Erik the Pink

by Matthew J. Metzger

  Short-term plan, nap and then feed the baby again.

  Long-term?

  Maybe he had to figure out if the next big event was a wedding, or another baby.

  Chapter 8

  Andreas frowned down at himself, and the baggy waistband of his trousers.

  Well, shit.

  He’d tried on every pair of his maternity trousers, and they were all hanging too loose. And part of him was glad he got to abandon the awful things—but the other part knew exactly what he’d look like if he put his tracksuit bottoms on.

  Curvy.

  Soft.

  Feminine.

  Before he’d got pregnant, Andreas had been a fitness freak. He’d run ten miles a day, every day. He’d gotten more flirting at the gym while bench-pressing than he ever got when he went out drinking. If every inch of Erik was soft, every inch of Andreas had been hard—because he didn’t have testosterone to help him tackle his dysphoria. A feminine face always stared back out of the mirror. Skinny jeans made him want to throw up if he caught sight of his reflection. Even a hint of muscle along his arms and shoulders made him want to cry in relief, and after his surgery he’d worn tight tank tops every day for months, in all weathers, just to feel a little less disjointed, a little less disgusted.

  The pregnancy had destroyed all of it.

  And now, he’d found himself in a middle zone. Still too fat for his jeans. But too thin for the maternity pants.

  “Shit,” he muttered.

  He tossed the maternity wear back into the drawer, and slammed it shut. Snatching his dressing gown off the end of the bed, he shrugged into it, deciding to just not bother going out today. They’d taken Beatriz out in the pram yesterday anyway, and Jo would be coming round in the afternoon. He didn’t need to go anywhere.

  He found Erik downstairs with the baby. He’d just given her a bath in the sink and was fastening her back into a fresh nappy as Andreas walked into the kitchen. Timing perfect, Andreas swept her up out of Erik’s attentions, and stole her for his own cuddles.

  “Hey!”

  “You clean, I cuddle,” Andreas sniped, sitting down at the table still holding her against his shoulder. She nestled into the rough cotton of the robe, which had been attacked one too many times by Marmalade, cooing gently at the new sensation. “Hello, gorgeous. Been good for Daddy?”

  She answered by drooling on the dressing gown.

  “Do I get new father points for managing to give her a bath and change her without getting water all over the floor?” Erik asked hopefully, and Andreas chuckled.

  “Yes. You’re getting much better with handling her.”

  Erik pinked a little, shrugging. The effect, combined with his beard, made him look like he’d caught fire. The pink T-shirt didn’t help either.

  “Just doing my bit,” he mumbled, then coughed. “Breakfast?”

  “No, I’m fine…”

  He frowned. “You should have something.”

  “I’ll have a yoghurt later, I’m not hungry.” He pressed his nose against the top of Beatriz’s head, inhaling the sweet smell of baby shampoo and talcum powder. “Just going to have a lazy day in anyway.”

  “Jo’s coming round later.”

  “I know.”

  “Well, we have to do the shopping.”

  “You can go, or we can order it online,” Andreas said. Beatriz grumbled, and he began to rock on the spot with her. “I was just angling for a day in front of the TV with her ladyship here and maybe some company?”

  “That does sound nice,” Erik admitted. “Do I get to pick what we watch? New father points and everything.”

  Andreas chuckled, getting up and wandering off to the living room with his cooing cargo. “Deal,” he called over his shoulder, then carefully eased himself down onto the sofa. Everything had stopped hurting weeks ago, but he was getting the strangest sensation of—well, almost phantom memory. He expected things to hurt, rather than them actually doing so.

  Still, he smiled at Beatriz when she fixed him with a beady stare, and blew on her nose when she blinked owlishly at the new expression. She wasn’t quite smiling yet. Her manner seemed to brighten up when they smiled at her, and she was definitely happier when they were happy, but she wasn’t quite sure of what her own face was yet and how to manipulate it to copy them. Her attempts were quite sweet, but he was eagerly anticipating her first smile.

