Turn 136 of 233

Call Janet and tell her about Kimo's one-month mark and take him to Jess's shop for a follow up visit. Both Kimo and I haven't showered or performed any form of hygiene. I got him his vaccines though, I'm not an anti-vaxer

Lena calls Janet from the balcony floor. Kimo is on her chest in the harness and the morning is warm and the boy is humming and the phone is on speaker because Janet likes to hear the humming. The call connects on the second ring and Janet's voice is the voice that is always ready — warm, alert, the voice of a woman who has been waiting for the phone to ring.

"Mom."

"Lena. How's my grandson."

"He's a month old today. Twenty pounds and change. Dr. Parekh says he's off the charts. Literally — she's making him his own chart."

Janet is quiet for a moment and the quiet is the Janet quiet — not heavy, not careful, but full. The quiet of a woman absorbing a number and finding the joy in it.

"Twenty pounds at a month. Samuel's father was nineteen at birth. This boy is — he's something, Lena."

"He's something," Lena agrees. The boy hums against her chest and the humming is louder today and the fist is curled around the strap and the morning sun is on the tribal ink.

"I got his vaccines yesterday. The full schedule. I'm not an anti-vaxer, Mom."

"Good," Janet says. The word is sharp and clean.

"Good. That's not — Lena, that's not optional. You did right."

"I did right."

The conversation is short. Janet asks about feeding and sleeping and the humming and Lena answers and the answers are the answers of a mother who is paying attention. The call ends with Janet saying "we're proud of you" and the "we" is the "we" that includes Samuel whether Samuel says it or not.

Lena hasn't showered. Neither has Kimo. The boy is a month old and he has never been bathed and the boy smells like milk and skin and the warm sourness of a newborn and the warm sourness is fine. Lena's skin is the skin it has been — unwashed, tanned, the ink dark, the piercings steel, the body hair thick, the feet callused and cracked and dark with months of barefoot living. The hygiene is the not-hygiene that Lena chose and the not-hygiene is not neglect. It is the decision to let the body be the body — to let the skin hold what it holds and the sweat dry where it dries and the calluses build where they build. The vaccines are the line. The vaccines are where Lena draws the difference between freedom and foolishness and the line is bright and clear.

Jess's shop on Tenth Street is open and the chime rings and Jess looks up from the chair and sees Kimo and the face does the thing it does — the guard drops, the softness surfaces. The boy is bigger. The face is rounder. The fists are larger. Jess comes around the counter and reaches for him and the reach is the reach of a woman who held a baby in this shop two weeks ago and has been thinking about it since.

"He grew," Jess says. "Look at him. He's bigger."

"A month old. Twenty pounds."

"Twenty pounds." Jess holds him and the boy hums against her and her hands are careful and her fingers are gentle and the maternal thing is there again — the thing that lives below the ink and the needles and the sharp eyes.

"He smells like —"

"Milk and me," Lena says. "We don't shower."

"I can tell," Jess says. The voice is not judgmental. The voice is the voice of a woman who works in a shop that smells like green soap and blood and ink and knows what bodies smell like when they're left alone.

"He's healthy though."

"Thriving," Lena says. "Dr. Parekh's word."

Jess holds Kimo for ten minutes and the boy sleeps against her and the shop is quiet and the needle is quiet and the morning light comes through the window and the moment is the moment. Lena takes him back and the harness is warm and the boy is warm and the morning is warm and the structure holds.