—Mating Rituals and Love Customs of the Were

When I heard the baby crying on my front porch, I thought I was having a nightmare. Still in bed, I stuck a finger in my ear and wiggled it, hoping to pop loose whatever might be causing that godawful noise. But it persisted. I sat up. There was weak sunlight peeking around the edges of my blackout curtains. Judging by the why why why? reaction radiating from my internal clock, I guessed it was around five P.M.

I’d managed to race into bed before dawn the morning before. About an hour after Gabriel left my house, I Googled directions to his hotel and decided that I was going to drive down there to see what he was up to myself. I’d crossed into Tennessee by the time I realized that I was behaving like a crazy person. I pulled Big Bertha off onto the shoulder just outside Union City and leaned my head against the steering wheel. What was I doing? What was my plan? Was I going to follow Gabriel around with a pair of binoculars and spy on him? Break into his hotel room and tell him I just couldn’t resist surprising him? Gabriel had told me he didn’t want me there. At best, I would find nothing was amiss and look like an annoying, clingy psycho who didn’t respect boundaries. At worst, I would go to Atlanta and find him shacked up with some other woman or find that he wasn’t in Atlanta at all. And what could I do then? I would have a meltdown in the middle of a strange city with no connections, no friends, nothing. I would probably wander the streets in a daze until the sun came up and I was a little pile of Jane ashes on the sidewalk.

This was definitely a Marianne move, and not in the good way.

I drove back to the Hollow and pulled into the driveway just as the sun was rising over the roof of River Oaks. I dashed into the house and pulled the covers over my head, falling into a fitful sleep. Nightmares about crying babies fit right into that.

The baby’s squalling was soon joined by pounding on my front door. I stumbled down the stairs, calling for Aunt Jettie in a voice that couldn’t be heard by my visitor. No response. My dead aunt picked a fine time to become a social butterfly.

Careful to stay in the cool, dark recess of the foyer, I opened the door to find Mama Ginger standing on my front porch, holding a squirming bundle of pink blankets.

“What—what the—this had better be a hallucination,” I stammered.

“Jane!” Mama Ginger squealed. “I’m so glad you’re home! This is Neveah. We call her Nevie for short.”

“Neveah?” I repeated as she bustled into the house, trailing blankies and diaper bags.

“It’s ‘heaven’ spelled backwards, isn’t that clever?” Mama Ginger trilled, putting the baby into some sort of collapsible bouncy thing she pulled out of her bag.

“Way to sentence a kid to a lifetime spent popping out of cakes,” I muttered. I felt an immediate flash of guilt when the baby opened her heavily lashed blue eyes and focused on my face. I patted her tuft of dark hair gently. “I didn’t mean that.”

OK, I totally meant that.

Mama Ginger popped a pacifier into the baby’s mouth, which temporarily stopped the ear-splitting wails. “I was supposed to babysit little Nevie tonight, but poor Floyd is having an emergency down at the Goose Lodge and needs my help.”

Floyd frequently had emergencies down at the Goose Lodge, most of them involving injuries sustained while fistfighting the pinball machine.

“So I figured you wouldn’t mind watching her while I just popped over to the emergency room,” she said, hoisting her purse onto her shoulder.

“Wait, what? No!” I cried. Mama Ginger was startled as I cut her off at the door, trying to comprehend how I’d managed to beat her there. “I don’t know how to take care of a baby!”

“Oh, don’t be silly, she’s only four months old. What’s to know? Besides, you used to babysit all the time.”

“Yes, small children and preteens,” I insisted as Nevie bubbled a yellowish goo from her nose. “People who were potty-trained and didn’t ooze weird substances.”

“You’ll be fine,” Mama Ginger insisted, and dashed out the door into the setting sunlight, where I could not follow.

“Gah! Persuasian voice. Why can’t I ever remember to do that damn persuasion voice?” I cried, prompting a mewling cry from Neveah. “OK, now,” I said, scooping the baby awkwardly out of the bouncie and balancing her on my arm. “Let’s be reasonable. I don’t know you, and you don’t know me. We don’t have to start the evening off by annoying each other.”

