by Joan Kilby
Riley sipped his beer. “Emma did a good job decorating your old house. Have you asked her?”
“She’s got too much on her plate. Anyway, neither of us is interested in getting involved again.” Darcy pulled himself up. No one had mentioned getting involved. Was that a Freudian slip?
“I was talking about decorating. But now that you mention it, you two have a child together. It doesn’t get much more involved than that.”
Darcy stared at Riley. What was this backflip on Riley’s part? “You were against me having anything to do with Emma. You said she was bad for me.”
“I’m not talking about you and Emma. I meant you and your son.”
“Oh.” A muscle in Darcy’s jaw twitched. “I tried to offer her child support and she wouldn’t hear of it.”
“Money isn’t the only thing a kid needs.”
“I’m not father material.” How many times did he have to say it? “I’m never around. I’m not good at the hands-on stuff. I make more work for Emma when I do try to help. No, I don’t want to screw the kid up. Having no father is better than having a bad one.”
“I don’t believe for one second that you don’t care about your own kid. Even if Emma doesn’t want you to play an active role, you don’t have to accept that. And you weren’t a bad father to Holly.”
“I wasn’t there for her enough. I wasn’t competent enough to do things for her, change her diapers, feed her, bathe her. I was the playmate. Kids need more than that.”
“Nobody’s born knowing how to care for children. You have to learn. You were absent for Holly because you had to work, but when you were around she thought you hung the moon and the stars. I saw you. You were a great dad. In fact, I remember thinking that if I ever had a child I hoped I could be as good a father as you were.”
“If by good you mean I gave a lot of horsie rides, yeah, I was a great dad. Can we drop the subject?” Darcy didn’t want to get into this. There were some things he didn’t tell even his best mates. Like the fact that when he’d been changing Holly and she’d fallen off the changing table she’d landed on her head on a wood floor. She hadn’t gone unconscious, in fact, she’d barely cried and hadn’t seemed fazed in the least. He’d rushed her to the hospital where Emma had met him. Holly had been checked out by a doctor and pronounced fine.
He’d felt so badly afterward that he’d driven Emma nuts asking if Holly was acting normally, if she was on course for being at the right developmental stage for her age. Emma hadn’t reported anything amiss, but Darcy had always been waiting for the injury to manifest itself in some horrible, irreparable way.
Now Holly was gone and there was no point telling this particular story. But the experience had frightened the hell out of him as a new father.
“I saw Emma the other day at the gas station,” Riley said after a moment.
“How was she?”
“Not great. She has a bad cold or the flu. She could barely talk...she was too busy coughing up a lung.”
“I told her that would happen. What about the baby? Is he sick, too?”
“I peered through the car window because I haven’t seen the mystery kid yet. Even though I was godfather to your first child. His nose was running but that could have been because he was crying.”
Darcy didn’t want to feel a tug at his heart. But he did. Damn it, of course he cared about his child. Billy was a little over two months old. He must be starting to smile, and doing other stuff. He, Darcy, was missing out on all the stages of his child’s life.
He swept up the paint and fabric samples and put them in a big manila envelope. He hated to think of Emma trying to cope with everything and being sick, as well. It was one thing for her to play around with her own health, but she had no right to put his son’s health in jeopardy. “I’m going to go see Emma and Billy.”
Riley sipped his beer. “I thought you might.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
DARCY STABBED EMMA’S doorbell outside her apartment building a second time. She was taking ages to answer. Maybe she wasn’t home. Maybe she was feeling better and had gone out. But he didn’t think so.
“Hello?” she croaked over the intercom.
“It’s me. Can you buzz me through?”
“This isn’t a good time, Darcy.”
He couldn’t tell her he knew she was sick or she would deny it up and down. But if she thought he needed her—if she thought anyone needed her—Emma wouldn’t refuse.
“I’m renovating the pub. I was hoping you could give me some advice on the color scheme.”
There was a long silence. Darcy kicked a pebble off the mat, took two paces away and came back. Pressed her bell again. “Emma, are you still there?”
