Murphy's Child

by Judith Duncan

  That gift was from Baba, and even for Murphy, this gift was special. It was a handmade baby quilt, and she had sewn one for each of her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Baba blankets. All done by hand in such tiny, intricate stitches that they were nearly invisible, all trimmed with the traditional Ukrainian cross-stitch. And now his son had been included in the family tradition.

  “Oh, Murphy,” she whispered, her voice hushed with awe. “This is absolutely beautiful.” She stroked it, then ran her hand along the trim. “And it’s all done by hand.”

  “From my grandmother. She’s made one for each of us kids. Mine’s still around somewhere.”

  Still caressing the blanket, she looked at him, that same look of awe in her eyes. “But this is truly beautiful.”

  Propping his feet up on the coffee table, he studied the blanket. “Yeah, it is. Especially when you take into consideration that she’s turning seventy-six.”

  Jordan stroked it again. “It’s far too special to use.”

  Murphy took another swig, then let the bottle rest on his chest. He turned his head, his eyes suddenly not wanting to focus, the beer beginning to interact with his lack of sleep. “Are you kidding? She’s going to expect to see the kid eating and sleeping with that quilt.” He managed an off-center grin. “It’s a Baba Blankie.”

  A glint of humor in her eyes, she carefully folded the blanket and placed it on top of the fishing rod. “Ah,” she said knowingly. “Well, then.”

  She picked up the next gift with the same carefulness. Unwrapping it to expose a large, thin gift box, she severed the tape with her fingernail, then lifted the lid. Under the protecting tissue was a satin-bound baby book.

  Wiping her fingers on her slacks before she touched it, Jordan opened it with great care, and Murphy shoveled closer so he could see. She fanned through the pages, and he saw a flash of writing. He stopped her, turning back several pages.

  It was the paternal family tree, and Ellen Munroe had filled it all in, the entries done in beautiful Victorian script.

  He lifted a blank onion-skin separator, revealing the opposite page. “And here’s the space for your side of the family.”

  Jordan stared at the entry for a moment, touching the empty box where it said Mother. Then, without saying anything, she replaced the separator page and closed the book, her expression unreadable. “I’ll write thank-you notes first thing tomorrow.” Her smile was tight and strained as she put the lid back on the box, then she brushed invisible dust off her legs. “It was really thoughtful of your family.”

  Murphy’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of annoyance setting his jaw. It was as if somebody had thrown a switch. One minute, she was clearly excited and moved by the gifts. The next minute, she brushed them off as if they weren’t worth the paper they’d been wrapped in. Just like that—m the blink of an eye—she’d reverted to her old, ice-princess self. Renewed anger boiled up in Murphy. Capping his reaction took just about everything he had, and his face felt as if it were about to crack. Deliberately snubbing her comment, he tipped his head and downed the rest of the bottle of beer, angry at himself for letting his guard down, for letting her get to him.

  A brittle silence built up around them, and it was so tense, so charged, it would have only taken one small spark to set the whole thing off. Locking his jaw to keep everything contained, Murphy shoved his head back into the soft cushions and closed his eyes. He felt the weight shift as she stood up. She spoke, her voice very quiet. “Just so you know—I fed him just before you came in.”

  Murphy didn’t acknowledge her. He waited until he heard her bedroom door close, then got up and went out on the terrace and stood staring at the darkened horizon. Damn it, why couldn’t he just let it all go? And why did he keep crossing lines he knew he had no business crossing? And why in hell did he let her brush-off get to him? It wasn’t as if he liked feeling the way he did, as if every single emotion were hanging on the end of a yo-yo. And he bloody well didn’t like that low-grade anger that was sitting there, simmering just below the surface all the time. One way or another, he was going to have to get on with it. He couldn’t keep this up much longer.

