The Ambassador's Wife by Jennifer Steil

They’d read
Ferdinand, Dear Zoo
, and
Giraffes Can’t Dance
. Nothing that mentions a mummy. He is thankful for the routine of lifting his daughter into the bath, pouring water over her curls, and rubbing the flannel lightly over her back and bottom. Usually he sings, but that was the one thing he couldn’t do tonight. He’d tried, as he brushed her eight tiny teeth and smoothed the lavender lotion over her fat little thighs, but his voice had cracked and died.
    He is trying to get her to drink. Along with everything else, he’d panicked over what to give her before bed, without Miranda there to nurse her to sleep. But thank god for diplomatic connections. He’d rung one of the German dads from Cressie’s playgroup in desperation, and less than an hour later he had several canisters of imported powdered formula. It wasn’t long before Cressie could have cow’s milk, he thought, but he couldn’t remember the exact age. Miranda has always done Cressida’s meal planning. She insists on whole grains, vegetables, and as much organic food as they can import in overstuffed suitcases. She would never have let Cressie drink the milk here. There is hardly any fresh milk available; they drink only thelong-life milk that comes in boxes. “By the time Cressie is old enough for cow’s milk, we’d better be living somewhere that has organic dairy or I’m buying a cow,” she said.
    Once he had the formula, Finn couldn’t remember whether he was supposed to mix it with boiled tap water or with bottled water. Miranda had said something about bottled water being bad for babies, too high in minerals or fluoride or something. His mind raced now, trying to recall her words, her directions. Why hadn’t he paid better attention?
    He finally opted for the bottled water, sure that whatever was wrong with it couldn’t be worse than the local tap water.
    But Cressida isn’t having it. Apparently sharing her mother’s militant aversion to formula, she spits out the teat every time he tries to press it between her lips. Pushing the bottle away with both hands, she burrows her damp head into his armpit and wails.
“Mummy mummy mummy!”
Her small fingers claw at his chest, pulling down the collar of his shirt.
    â€œYou won’t find what you’re looking for there, sweetheart,” he says softly, rocking her. She opens and closes her mouth like a fish, catching the cotton of his shirt. He tries again with the bottle, but it only makes her cry harder. How is he going to get her to sleep if she won’t drink her milk? How long will it take her to dehydrate if she keeps refusing her bottle? He catches himself. If she gets thirsty enough, she’ll drink. She already takes water with her meals, doesn’t she? She’ll be fine. Even with no milk, she’ll be fine. He lifts her to his shoulder and stands. Walking from room to room, switching out lights as he goes, he finds he is able to hum. And nearly forty-five minutes later, when he has hummed “Scarborough Fair” at least a dozen times, her sobs subside and she drifts off to sleep against the rumble of his chest.
    Downstairs, Negasi, Teru, and Desta are huddled in the basement bedrooms they use occasionally after late dinner parties and before early breakfasts, refusing to leave Finn alone in the house. They had wept and hugged his rigid body. He was unable to respond, except by awkwardly patting their warm backs as if it were they in need of comfort. The dinner plates of
hammour
and creamed spinach, the potatoesand rhubarb crumble, meant for the EU ambassadors, were stacked in rows in the refrigerators, uneaten.
    Gently, Finn lays Cressida down in her cot and stands looking at her. At least she isn’t old enough to understand what has happened. She isn’t old enough for him to have to explain. Still, she is old enough to be devastated by the absence of her mother.
    The first