Dev's RobStar Blog

Katniss puts a hand on my arm. “Nobody I'd trust her with but you,” she says, and it darn near breaks me.

I suck in a deep breath and puff it out through my cheeks. ‘Course they need a break. Three years, two months they've been pulling sleepless nights, and now Katniss is round and glowing with their second. It's high time they had a little get-away. Besides, there's a visceral desperation in the way Peeta is gazing at his wife, and knowing the way they used to go at it like rabbits…well, let's just say the boy's in need of a fix, same as her. Probably why she's been cranky as all hell lately.

“Alright, alright, you two,” I concede, just as a tornado in a red dress and two dark braids blows in from the living room to tangle in my legs.

“Papaw ‘Mitch!” She cries as I scoop her up off the floor and swing her through the air like a hovercraft.

“Hey there, my little gosling,” I say over an eruption of hysterical giggles.

“You see,” says Peeta, picking up their suitcase and putting a hand on the small of Katniss' back. “You'll have a grand ‘ol time.”

“Be a good little gosling,” coos Katniss, kissing her little one on the head and looking up at me with a watery smile. We don't need to say anything. We know. I'm afraid of staying, my eyes say. I'm afraid of going, say hers. We're safe, we remind each other.

And then they're gone. A minute passes before Daisy’s lip starts to wobble. I just barely avoid a flood of tears to rival the cistern I burst all those years ago by ushering her outside to the goose pen. Nothing my gosling likes more than to feed the geese.

I smile as I watch her flitting around the yard tutting at the ganders to mind their manners and not hog all the good feed. By noon she's tuckered out, so I sit her down at the table and heat up the mac and cheese.

Daisy spends half the time she's supposed to be eating stringing cheesy noodles onto a length of chives to make a necklace. Oh, Maysilee would have liked this one, I think wistfully. After an hour of trial and error, I'm satisfied her belly is full. We alternate between reading story books and playing pretend for the rest of the day. Somehow every scenario requires my hair to be done up real pretty with her mom's elastics and a handful of clothes pins.

Surprisingly, bath time goes better than expected, though she does spring from the tub at the end and dash butt-ass naked down the hallway giggling like a banshee before I catch her in a fluffy towel and wrestle her into PJs embroidered with little dandelions. A gift from Annie, who's taken up needlepoint.

I put her to sleep in my own bed, tucking the blankets around her just so, fetching a glass of water and then another because she needs the green cup, and stroking her hair till she falls asleep, her lips parted in a tiny “O.”

Then I go downstairs to pace, same as I always do when the night is black and my thoughts grow dark. But this time it's different. Because there's a little life up there. By best friend's grandkid. My darling gosling.

Before dawn I sleep, and for once, I dream of nothing at all.

— — —

The next day I wake in a panic. The bed. It's empty. Heart hammering in my throat, I tear through the house screaming bloody murder. But that's when I hear an old forgotten sound drifting out of the guest room. The door I never open. I try the handle now, my heart still jumping like a bullfrog.

She's there on the floor, an orange scarf tied up in her braid, tune box on her lap. My heart stops leaping and plummets straight to my toes, then slowly floats back up, entranced by the sound of the music like a cobra to a flute.

“Look Papaw ‘Mitch!” she says, blue eyes bright and happy and alive. “I'm a magical-ician!”

I laugh at the way she struggles on the word musician. But then, when I think about it, she had it right. Because it is magical the way I feel seeing my little gosling with my girl’s old tune box

“You are a magical-ician,” I agree.

— — —

When Katniss and Peeta arrive home that evening, she's sleeping on my chest in the rocker by the front window. I raise a finger to my lips and whisper, “Shh, she's asleep.”

Peeta winds an arm around Katniss’ waist and they share a smile. Their baby is safe. The house is still standing. And the toilet's still flushing. It's a miracle, frankly.

“I can take her, Papaw,” says the boy, but I hold up my hand. I'm not ready to let go. “Nah, you two go home. I think I should stay here.”

Katniss’ lips twitch up and I know she knows I'm stalling.

“She'll howl like a wolf cub if you wake her up,” I grumble, though I know my cover is weak and fooling no one. “I may be old, but my ears are still working.”

“Ok then, Papaw,” the girl says gently. “Sweet dreams.”