  He was spared from another round of grim thoughts when Jeffery started his fussing. Murphy brought him from the nursery, and he and his son spent the next few hours doing the colic shuffle. By two in the morning, Murphy had made a decision. No, he couldn’t just walk off and leave her with the whole show, at least not until J.J. straightened out a bit and started sleeping better at nights.

  If he was going to stay halfway together, he was simply going to have to limit his time here. That was damned obvious. His getting into a snit simply because she’d brushed off the baby-book gift was a good indicator. Somehow or other, he was going to have to find a way to disconnect and stay disconnected. The constant proximity was getting to be too much, and he knew it.

  It was a bad night all around. J.J. was fussier than usual. Murphy managed to catch one catnap about 4:00 a.m when Jordan got up and nursed the baby. Which only made him feel worse. Then at seven he got a phone call from Marco about a major crisis at the site, which he had to go deal with. By the time he got that mess straightened out, he didn’t have the energy to drive all the way back to the condo. So he went to his place instead. He turned off his cell phone, flopped on the bed and slept like the dead for six solid hours.

  When he woke up, his mind was clear enough that he was actually able to think. And one thing became crystal clear. He had to put some distance between him and Jordan. He knew that as sure as he walked and talked. So he came up with a strategy. He’d maintain the night shift with J.J. when the baby was his fussiest, and now that Jordan had started stockpiling bottles of breast milk, maybe he could try to work in two bottle feedings instead of one so she’d get a few hours of decent sleep. But as soon as the baby went down after his morning feeding, he was going to clear out. He’d spend a few hours at the site, and then he’d crash at his own place until it was time to go back to Jordan’s. At least that way, maybe he’d regain some emotional equilibrium. And maybe not. But something had to damned well change. Because he was headed for a wreck if it didn’t.

  That plan worked for four whole days. He told her that things were getting crazy at work and he was going to have to spend more time at the construction site. Which wasn’t a total lie. And with a more controlled, limited exposure to Ms. Jordan Kennedy, Murphy didn’t feel as if he were hanging from a very high cliff by a very thin thread all the time. But he was still drop-dead tired. Things had piled up at work, and he was getting less sleep than when he’d been at Jordan’s full-time—which was maybe a good thing. Chronic exhaustion had him pretty well numbed to the bone. And numb was good. If it hadn’t been for his very active guilty conscience, which rose up to haunt him at the most inappropriate times, he could have almost talked himself into thinking he was actually getting a handle on it.

  But a weather warning of an approaching storm put an end to all that. Although she’d always tried to hide it, Murphy knew from the previous summer that Jordan was terrified of thunderstorms. And that knowledge would have been bad enough on its own, but his guilty conscience knew it, too. Relentless as ever, it pointed out to him in no uncertain terms, that he had, in fact, pretty much abandoned her. And when push came to shove, the little voice in his head won every time.

  So instead of trying to catch a couple of hours of sleep at his place, he grabbed something to eat and had a quick shower, then headed out.

  The heavy, ominous clouds, which had collected earlier against the barrier of mountains, were now rolling in, the dark masses billowing and churning, driven by an angry wind. In the distance, he could see lightning fork from cloud to cloud as bad-weather darkness settled in. After a lifetime of experiences with prairie storms, he knew this one was going to be a beaut.

  The first fat raindrops splattered against his windshield as he squeezed into a parking spot in front of the building, and a bolt of lightning zigzagged across the turbulent
sky just as he ducked into the condo entryway. But it was a good four seconds before the crack of thunder rumbled off in the distance.

  There were several people waiting for the elevator, so Murphy took the stairs two at a time, and even the air in the stairwell was dreary with the impending storm.

  Her apartment was heavy with gloom—the kind of gloom that enforced a thick silence. Just for an instant, Murphy thought both mother and babe must be asleep, but then he heard familiar fussy sounds from the nursery. Dropping his squall jacket on the back of one of the dining-room chairs, he crossed the living room.

  The heavy dusk closed around him as he turned down the hallway, and the fussing increased in intensity.

