The baby knew quite a few things. She even knew that she would forget the things she knew now. She didn't know close to everything, though. She didn’t know the difference between on purpose and accidental. A diaper fastened too tightly at the waist hurt, period. She didn't know if the forgetting was for the best or merely the way it had always been. And she didn't know if anyone was in charge of these things – in case you're wondering.
          She sat in her mother's lap or at her mother's feet. Her mother smelled soft and sharp at the same time. She smelled of the cool pink lotion she rubbed into the baby's skin and cigarette smoke and of something else, faintly, like orange peels steeped in urine.
          She knew that the man they came to visit wasn't in charge. His voice was deep but there was less to him than other people his size. The baby's mother chain-smoked and watched this man. Her mother wanted something from him the way the baby wanted grape juice and graham crackers at the same time every day. She looked at the man the way the baby studied the dust motes slanting through the gap in the curtains in the only window of the room in which they sat. Her mother wore a silver-gray sweater that sparkled outside in the sun, but just sat there now, dull as ashes. There was one lamp and the muted television for light.
          The girl was solid, but she wasn't in charge, of course. The baby liked the way the girl smelled. She had nice teeth, too – squarish and just the right size for her mouth. The girl didn't quite belong to the man the way she belonged to her mother. She smelled like milk that had been sitting in a cup for awhile and like the carpet at a house where they'd once stayed. If she stuck her nose right up against her she'd probably sneeze. The girl could come and go as she pleased, in and out of the rooms. Sometimes she sat down on the floor and pressed her palms to the baby’s palms and spoke to her and she almost understood.
          She knew there was happy and unhappy. Two feelings. Unhappy was the room being too hot or her mother not coming to hold her when she cried in the middle of the night. Her mother sometimes cried when they were alone, but only a trickle of tears and sound came out. When her mother was happy she made a small clicking sound with her tongue like a faucet dripping and she fixed grilled cheese sandwiches and cut them into tiny warm cubes.
          Then, the baby remembered a time the boy had cried. She had heard a funny sound. Her mother and the man were talking and the sound was like their cat throwing up in the closet. The baby had crawled into the hallway and no one stopped her. She crawled very fast toward the sound. The door was ajar and she pushed it open with her forehead. The girl was under her covers, holding a pillow over her head. The room smelled like her only more. Maybe she laughed. The girl raised the pillow and looked at her.
          She knew her own name had two parts, the same sound repeated, and it felt good in people's mouths, like tapioca pudding.
          The man sometimes fell asleep in his chair. Today he was smiling in his sleep though she knew he wasn't happy and neither was her mother. The man was never happy, unless there were signs of happiness she hadn't yet learned. Her mother clenched her fists in her lap and watched the man sleep. His chair was covered with brown sticky skin. The room was very quiet, like right before the cat started to gag or the phone rang. Her mother wasn't in charge. Her mother was good at pushing the baby in the swing just hard enough, though she never seemed to know how hot or cold the baby was. The baby often perspired beneath a sweater or shivered when her legs she'd kicked off the blanket. Her mother didn't always notice when she'd lost a sock.
          It bothered the baby that she'd forgotten about the girl crying and whatever had happened next. She wondered if this was the beginning of forgetting. Suddenly the refrigerator hummed and rattled hard and her mother got up and kicked the man's chair hard. His eyes popped open like a doll’s. The girl appeared in the doorway. The baby couldn't remember if they still had the cat. Why couldn't she remember? The cat had been sick. The cat didn't always come home at night. The carpet with the good smell was puffy-cloud gray flecked with dark blue. It was textured with scallops like the water carved into the sand at the beach. The cat was dark gray like a shadow and shiny like velvet. The girl’s eyes were gray – pale gray, as if the color had been left out rather than put in.
          Her mother kicked the man's chair again. He dropped to his knees and began kissing her mother's ankles, making wet, smacking sounds like her mother sometimes made on the baby's stomach. The girl stood in the doorway needing to be someplace else. She looked at the baby. She wanted to know: did the baby understand? Yes. Her mother's expression looked like she imagined her own face did when the man was pushing her on the swing. Too hard. Harder. Too hard.
          The baby opened her hand wide and sniffed her palm. Just then it held the scent of wet grass. The baby hoped that even after she had forgotten the things she knew now she would still remember the smells. If not the smells then at least all the colors of gray she had seen.