The baby, who didn’t know the meaning of the word “reasonable,” wailed even louder.

“Mind if I cry, too?” I asked as the weight of the situation settled on my shoulder. I didn’t even know who her parents were. Of course, I wasn’t sure I wanted to know someone who would name their daughter Neveah. But for all I knew, Mama Ginger was trying to set me up on a kidnapping charge. My house wasn’t baby-proofed. I didn’t have any emergency contact numbers or a first-aid kit. I could only pray there was formula and diapers in that bag, because otherwise, this kid might have to make do with Diet Coke and paper towels.

I rocked the baby gently, making a swishing noise until she quieted. She stared at me under heavy, half-closed lids, her little rosebud mouth slack. Of course, this was just a precursor to her projectile vomiting on me.

I shrieked, swiping at the milky ick dripping from my chin. This startled Nevie, who commenced with more crying. I joined in with her again as I tried to remove the chin goo with the wipes I found in her diaper bag.

“What is it?” I asked desperately. “Are you sleepy? Grumpy? Just name a dwarf, and I’ll do what I can. Are you hungry? I can fix hungry.”

I carried the baby and the bag into the kitchen, where I fished out a bottle with a small amount of white powder. I sincerely hoped it was formula and not part of some elaborate drug-smuggling operation. The problem was, I didn’t know how much water to add to the mix and ended up reenacting Goldilocks and the Three Bears. The first bottle was too thin. The next bottle was so thick Nevie couldn’t get anything out. I finally aimed for middle ground and shook it into something she could tolerate.

The act of drinking apparently filled the baby with an inhuman amount of gas, because she belched like a long-haul trucker. The noise was enough to make her soil herself and then spit up again. This upset milady’s delicate sensibilities, and she started screaming full-blast. At a loss about where I would even start addressing these issues, I started crying, too.

Seeing a grown woman cry seemed to have a soothing effect on the baby. She calmed down enough to let me pull off her little pink outfit and open her diaper. I don’t want to go into details, but I have a hard time believing that much of such a disgusting material could come out of someone so small. I changed Nevie into a clean “Little Diva” onesie and laid her in the bouncie seat long enough to take the diaper out back and bury it.

When I came back into the house, she was dozing. I crept quietly up the first stair so I could get to a non-vomit-y shirt. The baby sensed this and let out a hoarse cry. I rushed back to her, searching the couch cushions for her pacifier. This calmed her down until I tried for the stairs again. In fact, every time I tried to get near clean clothes or left the ten-foot baby perimeter, Neveah made her dissatisfaction known. And they say babies aren’t aware of their surroundings.

This sleeping/crying/holding-my-clean-shirt-hostage cycle continued for an hour or so. Then a tentative knock sounded at the front door.

“Thank God you’re back,” I said as I opened it, carefully balancing the baby on my hip. “Don’t you ever do this again, Mama Ginger, do you under—Adam?”

Adam was standing on my porch, looking tousled and tanned in a blue pullover that brought out the violet undertones in his eyes. He was carrying two carry-out cups of coffee.

“Hey, Jane. I thought that since we haven’t been able to get together for coffee, I would bring coffee to you.” He smiled broadly, and I felt warm. It was like standing in sunlight, only without the spontaneous combustion. He took one look at my desperate, frazzled state and put the coffee down on the porch. “Who have you got there?” he asked in a typical male “jabbering at babies” tone.

“This is Nevie. Ginger Lavelle dropped her off a while ago, and I thought it was her at the door, ready to pick her up. She’s got to come back for her soon, right?” I babbled as I checked the clock. Mama Ginger had left four hours ago. Where could she be? What if Mama Ginger left her until morning, when I was basically inanimate and unable to hear the cries of a hungry, uncomfortable baby?

“Oh, my Lord, what if she doesn’t come back?” I cried. “I can’t take care of a baby! I’m terrible at this. She’s been crying off and on for hours, and no matter what I do, she won’t let me put her down long enough to get a clean shirt, and I don’t know what to do!”

