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Jon will not be defeated by a swathe of fabric. He did not make it through an entire apocalypse and survive his own death (twice) (more than twice?) in order to be defeated by rainbow polka dotted fabric on his first day alone with an infant.
Sasha blows spit bubbles at him from the floor.
“Thank you for your encouragement, Sasha,” Jon says. He wriggles his left arm where he’s trapped it against his side inside the baby wrap. His right arm is nearly immobile, caught up behind his back, though fortunately at a non-painful angle. This is worse than the time he caught his earring (when he still wore earrings) on a jumper while pulling it over his head and hadn’t been able to remove his arms from the sleeves.
Fortunately, that had happened while he was dating Georgie and in the brief period of time they’d lived together. She’d gotten home ten minutes later and, after taking a picture and laughing herself hoarse at the sight of him laying on the floor in resignation, arms looped around his head, face covered with fabric, she’d helped him gently remove the single thread caught around the earring and pull the jumper off.
But Martin had only left for work an hour ago, and so Jon can’t rely on anyone finding him like this.
Still, he spares a moment to indulge in the melodrama of his younger self and flops down on the ground next to the baby.
“I’ve gotten myself a bit stuck, Sash,” Jon says, laying on his stomach with his head turned towards her. He wriggles his arms again. “This is what I get for not thoroughly reading the instructions.” He pauses, sighs. Watches Sasha, his responsibility, now, an infant, now. Wonders what the original Sasha, his friend, once, a face in a polaroid, then, a voice on a recording, then, would have thought about the situation he’s gotten himself into.
She’d deserved to be remembered as more than ink and tape. She’d deserved to be alive, and if she had had to die, she’d deserved to be memories and a grave. Not just gone. Not just erased. They’d never known if she’d even had a family to be told of their loss.
This Sasha will never have to worry about that. This Sasha will never need to know what had happened to another version of her.
But Jon still wishes he knew something of the Sasha-that-was to give to the Sasha-that-is.
Is it better, that he won’t have expectations of Sasha? That he won’t find himself looking at her and comparing her to someone else? If he and Martin had arrived to find themselves with an infant Tim, would he have been able to prevent himself from reenacting his failures?
Yet, while he has nothing to compare her to, he’s already finding himself looking at her and wondering, is this what our Sasha used to be like? He can see nothing of the Sasha-that-was in the face of the Sasha-that-is, her face full and plump with baby fat. Her nose is still far more cartilaginous than it will become, and the bridge is still unpronounced.
Her curls are far shorter than the Sasha-that-was had had in the polaroids, and the Sasha-that-was had had dyed hair. The Sasha-that-was had had skin two shades darker, with tan lines peeking out underneath the bracelets she wore.
There’s nothing tying them together except a first name and a last name that had turned into a middle name.
There’s no proof that she’s even the same Sasha James, except that Jon knows that she must be. He doesn’t Know, and he doesn’t want to try to Know, because the Eye has been quite since he’s arrived and so long as he avoids thinking about it or trying to Know anything or trying to Ask anything, he can tell himself that he left it behind.
But he’s certain, anyway. That’s just the way his life works. Odd coincidences have rarely been in his favor, and this is, but it would be a far odder coincidence if she had the same name and nothing else.
This Sasha deserves a life unmarred by any tragedy. Jon can’t prevent the deaths of her birth parents, or them giving her up, or whatever it was that had happened, but he will do everything in his power to give her a long, happy life.
He hopes he never finds himself trying to give the Sasha-that-was a new life through this Sasha, though. This Sasha deserves her own long, happy life.
He’s still stuck in the baby wrap.
Sasha, the Sasha in front of him, smiles a gummy toothless grin at him.
Jon wiggles his arms again. Although the angle the right arm is bent at hadn’t originally been painful, it is starting to ache.
“Well, Sash,” Jon says, with a wry grin, “I’m very glad you’re too young to remember me doing this.”
“Ba ba baba ba ,” Sasha replies.
“Yes, that’s very helpful,” Jon nods. “Thank you for your input, I appreciate it. We’re lucky your—Martin isn’t here. He would laugh at us and say, ‘Oh, Jon ,’ in that voice of his, and then I would be too enamored with him to even think about going on a walk.”
Sasha giggles back.
“On the other hand, he’d be able to help me out of this predicament.”
His right arm is already starting to ache. If he doesn’t get out soon, he’s sure it’s going to be sore for days. Well, he has one option left to him, which will be unpleasant but at least get it over with.
Jon slides his right hand upwards, carefully, slowly, rotating his elbow forward and down. His shoulder slips out of place, without anything as pronounced as a pop , just a stretching sensation and a general sense of wrongwrongwrong deep in his gut.
It works. He manages to pull his hand free of the fabric that had been restraining it, and as soon as his hand is in front of him his shoulder stops feeling so stretched.
He has to take a moment to breathe. He closes his eyes and purses his lips and pulls in a long stream of air, then forces himself to count out as he exhales. In-two-three-four, out-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight-nine-ten, in-two-three-four, out…
Sasha makes a distressed sound.
Jon opens his eyes and smiles at her.
“It’s okay, Sash,” he says, “I’m okay. That was just a bit uncomfortable, and I didn’t like doing it. But I’m okay.” He pushes himself into a sitting position and uses his now-free right hand to pull the baby wrap over his head and off of him. “Let’s go see if Ms. Nelson next door knows how to use one of these, hmm?” He drapes the wrap across his shoulder, shifts into a crouch, and holds his hands out to Sasha. “Can I pick you up?”
Sasha coos at him, and taking that as assent, Jon slips his hands underneath her armpits and pulls her up close to his chest. His hips are too narrow to really support Sasha’s weight, but he holds her there regardless as he descends the three flights of stairs.
There are really too many stairs in this house.