“Come up.” She pressed the buzzer.
Darcy didn’t know what he’d expected but the sight that met his eyes when Emma opened her door left him speechless. She had deteriorated significantly in the two days since he’d seen her. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her hair lank. Thick wool work socks protruded beneath her quilted dressing gown. She held a tissue pressed to her pink, chafed nose. Her movements were slow and stiff, as if every joint and muscle ached.
“You look like death warmed over.”
“I’ve got a spring cold.”
“I’m no doctor, but I think what you have is more than a cold.” He glanced over her shoulder into the apartment. It looked as if a bomb had exploded in a clothing factory. There was laundry everywhere, on the furniture, on the floor, not all of it clean.
Without waiting for her to ask him in, he walked into the living room. Nursing textbooks and papers covered the dining table, along with dirty dishes and used coffee mugs. He peeked into the kitchen. More dishes were piled on the counter and in the sink. The garbage was overflowing. He discreetly sniffed. Dirty diapers. Food left out on the counter.
This wasn’t like Emma. She was an immaculate housekeeper. Even when Holly had been a baby the chaos had been controlled. At times the house might have been untidy but Emma always kept things clean. He’d tried to do his share of housework but she preferred to do it herself so she knew it was done to her standards. Now, her living space looked like a homeless person’s nest under a bridge. Magnified a hundred times.
In the nursery, the baby was crying. Emma paid no attention. She blew her nose on a tattered damp tissue.
Darcy stepped out of the kitchen into the hall. “Aren’t you going to pick him up?”
“Why?” she said listlessly, shoulders slumped. “It won’t make him stop crying.”
Okay, this was truly worrying. Emma loved being a mother. She was a nurse. She would never neglect her child, especially one who was sick. He’d seen her give out bandages for a kid who scraped his knee in the park, and dispense cough drops to an elderly woman at a bus stop. Strangers in need got her attention, but she left her baby to cry piteously? Something wasn’t right.
“Does he have a cold, too?” Darcy asked.
Her eyes closed and she nodded.
Darcy could hear the tiny heart-rending cough in between wails. “Have you taken him to the doctor?”
That got a spark out of Emma. Her eyes blazed to life. “Of course I took him. Do you think I’m a bad mother?”
Was that a note of hysteria in her voice? Before this he would never have considered that possibility for a second. But now she was ill and crumbling under too great a workload.
Darcy headed for the nursery. Billy was lying on his back, red in the face and hacking between wails.
“Oh, my God, Emma. How could you leave him like this?” Darcy picked the baby out of the cot. His sleeper was damp from sweat and a leaking diaper and stained with vomited milk. Darcy had no idea where to begin with a baby in this much distress. Emma had always taken care of Holly when she was sick.
Darcy held him out to her. “You need to clean him up. Feed him. Give him medicine. Give him whatever it is he needs.”
Emma rocked the baby and patted his back but her motions were mechanical. She
didn’t hold Billy close or make a real effort to comfort him. “Shh, Billy. Be quiet. Please.”
“You should have called someone if you couldn’t cope. Alana, or one of your friends.”
“I can cope,” Emma said shrilly. “Of course I can cope. As soon as I get over this cold I’ll be fine.” She started hacking, deep rattling coughs that Darcy felt in his own chest.
Or maybe that was the ache from seeing Emma and his son in such a pitiful condition. What was going on? Was she having some sort of nervous breakdown as well as being sick? Was she suffering from postnatal depression? Should he take her to the hospital?
“Where’s your phone? I’m calling Tracey.” Another nurse would at least know what to do. He should know what to do. It bothered him that he didn’t.
“Tracey’s in Bali.”
“Alana, then. Or who’s your other friend—Sasha?”
“Sasha’s at home taking care of her kids, who are sick, too. Alana’s working. Anyway I don’t want to risk her catching this. She can’t afford to be sick, and she certainly wouldn’t want Tessa to get it.” Emma jiggled the baby and coughed away from his face. “Don’t call anyone. We’ll get through this, won’t we, Billy?”
