The white noise machine in the nursery had a low, mechanical rattle that always started just before the babies began to cry. Tonight, the rattle sounded like a dry leaf caught in a bicycle spoke, but the triplets were already screaming in their three identical cribs along the far wall.
I sat in the heavy wooden rocking chair, clutching Leo against my shoulder while his brother and sister shrieked from their blue plastic bins on the floor. My left thumb found the collar of my shirt, pulling the fabric away from my neck to find some cool air in the stuffy room.
Ethan stood by the door, his wool overcoat already draped over his arm and his car keys clinking in his palm.
“There is a discrepancy in the third-quarter ledger for the Miller account,” he said, his pitch rising quickly as he checked his watch. “Donald wants me to run the numbers again before the morning meeting.”
“The formula on the counter is already cold,” I said, my voice slow and level. “I need you to hold Leo for ten minutes so I can warm the next three bottles.”
Ethan tapped his index finger against his thigh, a rapid, silent rhythm that matched the white noise machine.
“I just need some room to breathe, Clara,” he said.
He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a heavy silver pen, and set it on the edge of the nursery dresser.
“Use this to fill out the feeding log,” he said. “I will be back after midnight.”
He turned and went down the stairs, leaving the silver pen balanced on the dust-speckled oak wood.
I stared at the pen, wondering why he would leave his favorite writing instrument in a room he spent so little time in.
During my five years as a teller at the First National Bank, I had memorized dozens of routing numbers just by looking at the checks that passed through my drawer. Those long sequences of digits still sat in the back of my mind, orderly and silent, like the figures on a balance sheet.
