The Original 1982 by Lori Carson

child care?”
    I’ve been hoping I might be able to bring you to work with me, but can see now that it’s probably not very realistic. “I still need to figure that out,” I say. I don’t feel too worried yet. My parents are still helping with health insurance, and I’ve got some money left in the bank.
    By the time my food gets to the table, I think you’ve had enough excitement. It’s time to change your diaper and give you lunch. I ask to have the food wrapped up and say a quick good-bye to everyone.
    â€œHang on, Little One,” I tell you, pushing the carriage home.
    We’re exhausted by the time we get back. I change your diaper and take you into my bed to nurse. When you’ve had your fill, we both fall asleep.

Twenty-nine
    I n March, I go back to work three nights a week. I put you in your pajamas, the pink ones with the kittens, or the yellow ones with feet, and take you upstairs to Maria’s apartment with your blanket and your rabbit. You’re eating some pureed foods now, and I’ve prepared a bottle. Maria is our neighbor on four. We met her in the basement laundry room. She said she did some babysitting, if we ever needed help. Maria is a grandmother. She speaks to you in Spanish. She gives you your supper and lets you watch TV until you fall asleep.
    When I pick you up just before midnight, after my shift, you’re out cold. Maria hands you to me in the doorway, because her husband, Hector, is sleeping. He has to get up at four in the morning. I pay her in cash, eight dollars an hour. It’s a little more than half of what I make.
    We whisper so quietly it’s like lipreading.
    â€œGood night, Maria. Thank you so much.”
    â€œNo problem. Such a good baby.”
    All night I’ve longed for this moment, to smell your baby sweetness and feel your astoundingly soft skin against mine. I carry you downstairs and into the nursery without turning on the light. The moon is shining in the window, and the only noise is the distant rush of traffic on Broadway. As I lay you down in your crib, my heart feels big, like it’s pushing out against my rib cage. I watch you sleep for a long time. Your tiny chest rises and falls. Finally, I walk the few steps to my own bed and fall into it without even washing off my makeup or brushing my teeth.
    At work, I miss you and worry that you’re missing me. I tell the girls about all the funny things you do. You have a great sense of humor and laugh at any silly game I come up with. You’re smart, too. I can see your brain working, trying to figure things out. You want to touch everything in your reach.
    You look like Gabriel and like me. You have his perfectly shaped lips and intelligent eyes, my coloring and stubborn chin, our broad cheekbones and heavy eyelids. You had Gabriel’s balding pate, too, which worried me a little, but finally your hair has started coming in soft, light brown waves. It curls around your slightly pointy ears and at the back of your delicate neck. You have blond highlights, too, like the ones women pay hundreds of dollars for on Madison Avenue.
    I realize, looking at you, that Gabriel and I could be brother and sister, our resemblance is so strong. Before you were born, it never occurred to me. Now you remind me of it every day.
    I hear rumors about Gabriel. He’s going to make a movie. He’s collaborating with famous rock artists. I listen to the stories with one ear but try not to dwell on them.
    The only one that really gets my attention is when I hear his wife has had a miscarriage. They say she can’t have any more children. I have no idea if it’s true, but I feel deeply sorry when I hear it. I suppose that might seem strange to you, Minnow, but I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.
    In the original 1983, when I hear about their lost baby, my eyes fill instantly. An ache spreads through me, heavy as a bag of sand. I know what it is to lose someone