To Build a Home

23 | Unraveling

We woke up every morning around three. We didn't know how long Noah had been sneaking into his parents' room while we were sleeping, but he continued to find his way in the dark each night after we discovered him on the floor. He'd walk dreamily from his bedroom to the master, zigzagging through the forest of boxes, and then he'd try to climb into the tall bed as if he might have grown a few inches since the previous failed attempt. Once he realized Darren was waiting for him every night, asleep high above him, instead of jumping for the mattress he would repeat, "Uncle Ren," with his midnight rasp until it woke Darren. Eventually, their internal alarm clocks synced and Darren no longer had to be called.

Instead of taking Noah back to his room, Darren, tired and half awake, would just scoop up the toddler and let him fall asleep in the bed with him. Every morning, I'd wake up to find Noah's bed empty and after a brief panic, check the master bedroom to discover the two sprawled out, tangled in blankets and pillows, mouths open, two peas in a king-size pod.

"You can't let him sleep with you," I said one morning over coffee and tea in the kitchen. Noah was in his high chair eating banana slices. I sprinkled some granola on the tray and Noah swirled the food around before picking up a handful to eat.

"Why not?" Darren said, his hair still messy from sleep. He was sitting on the counter, swinging his feet into Noah's. They giggled every time their toes touched.

I grabbed the blueberries and yogurt from the refrigerator. I wasn't laughing. "He's not going to be able to sleep on his own if you keep it up. You have to take him back to bed."

The following morning I found Noah cradled against Darren's side in the master bedroom again. I walked right into the morning darkness, picked Noah up, and tucked him into his own bed. Of course, Darren panicked when he woke up to a half-empty bed. But the next night I set an alarm for three in the morning and waited in the hallway until Noah emerged from his room and then carried him back to bed. If Darren wouldn't stop the cycle, I would. So we were all tired from the early wake-up calls and games of musical beds.

"How's the cohabitation experiment going?" Anna asked in the middle of the week, already set up in the living room with Noah in her lap and a ring of toys around her. I was about twenty minutes behind schedule, dragging myself to the kitchen for breakfast.

"Do I look that tired?" I put the kettle on the stove and then stood there for about a minute before I realized I had never lit the burner.

"All three of you do. Darren walked through here like a zombie an hour ago and there hasn't been a nap-time battle with Noah in days."

It was Anna who had warned me that bed-sharing could be difficult to stop down the line if the child got used to it, especially after losing a parent. She offered to send me some articles on the subject, but I politely declined, saying that I believed her. But maybe I should have forwarded them to Darren.

Ever since the wood panel injury at Amelia's and the disastrous Roberts estimate, Darren had been trying to find a place for me at the business. One day he had me submit payroll, but the company later called him about a few discrepancies. Then I ordered materials for the new cottage job and selected the wrong brand, which was more expensive and over budget, not to mention unreturnable. I even tried to update the website since I took one semester of graphic design in art school, but it crashed after a few edits.

Darren asked me to meet him at the hardware store to help him pick out some finishes, the only thing that I had been good at since helping with the Baker Brothers business. I found him in the bathroom accessories aisle. He was covered in dry spackle and dust from sanding wood, on his clothes and in his dark hair, comparing two silver handles for a black vanity. "They look the same," he said when he saw me.