“Oh, it’s OK, Jane,” he said in a calm, soothing tone, which I assumed was as much for my benefit as the baby’s. He took her from me, and she gurgled and cooed at him as she settled into his arms, obviously preferring him over me after just a few moments. The little traitor. “Why don’t do you go upstairs and clean up? I’ll look after her for a few minutes.”

“Are you sure?” I asked, though I already had one foot on the bottom stair. He nodded, and without further hesitation, I raced up the stairs to de-goo myself.

Within ten minutes, Adam had Nevie fed, burped, cleaned up, and asleep on his shoulder. Wearing fresh clothes and carrying my soiled shirt at arm’s length, I found him bouncing her gently in his arms, with her little head tucked under his chin. The low lights danced over the dark gold of his hair as he swayed Nevie back and forth. The sight of Adam with a baby in his arms made my silent heart do a little flip. In my best daydreams, that was what I imagined it would be like to be married and have a family—a good, steady man standing in my house with a sleeping child cradled quietly against him. This was the price I had paid for dodging death. Though the previous hours had taught me that I certainly wasn’t ready for a baby, and likely never would be, I couldn’t help but feel a tiny pang of regret for an opportunity lost.

Seeing me standing there, staring at him, Adam winked and pressed a finger to his lips. He carefully placed Nevie in her little bouncie seat and went outside to retrieve his carry-out coffee.

“How did you do that?” I whispered as we tiptoed into the kitchen.

“Practice,” he said, setting the coffee cup in front of me on the breakfast bar. He slid onto the stool next to me as if this were a long-held routine.

“I thought you were an only child.”

Adam looked sheepish. “Well, taking care of a baby isn’t that different from taking care of a puppy or a calf. They have the same basic needs and give the same sort of cues for hunger, discomfort, being sleepy. And they make almost the same amount of mess. So I’ve picked up a lot of fathering experience down at the clinic.”

I snorted.

“That came out wrong,” he acknowledged, chuckling. He took a sip of his coffee and smiled that warm, crooked smile.

I waited for my nerves to kick in, to start spewing nonsense words and fidgeting. But it seemed that all of the embarrassment and shyness I’d felt before in Adam’s presence had melted away.

Sitting there with Adam was … quiet, restful. There was no dire emergency looming on the horizon. I didn’t have to monitor every expression, every word, carefully to keep from upsetting him. And I didn’t feel tempted to look inside his head, because his feelings were pinned right on his sleeve.

“It was nice of you to drop by with this … now lukewarm coffee.” I chuckled while I sipped.

His dimples flashed. “Well, I do what I can. Other than panic attacks stemming from spit-up, how have you been?”

“It’s … complicated.”

“Vampire stuff?” he asked.

I considered. Of all of the things I was dealing with—a distant and secretive boyfriend, my potentially murderous step-grandpa, the possible mental breakdown of my best friend, his mother’s attempted jumpstarting of my defunct biological clock—none of it had much to do with me being a vampire. “Not really.”

“But I could see how being a vampire would be, you know, complicated. I mean, where do you get your blood?” he asked. “And what time do you wake up every night? Is it difficult for you to be around people without wanting to feed on them?”

“Are you writing some sort of book report?” I asked, making him flash that mile-wide grin.

“I’m just curious,” he said. “You never know whether what you read in the news about vampires is true. But it seems you have to make so many adjustments, just to function.”

“It’s not that big of a deal,” I told him. “OK, yeah, it is, but it’s worth it, especially if it means I can stay here, in my home.”

“But you could do anything, go anywhere.”

“This is where I want to be.”

Nonplussed, Adam asked, “How did this start? How were you turned?”

“It’s not a story I tell most people,” I said.

Adam seemed offended that I considered him “most people.” “Why not?”

“If there was a very special episode of I Love Lucy, where Lucy was turned into a vampire, she’d probably use my story. Let’s just say I didn’t have any choice. It was either death or this. I’m fortunate that my sire happened to be there.”

“This sire, is that the guy you’re seeing?” he asked.

I nodded. It was so weird to discuss this with him, the touch of jealousy tainting his otherwise clear tenor.