  “Going to have your daddy’s smile,” he told her in Spanish, and she butted her head clumsily against his shoulder. He chuckled, shifting her to lie down in his arms, and trailed the soft dressing gown cord over her so she could play with it. She scrunched her fingers into the fabric, but snuggled sleepily into his chest rather than played. “Erik!”

  “Yeah?”

  “Can you get her yellow blanket?”

  “Course!”

  A herd of elephants went rampaging up the stairs, just as the whimpering started. Andreas suspected she’d teethe early. She was already soothing herself to sleep by sucking on a corner of the yellow blanket, just like his youngest sister. And Laura had teethed at only three months old.

  “Hopefully you won’t be as bad as she was,” he murmured.

  The herd came galumphing back down, and then Erik leaned over the back of the sofa to present the blanket. Beatriz squeaked as the red beard shimmered into her line of sight, and made a clumsy grab for it.

  “Hello, gorgeous,” Erik crooned, taking her pudgy hand between finger and thumb and shaking it like they were being introduced. “You going to have a doze on Daddy while I finish the washing up, then watch a nice film with us?”

  She wrinkled up her face as he let go, and began to whimper. Andreas rolled his eyes and stuck his finger, along with a corner of blanket, into her mouth. She sucked, curled her hands around his own, then quieted.

  “Think you might be right,” he said to Erik.

  “Well, she’ll be tired,” Erik said defensively. “Up at six, splashing around in the sink for ages, doing her best to make sure I couldn’t fasten her nappy, it’s exhausting. She’ll need all her energy for lunch.”

  Andreas rolled his eyes and tipped his head back. Erik grinned and kissed him sideways, taking the hint for what it was.

  “What yoghurt d’you want?”

  Andreas sighed. “I’m really not—”

  “And you’ll be stuck with her for the whole film, so, what do you want?”

  Andreas glanced down at his bare legs, crossed at the ankles on the carpet. He ought not to. He couldn’t stay in a dressing gown forever. But what would one yoghurt hurt, especially if it would pacify Erik?

  “One of the apricot ones,” he said, and made a mental note not to bother with lunch. “But leave it in the fridge for a bit. It’ll only go warm.”

  “Alright, I’ll bring it out when I’m done with the washing up.”

  He was abandoned after another bristly kiss, and sat back, shifting Beatriz a little higher on his chest. She squirmed, rubbing a clumsy hand over closed eyes, and offered a huge yawn, but didn’t move. He smiled as Marmalade dropped down off the windowsill and padded over, curious now that the new toy was quiet. He jumped up onto the arm of the sofa, and meowed.

  “Want to join in?” Andreas asked, shifting his legs up onto the footstool. Marmalade butted his head against the side of Andreas’, and started to purr. “Come on, then. She’s already using me as a bed, you might as well join in.”

  Marmalade was the size of a small dog, and weighed more than Beatriz. When he delicately stalked over Andreas’ thighs and settled down, stretching out along his legs until his tail could drape artfully over Beatriz’s yellow blanket, and his front paws were flexing dangerously close to Andreas’ bare ankle, it felt like Andreas was being pressed down into the sofa.

  “Thanks,” he said sourly, and the purring kicked it up a notch. “Bastard cat.”

  Andreas didn’t even particularly like cats, but apparently cats liked him. He sighed, resigning himself to serving as a chair all day, and t
urned his attention back to the baby. She’d be two months old soon. They’d agreed that they’d look after her by themselves for the first three months, to make sure they’d both bonded properly with her and they could settle in to being parents, and then start enlisting Jo and Lauren for help when they needed a break.

  And one of the breaks that Andreas fully intended on was a free day so he could go back to the gym.

  “I might love every last little inch of you,” he whispered to his daughter, “but you’ve made a right mess of me, you know that?”

  She slept on obliviously, and he snorted.

  “Of course you do. You’re a child. That’s the next eighteen years of my life, isn’t it?”

  The kitchen door closed, and Erik appeared with a spoon, a yoghurt, and a big grin.

  “Breakfast is served,” he said, throwing himself down beside Andreas and earning a dirty look from the cat. “And I picked what I want to watch, so you’re not allowed to moan.”

