed and nodded. “Pretty sure I have enough on my plate without all that. ’Course, I’d probably get kicked out of all the playgroups if anyone found out how many disposables I’ve been through already in just one week.”