“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Cally, looking around for a tissue. “Here.” She slid a box to Ruth. They’d been sitting in the living room, and Cally had been staring at the baby nonstop since they’d arrived. “Can I . . . Would it be all right if I held her?”

Ruth nodded, still a bit weepy, and helped to unbuckle the child.

Cally slid her hands underneath and lifted the sleeping baby up out of the seat, amazed at her long legs. “She’s heavier,” she said.

“Not as heavy as she should be,” Ruth sobbed. “She’s not . . . eating as much and . . . not growing like . . . she should . . .”

“Really?” Cally found that hard to believe. In her arms, this child was bigger than she remembered, in the way that everything changes when you’ve been away from it.

Ruth placed a burp cloth on Cally’s shoulder so she could hold the baby up there and be protected just in case. “She’s been spitting up . . . so much,” said Ruth.

“Oh yeah?” said Cally to the baby, cooing sweetly. “What’s going on, my Little Pea?” Cally brought the baby down to her lap and the baby’s eyes opened. Cally smiled at her and touched her cheek.

“Oh dear, I’m not feeling so well.” Ruth got suddenly dizzy and nauseated. “Do you mind if I use the toilet?”

“Yeah, sure, it’s in there.” Cally pointed. “It’s a mess.”

Ruth stood and rubbed her stomach as she walked to the tiny bathroom. She glanced into Cally’s bedroom and was tempted to go in and look for index cards. But her stomach lurched, and she hurried to close the bathroom door before she vomited into the toilet. Any second now, the baby would start wailing, she thought.

Ruth washed her face, rinsed out her mouth, and dabbed at the puffy bags under her red eyes. “Get it together,” she said to her reflection.

Cally called out to Ruth, asking if she was okay. Ruth made a quip about perimenopause, then asked for a drink of water or tea and maybe a cracker, but said she could get it herself. She didn’t want to disturb the baby. And maybe she’d find some new index cards in the kitchen.

When Ruth returned to the living room, she froze at the sight: Cally was holding the baby and rocking side to side and singing something quietly. Tears rolled down Cally’s face. Ruth slipped into the side chair without a word.

The women exchanged glances.

Finally, Cally spoke. “She smells so good,” she said.

Ruth nodded, even though she hadn’t noticed the baby’s smell, and she yearned to understand what that meant. To her, this infant smelled of whatever Ruth had put on her, talcum powder, fresh cotton jammies, or Desitin. Or worse, of the baby’s own spit-up or urine.