She wasn’t being rational. He had to call someone. Darcy walked through the apartment, searching for her phone amid the clutter. He finally found it by calling her on his phone. The ringing came from inside an empty pizza box on the kitchen counter. He quickly scrolled through her contacts list and found Barb’s number. It rang and rang.
Emma stood in the doorway, still holding Billy awkwardly away from her. “If you’re calling Barb, she’s in meetings every day this week. It’s the end-of-year performance reviews for her staff.”
Darcy hung up before the call went to voice mail and called his mother. Please, please let her be home. She’d retired years ago from her job as an accountant, but she did a lot of volunteer work. The phone picked up. Thank God. Someone to take responsibility.
“Emma’s sick with bronchitis, or something,” Darcy said. “The baby has it, too. What should I do?”
“Have they been to the doctor?” his mother asked.
“Yes, but she’s really sick. She can’t look after herself let alone the baby. All her friends are away or sick or working.”
“Then I guess it’s up to you.”
“Um, I was hoping you could help.”
“I would love to look after the baby, but your father was discharged from the hospital this afternoon. He’s not mobile. Plus I need to change the dressings on his surgical wound every few hours.”
“Oh, well, that’s good he’s out. I saw him this morning but he didn’t mention he was going home.”
“He’s getting forgetful,” Marge said.
While they talked, Darcy gathered up dishes and took them to the sink. His shoe stuck to the floor. The whole place was unhygienic. “I’ve got a pub to run. And I don’t have a clue what to do with a two-month-old.”
“Babies aren’t that difficult. They need food, clean clothes, dry diapers and love. I’m sure you can handle that.” She paused. “Your father’s calling me. Sorry, love, I’ve got to go.” And she hung up.
Darcy went in search of Emma. She was slumped on the couch, eyes closed, mindlessly rocking the baby. She hadn’t changed him and seemed to be making no attempt to feed him. Billy had worn himself out and his cries were sporadic, punctuated by hiccups.
Darcy felt Billy’s forehead. It was hot. Fever or dehydration, he had no idea. Emma must be really sick to let the situation get this bad.
The baby wasn’t his responsibility. Emma had told him so repeatedly. She didn’t want him to be involved.
He kicked a pile of laundry out of his way. Had she thought about this scenario when she decided to have a child on her own? What if he hadn’t come by? What if someone else had found her and called Child Services? They might take Billy into custody, possibly foster him out temporarily. Emma would hate that.
Or what if no one had come by and something seriously bad had happened to Billy?
Someone had come by. Him. It was no good telling himself he wasn’t responsible when he knew full well he was. He felt ashamed of himself for calling his mother. Fine to ask for advice but to try to palm off his kid...it was wrong. He had to step up. It was only temporary, till Emma got better.
Gingerly, he reached for the baby and took him out of Emma’s slack arms. “Go have a shower while I change him.”
She blinked at him then gazed blankly at her empty arms. “You wanted to talk about decorating.”
“Shower. Now. That’s an order.” His mouth set in a grim line, Darcy held the soaking-wet baby out from his body and strode back to the nursery. From the recesses of his mind he recalled something Emma had said when Holly was sick. It’s a good sign if the diaper’s wet. It means she’s not dehydrated. So Billy being soaked through was a good thing. Yeah, right.
Darcy laid the baby on the change table and held him firmly in place with one hand on his tummy while he studied the situation. The sodden sleeper was a one-piece with snap closures. How hard could this be? It wasn’t like he’d never changed a baby’s diaper. Before that terrible day when Holly had fallen, he’d been in charge while Emma was out shopping. Back then Emma had laid out everything in the order in which he would need it. However, judging by the jumble of wipes, pins, powder and other unrecognizable stuff on Billy’s dresser, this time he was going to have to wing it.
“Don’t worry, kid. I’ll get you clean and dry in a jiffy.”
Billy started at the sound of his deep voice. Then cried louder. Darcy began to peel the wet clothing off a small squirming body. Ugh. The baby’s undershirt was soaked, too. Emma was using cloth diapers. No wonder everything was wet. Exactly how long had it been since she’d changed him? He thought of asking and rejected the idea. She probably didn’t know. Emma was a nurse and a mother, but right now she was in crazy town.
