More Than Anything (Broken Pieces 1)

She sensed a movement to her left, and she lifted her blurry eyes to stare at Harris, who was watching her warily from just outside the bathroom door.

“Tina?” he asked hesitantly, and she smiled at him.

“Shh, she’s falling asleep again,” she told him quietly, and his eyes dropped to where Clara was contentedly nuzzling against her chest, chubby fist in mouth, on the verge of dozing off.

“You okay?”

“I used to sing that song to him,” she confessed. “When he wouldn’t sleep.”

She watched Harris’s throat work as he swallowed convulsively.

“She has his eyes, you know?”

“What?” His voice was sharp as his gaze dropped to the sleeping baby.

“Clara’s eyes are the same shade of blue that Fletcher’s were,” she said, her voice thick with tears. “I never noticed that before. And he had the birthmark too.”

“The C?” he asked, his own voice sounding gruff.

“Yes. On his thigh.”

“Of course he had it,” he said softly. And she nodded. It was practically a Chapman brand. He cleared his throat abruptly before heading to the kitchen to put the kettle on. He turned to watch her while he waited for it to boil.

“Do you want me to take her?” he asked, his voice curt, and she shook her head, sitting carefully down onto the sofa behind her.

“We’re fine.” In fact, she wasn’t sure she ever wanted to let this baby go again. But when Clara finally drifted off, becoming heavy with sleep, Tina got up and gingerly lowered the baby into the crib.

She padded to the kitchen, where Harris seemed to be taking an inordinately long time to fix the tea. She could tell by the rigid set of his back that he was aware of every move that she had made since putting Clara down.

“Harris?”

He went completely still. And then, with palpable reluctance, turned to face her. His face was devoid of any expression, but his swollen eyes were a reminder of the heartbroken tears he had shed earlier.

“Wh—” His voice broke, and he scowled before starting again. “What is sudden infant death syndrome?”

She sucked in a pained breath at the unexpected question.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, seeing her reaction. “I shouldn’t have asked. I’ll google it or something. I should have known asking would be insensitive.”

“No,” she replied, shaking her head. “No, Harris. It’s fine. I was just . . . I suppose I’ve done so much reading up on it after . . . what happened. And I just expected you to know what it was as well.”

“You don’t have to talk about it, Tina. I just wanted . . . I want to understand.”

“It’s exactly what it sounds like,” she said, her voice even as she tried to keep the emotion out of it. She had read so many research articles on the syndrome that she hoped she could explain it as scientifically as possible. “That’s what they call it when an infant under twelve months of age dies unexpectedly for no apparent reason. They had to . . .” Her voice wobbled, and she shut her eyes as she tried to gloss over the next bit. The police involvement had been confusing and terrifying and had definitely added to her feelings of guilt and inadequacy. “To investigate, of course.”

Harris swore violently, and she jumped.

“A police investigation?” he asked, the violence still there but restrained.

“Yes. They had to rule out . . . you know?”

“Oh Jesus,” he moaned, covering his face with both hands. She watched him uncertainly, not sure if she should continue. His shoulders were shaking—no, his entire body was trembling. He looked up, his face ravaged by stress. “I’m sorry. Just . . . give me a moment, please.”

She nodded, her eyes downcast, while she nervously picked at a cuticle on her thumb. When she couldn’t tug it off, she lifted her thumb to her lips and chewed nervously. She hissed when she tore the cuticle and tucked her thumb into her palm, folding her fingers protectively around it as she continued to watch Harris. He finally moved, gently taking hold of her elbow to steer her toward the sofa.

She sat down without question, while he took the chair across from her.

“I think we should be sitting down for this discussion,” he muttered. “I’m sorry I interrupted you.”

“I know it sounds awful, but it’s not personal or anything. It’s procedure.” She tried to keep her voice even. It had felt very personal to answer questions about whether she had ever shaken her baby, or hit him, or covered his mouth or face to stop him from crying. She shuddered at the vile memories and shoved them determinedly aside. “But I was cleared of any wrongdoing.”

“Oh God, Tina, of course you were,” he said unevenly.

“I felt so violated,” she admitted and then silently reprimanded herself for allowing the personal observation to creep into what should have remained a clinical explanation.