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Bruno rocks his heels softly back and forth, transfixed on the baby in his arms. Her dark hair isn’t long, but it is thick, and it curls in distinct ringlets around her head. Mirabel’s eyes are brown and, he thinks, impossibly large as they stare up at him, not quite focusing, but almost. It's been a few weeks and he’s finally been able to quiet his mind long enough to hold his youngest niece.
After exactly centering himself in the room and craning his head just right so that Julieta is framed perfectly in the doorway, he accepts the bundled-up infant with the most care and attention he’s ever given anything. Mirabel's tawny skin has the same warm tone as her mother's, but it's still untouched by the sun, much like his own has been for years now. Julieta steps back and turns away slightly, not quite leaving the room, but giving him space and privacy. He’s not sure whether she stays more for his sake or her own.
Back when they were born, he was holding Isabela and Dolores within the hour, Luisa within the day, and Camilo within the week, but his terror quadruples with whatever infant is placed into his arms. He has thoughts that terrify him, thoughts of suddenly taking the newborn and slinging them full-force through the glass window opposite him, of lifting the child high above the Casita’s balcony and releasing his grip, of taking his thumbs to the sleeping baby’s closed eyelids and pressing down, down, until— no, no, he doesn’t want to do that.
Of course not. He doesn’t want to do any of that. The thoughts horrify him. What kind of person thinks these things, he wonders? And besides, if he really loves and wants to protect his family, shouldn’t he be able to control these awful urges, if not simply never have them at all?
He’s spent many hours in his room, fists clenched in his hair, entire body tensed, trying to find anything in himself that proves it, that really wants to do the heinous things his mind tells him that he does, but he never can. He doesn't. He loves his nieces and nephew. He loves his family. It’s… something else in him, like a tumor of the mind, that tells him these things. It’s not another voice; if it were, maybe it would be easier to write off. It’s his own.
But it’s not really him, he tells himself, not yet, it’s just something that’s latched on, something that it might be too late to get rid of but that it’s not too late to keep at bay. As long as his knuckles hit the wood at just the right tempo, as long as he doesn’t turn that corner without tossing some salt behind him, as long as his feet don’t contact one of the many, many tile borders, he’s safe. They’re safe.
It gets harder and harder. Not by the day, it’s not that easy to notice, but he can feel the sense of dread growing. The only thing that staves it off is making sure everything is correct. The number of tassels on his ruana has to be exactly the same on either side of his shoulders. His fork can’t tap the plate more than once on the same section.
Each step he takes is calculated, measured, and counted. It takes twenty-eight perfect paces to get from his room to the stairs, twelve to get down them, and another thirty-four to reach his seat at the table. If he miscalculates, if he takes a few steps a few inches longer than he should, it’s back to his room to fix it. But sometimes even then, it’s not quite right. Not quite perfect.
So back he goes, again, until Pepa sits with her fingers on her temples and Félix’s hand on her back, and Julieta stands at the table watching him with her brows knit and his cutlery waiting, scrubbed clean like it needs to be and like she always does. The bottoms line up perfectly, she’s good about that. The family sits in near silence as they wait for him.
Just to be sure he’s evaded it, he knocks on the table. Six times with his right hand and six with his left. He counts out loud. No, wrong, that one was too close to the other, the count is off now. He has to do it again, he has to fix it. Does that knock being off mean his pacing was wrong too? He can’t risk it. He places his cutlery down evenly and stands to go back to his room to recount his steps when Alma slams her hands to the table.
Everything else blurs. She’s yelling, Pepa’s yelling at both of them, there’s thunder, even Julieta raises her voice. Félix tries to calm his wife, Dolores cries out and claps a hand over one of her ears while she wraps the other around her younger cousin as far as she can reach, drawing Luisa’s curly head into her shoulder. Agustín jumps at the sudden noise and drops his glass. It shatters into pieces on the floor. Different size pieces. That’s not good. Isabela sits perfectly straight, as always, but panic is clear on her face.
Bruno squeezes his eyes shut. This is wrong. This is bad. This is his fault. If he had just done it right the first time, this wouldn’t have happened. But it’s not too late. He can fix it. He just has to do it once more for now, perfectly this time and every other time after this one and everything will be back to normal.
Mirabel stirs slightly in his arms and it jolts him back from his thoughts. He feels panic build as he studies her. Did he accidentally hurt her while he wasn’t paying attention? He pictures hims— no. He won’t even let himself finish the thought. He will not hurt her. Ever. Has he spent too much time supporting her head with his right arm and not his left? Time to switch. Switch and the amount of time will be equal and it will be fine.
Julieta used to put her hands on his shoulders to let him know she was there. Not anymore. The slightest wrong amount of pressure with one hand and he’s panicking, both hands on his own shoulders, pressing alternatively, trying to get just the right amount of force that they equalize. That things go back to being okay for a few minutes, until they’re not again, and he has to fix it. He wonders how they ever survived without him ensuring that they would.
But for now, for this moment, his mind is calm. Mirabel’s eyes are growing heavy in the warm safety of her uncle’s arms. He feels love and pride rise in him, and briefly, they overwhelm anything else he feels. She trusts him, innately. She knows she’s safe. She knows he’ll take care of her, that he won’t hurt her. That he won’t ever let anything happen to her. And he promises her that he won’t.
Better to be sure, though.
He shifts his weight around to better center himself, then feels his mind fog slightly as he mentally slips backwards into his seeing state. Not a full vision, he tells himself. Just a peek. Just to make sure. As long as everything stays right he knows it will be fine. But it never hurts to check. And it certainly never hurts to check again. Or a third time, just to make sure there’s nothing he missed. That he didn’t change it by accident since the last check. But what if this is the time he changed it? Better check once more. Just to be safe.
He lets himself see the next few years of her life in momentary flashes up until she reaches for the doorknob to get her gift. He always stops there. Don’t want to spoil the surprise. Besides, if he knows, he might mess it up. Somehow. If he doesn’t, he can’t. It’s the only way to be sure it will go well. Just knowing that she’ll be okay makes him feel better. He knows that he doesn’t toss her out the window or do some other horrible thing. He keeps her safe.
Bruno glances around the flickering vision for just another second before blinking himself back into reality. He’s comforted beyond words seeing her there, at five years old, big glasses framing her curious eyes, surrounded by the family, reaching up for her own doorknob for the first time. He’s there too. He’s still there. He’ll always be there.
He promises.