  “Oh, Christ, it’s something awful you think is funny, isn’t it?”

  “No moaning!” Erik said cheerfully, and leaned over for a kiss. He tweaked Beatriz’ little fist, smoothing it open only to watch it curl up again, then sat back. “Right. We’re going vintage. The Naked Gun, and I don’t want to hear a word.”

  * * * *

  Erik went back to work when Beatriz turned two months old.

  It was weird, starting to think of her in months rather than weeks. But she was visibly getting bigger, and Erik had gone from a load of apps to a single one, in order to start monitoring her progress consistently. Their routine shifted, so Erik looked after her in the morning before going to work to let Andreas have a lie-in or a long soak in the bath, and then handed her back over with a kiss and a cuddle—for both baby and boyfriend—before heading out to work at lunchtime.

  That first day back sucked.

  He’d barely been away from his baby girl since she was born, and Erik distinctly didn’t like it. Lizzy ended up stealing his phone so he stopped incessantly texting for updates. Not that Andreas had replied after the fifth or sixth one. And he’d gotten a taxi home, just to be faster—only to walk in the door at exactly half past eleven in the evening, and find both boyfriend and baby fast asleep in their respective beds.

  Still, he started to get used to it. And so did Beatriz—she started to grumble on his days off if they swapped round who fed her when, and howled mournfully the day that the assistant manager called in sick and Erik had to go four hours earlier than usual. No amount of toys, cuddles or dabs of peanut butter would quiet her: Andreas was the wrong dad, at the wrong time, and her world was utterly shattered.

  “It’s worse than the cat bitching about doors not magically opening themselves,” Andreas had groused that evening, and Erik had been torn between frustration at her exactness, and pleased warmth at her obvious attachment to him.

  On the up side, she was gorgeous in the mornings when Erik had her. She’d outgrown her Moses basket already, and he ended up buying a baby carrier so he could cuddle her and cook breakfast at the same time. He’d take breakfast in bed up to Andreas, then retreat to the living room to play with the baby, watch the news, and obsess over the development app. And she adored it. She’d constantly watch what he was doing, and the minute she woke up from naps she would be crying for someone to pick her up. And then hit the roof if it was the wrong someone.

  She had more attitude than could fit in her tiny body, and it was all Andreas’ fault.

  It was her smile that completely suckered Erik, though. And just about everyone else who saw her. She started to smile early, and when she did, it was the most incredible thing in the world. She had a huge, wide smile that lit up her entire face, and—as long as the stranger wasn’t trying to pick her up—she would bestow it on literally anyone who looked in on her pram. The postman, the cashier at Aldi, the lady who’d asked directions to the bus station, anyone. And it made Erik’s day every time, that bright little smile after her fresh nappy and warm bottle.

  And it was that bright smile that made him write the letter.

  Andreas had never done it, as far as Erik knew. The copy of the picture had been put on top of the microwave in the kitchen, and that had been the end of it. He’d never mentioned it again, and—as he hadn’t been leaving the house on his own for several weeks—Erik knew full well he’d not sent anything, even if he had written it.

  But he’d left his address book out, so Erik copied it out carefully onto an envelope and, one Sunday morning with Beatriz happily sucking on her floppy rattle toy on her playmat in the living room, he sat down with a piece of paper supported by a hardback book, and wrote Dear Isabel.

  And stopped.

  That was all he knew about her. She was called Isabel Bibiano Alvarez, and she was from San Sebastian. That was it. He’d never seen a picture of her. He’d never heard her voice. He knew her only fractionally more than he knew his own mother, and held her in the same low regard. After all, they had both abandoned their children. His own at eighteen months, Isabel at eighteen years.

  He didn’t know which was crueller.

  Dear Isabel,

  My name is Erik, and I’m your son’s partner. We’ve been together for two and a half years now. We have our own house, and we’re planning on getting married someday soon. I make him laugh, he makes me sensible (sometimes) and we both make each other happy. He’s the second-best thing that ever happened to me, and it’s because of him that the absolute best thing ever happened so he occupies both spots, really.