With relief, he heard the shower running. At least she wasn’t so far gone she couldn’t clean herself. How long had she been ill and trying to cope on her own and patently not coping? He felt sick to think about it. While he’d been preoccupied with the pub she’d been floundering by herself with only the occasional delivery from the pizza place for sustenance.
With two fingers Darcy dropped the soiled sleeper directly into the garbage. “Hope that wasn’t your favorite outfit, kid.”
He could see how Emma would go batty if she had to listen to that crying night and day. Why hadn’t she called him? Yes, he’d told her he wanted nothing to do with the baby and she’d insisted over and over that Billy was her baby, her responsibility. But surely she knew she could count on him in an emergency.
He almost gagged when he tore off the sodden diaper. Oh, man, this child needed a bath. He listened. Emma was still in the shower. This was going to be tricky.
He put the diaper in the pail and wrapped Billy in a towel he found lying on the floor. When Holly had been tiny Emma had bathed her in the kitchen sink. Darcy carried the baby to the kitchen and surveyed the basin filled with dirty dishes and scraps of food. Not an option.
Now what? How had he come to be standing in this filthy apartment with a crying baby in his hands? Darcy felt a little like howling himself. All he’d wanted when he came over here was to make sure Emma was okay, get a peek at his son and go on his merry way content in the knowledge that she was happy, had what she wanted and he didn’t need to feel guilty about a thing. He’d expected her to be under the weather, not having mental problems.
This was partly his fault. By not insisting he take an active role he’d pushed her into trying to do it all herself. The stress had been too much for her.
There was no point casting blame when he had a cold, wet, hungry, naked baby literally on his hands. The kid needed a bath. He explored the rest of the apartment. No laundry room. Great. The crying was really starting to get to him. How did the baby keep that up? His throat must be so sore. Which no doubt made him cry
even more.
“Your mum won’t be too much longer, kid,” Darcy muttered, pacing the short hall. “Then we can get you cleaned up.”
How long had she been in there? Must be over ten minutes. Emma didn’t waste water. Even after the drought had ended she still limited her showers to two minutes, four if she washed her hair—
Oh, no.
She wouldn’t. Would she?
Darcy banged on the door, his heart racing. “Emma! Answer me.”
All he heard was the sound of running water.
He flung open the door and stepped into the steamy room. Behind the frosted glass shower door Emma stood naked and motionless, hands at her sides and her face turned into the spray.
Thank God. Oh, thank God. Darcy’s knees crumpled. He sat on the edge of a bathtub separate from the shower. She hadn’t heard him call out or come in, wasn’t even aware of his presence in the bathroom. She was lost somewhere in her head, hiding under a waterfall. He could hear her singing to herself, faint and tuneless.
He wasn’t leaving this room until the baby was bathed. Suddenly that seemed of vital importance. Surely he could manage that, if nothing else. Billy was half-asleep, exhausted by crying and illness.
Clutching him to his chest, Darcy leaned over the bathtub and ran the water, testing the temperature with his elbow. Why the elbow? He’d always wondered that. The elbow had to be one of the least sensitive places on the human body. And a baby’s skin was ultrasensitive. But maybe he had that wrong. When Holly had been born, Emma had given him a stack of baby-rearing books which he’d never read.
Why would he read about babies when playing with Holly was so much more fun? He’d been an expert on getting her to giggle and blowing raspberries. Not so much on, say, when to start a child on solids. Emma took care of all that. He only breezed in for a couple of hours, got Holly hyped up, as Emma would say, then went to the pub. If he didn’t do anything that mattered, then he couldn’t screw up.
When the tub held a couple of inches of warm water Darcy unwrapped the baby and carefully lowered him in. Billy woke up and flung both arms out, his eyes wide and his mouth gaping. Snot hung from his nose in two yellow-green ribbons. He began to cry. Of course. What other response would a baby have to a bath?
