It wasn't that she missed her mother, exactly. She'd never had anything to miss.
Someone who deliberately recoiled every time Therese brushed past her, and gave insincere smiles, insincere words. It's not someone you could call "mother"; that word invokes warmth, and comfort, and safety. Therese remembers feeling like she was always bothering. Always a bother or an inconvenience, so much so that when she was dropped off at the Home, it wasn't so much of a surprise but even a relief. A sadness, and a relief.
But she didn't get the cuddles, and the kisses, and the sweet mornings lying in bed snuggled beside the woman who was supposed to love her above all others. Things that Carol does now; how she strokes back Therese's hair from her forehead, and taps her nose, or traces her features, those too-anxious eyes and Therese's quirked-up mouth. How Carol will pull Therese into her arms and breathe, once, twice. The slight skiff of breath across Therese's crown; the ruffle of that soft wind. That Carol's slow heartbeat is the lullaby Therese hasn't heard since she was in the womb, or maybe she never did - maybe her mother withheld that, too.
Carol is gentle, her elegant hands with the long fingers so sensitive on Therese's skin. The diapers that she had Therese wear after one too many incidents and close calls, after she discovered wet panties and damp spots in the bed. How Therese cringed, then; how she had been embarrassed about her little problem that never completely went away.
"Simple nerves," Carol had said, with that slightly sardonic smile, and Therese had been sure she would be ordered out of Carol's home, not to see her again. The paralyzing nerves that have had her freeze in place, that had her wetting herself in classrooms, in the dorm rooms, once on the subway, hiding in the back corner by the window, listening to the rattle of the tracks underneath as the warmth spread and seeped, across her bottom, down her legs, into her shoes, and the cold dampness that rubbed as she walked back to the apartment. Like a punishment for being incompetent, or maybe just too sensitive. Like a punishment for being everything she shouldn't be.
And the diapers were safe. They were the first safe thing Carol had introduced. The soft terrycloth, like a softer bath towel, pinned and folded just right, tucked into crackling vinyl pants that Therese was aware of with every step. They rounded her under her skirt, made her thin figure a little more curvy in a way that had Carol's grey eyes warm and smile, almost as if there was something sexy in the infantile. Maybe there was. Therese stopped feeling cold. She stopped worrying about the accidents, because Carol always knew and Carol was always there to check her, to change her, tickling the flatness of Therese's tummy, sometimes kissing it, blowing the raspberries that her mother never had the time to blow on any of her children's skin.
It was a gradual breaking down of Therese's inhibitions. The diapers were first, and only because Carol insisted. "I won't have you ruining bedsheets and carpets. If you are to come here and to stay, darling, you'll wear them, I'm afraid."
And Therese had blushed, as she always blushed. She hadn't known how to protest, besides, "Oh, no. No, I don't think so." She had wanted to say something about being too old, a woman now. But the words had died as Carol had rubbed a slow, warm hand over Therese's tense shoulders, and she had smiled, and she had stopped all protests.
"Let me take care of you," she had said, and Therese, unloved and prickly Therese, had melted then and there.
So in Carol's house she wore the diapers, remembering vaguely and dimly the feeling of a thick padding between the legs, the feeling of a swelling under the plastic pants from being a toddler, or maybe a little girl. She had wet the bed for as long as she could remember and still had daytime accidents in her teens. There was something comforting about not needing to worry about being wet or ruining furniture or clothing.
And Carol had started with hot milk and naps. "You could use a nap," she would say, as soon as she saw Therese's eyes droop or her face smooth out in the exhaustion of just trying to deal with the world. "You need a nap, darling." Even if it was five o'clock in the afternoon, or ten o'clock in the morning. Even if Therese really wasn't tired; she was just tired of passing, of pretending, of the intensity of her love for Carol or her need to please in every aspect of her life. And Carol would take her hand. And Carol would press a kiss against her forehead, or on her cheek, or later, on her lips, gentle and warm.
They had tried cups of hot milk, Carol holding the straight-sided cup to Therese's lips, but it was awkward and it was messy, and Therese more and more needed just to be held. Sometimes she would cry with the frustration of trying to take comfort in such a difficult way, and Carol's face would crease with concern. Therese imagined this happening when Rindy was a baby. Why would someone so thoroughly taken care of need to cry? But things are hard when you're little, Carol said, and she'd say it to Therese, her hands stroking the stress from Therese's forehead.
Things are so hard when you're little.
So Carol tried baby bottles next. And that worked for awhile. Carol would sit against the headboard of her bed, and she would cradle Therese against her soft breasts, the waft of her perfume over them both. A strategically placed pillow helped support Therese against Carol, though she worried about relaxing and hurting Carol, making her uncomfortable. She always overthought it. Carol would stroke down her back, down her spine all the way to her bottom, and she would pat her bottom soothingly. "Shh, shh. Relax, baby."
And eventually, between the hot milk and the soothing, Therese would, curving around Carol's body and turning into Carol's chest, feeling the softness of her breasts and the warmth of her arms. And she would close her eyes, almost unbidden. But the bottle would fall from her mouth with a sense of loss, and sometimes a little spill of milk that came out the side of her mouth and wet Carol's nightgown or blouse. And she would cry, again, because she had wet her diaper without knowing and her feet were cold and she wanted more, more from Carol than a rubber nipple and a swallow of hot milk.
Neither knew about it. Carol certainly had never nursed Rindy. Therese had been bottle-fed from birth and abruptly cut off from even that bonding as soon as she could hold the bottle herself. But Carol, always endlessly patient, would smile. "No one loved you like this, did they, Therese? So starved for it, my darling." And she would pat Therese's bottom and whisper, "You need to be changed before we begin. I can't let you fall asleep wet."
Therese would whimper at the loss of warmth and Carol's arms, but Carol was always quick and a dry diaper felt better, anyway, than being cold and damply wet while she was trying to fall asleep. And at every whimper, every sound Therese made, Carol was always there to soothe, to whisper, to kiss it better. So it was all right. It was all right and soon enough Carol was unbuttoning her blouse for Therese.
Her nipple was warm and sweetly-scented; it hardened in the cooler air and Therese's tongue came out to touch it, to lick it and feel it harden even more. And as if she'd done it all her life, she latched on, her mouth opening naturally. And she sucked, the soothing warmth and intimacy causing her to relax completely for the first time in her life.
Carol smiled. Carol traced Therese's face, her closed eyes, the way they creased in pleasure as Therese's hand rested on her breast and kneaded it a little bit, like a kitten or a newborn. And Carol pulled her closer and whispered, "I love you."
And now, every afternoon, Therese looks forward to the cuddles, and the changing, and the nursing, after the stress of the city and of her work. After Carol's stress and her inhibitions, missing her daughter and looking for someone to take care of. Because now they have this.
And that, thinks Therese, turning her face into Carol's chest, is that.