  We’ve just started our own family. Neither of us have one, and we were desperate to have one of our own before Andreas’ medical transition made it harder for us to have children. And that’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me: having a baby with the man I love.

  I’m writing to let you know that you have a granddaughter, and to send you a picture of her and your son. She was only three days old when we took this, but she’s two months old now. She was born on the fourth of January, at quarter past eight in the evening, and she weighed nearly ten pounds. Her name is Beatriz. She looks just like Andreas, and has his hair and his eyes especially. He talks to her in Spanish all the time, and we bought her some Spanish picture books the other day for when she’s ready to learn to read. Her favourite colour is lemon yellow, and her favourite toy is a soft rattle that looks like the TARDIS (I don’t know if you have Doctor Who in Spain, sorry). She has the world’s most beautiful smile, and as long as she’s getting lots of cuddles and always has her little socks on, she’s a really happy baby. She’s absolutely perfect, and we’re already talking about having more.

  But we won’t be bringing Beatriz to Spain to see you, or any of your family. You aren’t welcome to come here and see her either. We don’t want Beatriz to be exposed to the kind of bigotry you showed Andreas when he came out.

  If my daughter ever tells me she has a girlfriend, I’ll just ask if she’s nice. If my daughter ever tells me that she’s actually my son, then I’ll just ask what his name is so I can get it right. We both love Beatriz absolutely and without condition, like you should have loved Andreas. We are already better parents in two months than you managed in twenty-four years.

  Erik

  He held it at arms’ length to consider it, then—when he heard the bathroom door open—called Andreas’ name.

  “What?”

  “Where’s the stamps?”

  “The what?”

  “Stamps! For letters!”

  Footsteps. Andreas appeared at the bottom of the stairs in Erik’s stolen dressing gown, towelling his wet hair and frowning.

  “What on earth are you writing a letter for?”

  “Here.”

  Erik held it out, and Andreas took it curiously. He instantly scowled—then as he kept reading, it smoothed out again.

  “Oh,” he said. Then he crossed the room, put the letter on the arm of the sofa, and leaned in for a kiss. A soft, slow, gentle, promising kiss. A kiss th
at, pre-baby, would have meant Erik had earned himself a sex ticket.

  “I did good?”

  “You did very good,” he said. “But I’ve got bad news.”

  “What’s that?”

  “My mother can’t speak English.”

  Chapter 9

  Andreas ended up translating the letter.

  It captured everything he felt—and seeing their life through Erik’s adoring eyes made him feel warm inside. The way he gushed about Beatriz was sweet, and the way he felt about Andreas glowed off the page brighter than the ink itself. He wished he could write a similar one to Erik’s mysterious mother. So he translated it, and Erik painstakingly copied the translation out, before sending it.

  With no return address.

  “I take it that naming our next baby Isabel is going to be off the cards?” Erik asked as he popped the letter in the postbox.

  It was a bright, cold morning in the middle of March. Andreas had had to give in and wear his tracksuit bottoms, but the cold weather made borrowing Erik’s big coat a good idea, and the big coat hid all the evidence of what Andreas had been assigned twenty-four years ago. Beatriz was preoccupied with a cuddly butterfly toy Jo had brought over the day before that sang if it was squeezed, and thoroughly ignored their conversation as Andreas bumped the pram down into the road and crossed it towards the park gates.

  “Absolutely. As is João.”

  “Your father?”

  “Yep.”

  “I meant to ask, did your parents split up?”

  “Not that I know of. Why?”

  “Well—she’s Isabel Bibiano.”

  “Yes…”

  “And you’re Andreas Mão De Ferro.”

  “Yes…”

  “So—how is your mum not Isabel Mão De Ferro?”

  “Ah.” Andreas snorted. “Okay. So. My full name is Andreas Mão De Ferro Bibiano Frazao Alvarez.”

  “What?”

  “We only used my parents’ first two, it got a bit much. You can go on for weeks with Spanish surnames.”