"Does he cry a lot?"
I wasn't sure whether she was joking.
"He's usually pretty calm."
Marianne sighed.
"That's what parents always say."
I decided not to respond.
Theo was staring at the overhead lights as though they were the most extraordinary objects he had ever encountered.
From behind us, Hadley leaned between the seats.
"He only cries when he needs something."
Marianne glanced backward.
"Most babies do."
Hadley gave her a pleasant smile.
"Then I guess that means he's normal."
I turned around immediately.
"Hadley."
She disappeared into her seat.
Marianne opened her magazine.
I told myself that was the end of it.
I was wrong.
Two Quiet Hours
For almost two hours, Theo slept.
I held him against my chest while the plane crossed the mountains, staring through the window at endless stretches of white cloud.
I should have enjoyed the silence.
Instead, my mind went back to Gavin.
The empty chair at breakfast.
The first evening Hadley stopped asking when Daddy was coming home.
The unopened bottle of barbecue sauce in our pantry that Gavin had bought because, according to him, it was "supposed to change our lives."
Grief was strange that way.
You expected the big memories to hurt.
The wedding anniversary.
The hospital.
The funeral.
But sometimes it was the ridiculous little things that caught you without warning.
A half-used bottle of shampoo.
A grocery list written in his handwriting.
A television show you had promised to finish together.
Theo shifted against me.
His eyes opened.
For several minutes, he was content.
Then came the familiar restless movement.
A whimper.
Another.
I checked his diaper.
I gave him his pacifier.
I rocked him gently.
Nothing worked.
Then I realized the obvious.
He was hungry.
I reached into my bag and pulled out the light nursing cover I'd brought.
The moment Marianne saw it, her expression changed.
"You're not going to do that here, are you?"
I froze.
"Do what?"
She looked at the cover.
"Feed him."
"He needs to eat."
Marianne glanced around the cabin as though I had announced something scandalous.
"There are other people sitting here."
"I'll be covered."
"That isn't really the point."
My face grew warm.
I had barely slept the night before.
I had spent the morning getting two children through airport security while trying not to cry when an employee casually asked whether their father was traveling with us.
I didn't have the energy for an argument.
"My son is hungry," I said quietly. "I'm going to feed him."
Marianne shook her head.
"Some things should be done privately."
I looked toward the tiny airplane restroom.
"I'm not feeding my baby in a bathroom."
Her lips tightened.
"People with very young babies should consider whether a long flight is appropriate in the first place."
That sentence hurt more than it should have.