Written on My Heart by Morgan Callan Rogers Page B

separated the outdoors from Grand’s front hall, Arlee discovered her lungs.
    Bud and I settled into a routine, understanding all too soon that our efforts to keep our lives on track could be blown to bits by Arlee’s crying for no reason or for a real reason. Both of us carried her as if she were made of glass for the first few days. Ida and Maureen helped, but they could also leave. We could not.
    â€œYou realize this is for about eighteen years,” Bud whispered one night in bed as we lay there, half asleep on our covers. July was keeping her midsummer breezes to herself that night. She’d been playing them close to her chest for the two weeks we’d been home. I was so hot. My breasts hurt, my stomach felt like jelly, and my crotch ached.
    â€œI was thinking we could send her off at about six. Or two, if she’ssmart,” I grumbled. He moved his hand toward me. “Don’t touch me. I hurt everywhere. I’m tired everywhere.”
    â€œYou’re not the only one,” Bud said, and turned over as I continued to rag about how much more I had to do than him, even though I couldn’t complain, as he was a big help.
    We’d switched our bedroom around so we could get out of bed on both of our sides, instead of Bud climbing over me to get to Arlee when she woke up at night. He took the midnight shift, which I appreciated, but I was the milk machine so he brought her to me. When he got home at night after work, he was tired, but he was good about taking her. I was happy for the sitting porch next to the kitchen, with its line of rockers and room for a bassinet. It became a mini nursery. Since it was summer, we could open the windows and let in the harbor breezes and noises.
    â€œI’m so tired,” I bitched to Ida one day. I should have known better.
    â€œDid you expect not to be?” she asked.
    â€œI don’t think I knew what the word meant,” I said.
    Ida smiled. “Get used to it,” she said, and then she took Arlee for a couple of hours.
    Bud didn’t get many naps. He got up to go to work, even though he might have been up half the night. Then he came home and ate supper. Most nights, he drove up to Long Reach to visit his father in the hospital. Later, he nodded off in front of the television set.
    â€œRemember those ten kids we talked about having?” I shouted to him one late afternoon as he sat in the kitchen, jiggling our screaming baby and waiting for supper.
    He rolled his eyes and carried Arlee outside. I watched him walk down the ramp to the wharf, where he lowered himself into a weather-bleached Adirondack chair. As the harbor water rocked the wharf with gentle green hands, our daughter’s cries softened and stopped.
    I loaded up a plate with shepherd’s pie and took it down to him. I took Arlee from him while he ate. I sat on the arm of the chair and listened to water
bloop
against the wet pilings beneath us. Bud’s fork tinged like a bell against the plate.
    â€œThis is peaceful,” I said. “Maybe we should eat here every night.”
    â€œMight as well,” Bud said. “We’re not going to move anytime soon.”
    Arlee muttered against my shirt, then stilled.
    â€œWhy not?” I said.
    â€œCecil don’t need anyone right now. I asked Fred today.”
    â€œThat’s too bad.”
    â€œIs it?”
    â€œI know it’s what you want.”
    â€œSo? Doesn’t really matter.”
    â€œYes, it does.”
    â€œI got to get to the hospital to see Dad,” he said. He clattered the fork against the plate and Arlee jumped in my arms. We walked up the ramp to the house.
    â€œDo you want us to come with you?” I asked him as we reached the yard.
    â€œNo. Calms me down to think of you here.” He set the plate and fork on the lawn, and wrapped his arms around us. He kissed me with salty, potato-flavored lips.
    â€œI’ll call if something happens,” he