  Murphy paused just outside the nursery door, his heart giving a hard twist when he caught a glimpse of Jordan through the partially open door. She hadn’t turned the light on, and the same dusk filled the room. She was in the process of changing their son’s diapers, and J.J. was in full temper, his arms and legs flailing, his shrill cry turned up to full volume.

  But it wasn’t the state his son was in that riveted his attention. It was Jordan’s. And she was a mess—her eyes puffy, her face swollen, and it was obvious, even in the heavy twilight, that she had been crying for a very long time. And this was no ordinary distress caused by lack of sleep. This was more—much more. An odd, taut feeling settled in his gut. Something was wrong. Very wrong. He was about to speak, but she tried to comfort their son, new tears slipping down her face. And there was something in her tone—something so wrenching, so desolate, something in the rush of frantic words—that kept him silent in the heavy dusk.

  “Shh, sweetie. Shh. Mommy’s trying to hurry. I know you thought I’d left you all by yourself, but I fell asleep and didn’t hear you. I would never leave you, no matter what. I’m going to look after you until you’re as big as your daddy. Good moms don’t ever leave their babies—not all by themselves.”

  Holding J.J. in place with one hand on his belly, Jordan abruptly covered her face with her other hand, her body racked with sobs. And in that single instant, something clicked in Murphy’s brain and a cold, awful feeling rose up in him. And like a surge of high-voltage current, a whole bunch of pieces slammed together into one awful picture. And he knew. Without a doubt, he knew. It was as if those words had opened a book, and it was all there as plain as day for him to see.

  The cold radiated to his brain, and he stared at her, a sick feeling swimming up through the shock. Abandonment. She was talking about abandonment. The abandonment of babies. She had been abandoned as a child.

  God, he should have put it together a long time ago. But he hadn’t. Because he had been so caught up in his own wounded male pride, he hadn’t seen beyond his own nose. Closing his eyes in a grimace of self-disgust, he berated himself. Lord, he had been so blind. So bloody blind.

  Abruptly another realization pushed through the shock. If his wounded male pride had been a problem, Ms. Jordan Kennedy was armor-plated with pride. She probably had built her whole life on it. If she found out he had witnessed this little scene, it would be the ultimate humiliation for her. And shame was not something he would ever deliberately inflict upon her. Ever.

  Propelled by that one thought, he turned, a sick sensation replacing the cold shock. Without making a single sound, he made his way down the corridor, and with the same stealth he collected his squall jacket and let himself out of the apartment.

  He walked for miles in the rain. Until he was soaked to the skin. Until night settled in. He walked—head down, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, so bloody ashamed of himself that he couldn’t have lifted his head if wanted to. And sick to the soul. It had all been there, if he had only opened his eyes and seen.

  The obsessive neatness. Her compulsion about meeting the rigid standards she set for herself. Yeah. Ms. Jordan Kennedy had sent out all the signals, all right. And abandonment explained everything. Her wariness about getting involved with him. Her walking out on their relationship. Why she never talked about family. It even explained why she wanted this child to know who his father was—that she was so adamant about J.J. carrying the Munroe name. It explained everything, all right. Even right down to the brush-off over the baby book. Only it hadn’t been about the baby book. It had been about the blank page of the mother’s family tree that had erected all her barriers again. It had been all about family—or lack thereof.

  And with every new piece he figured out, a new wave of sickening recrimination would rise up to smack him in the face. He had been such a thick-skulled SOB. No wonder she’d walked out on him.

  But—and this but came after two hours of walking a dozen miles and being damned cold and wet—but maybe this was his wake-up call. Because one thing was for damned sure: he was not going to give up on this woman. Not now. Not after he’d put the big picture together. Not after he’d seen her fall apart in that nursery. He wanted to comfort her so badly he could taste it, but he was going to have to earn that right. And maybe, just maybe this was their second chance.

  It had quit raining by the time he headed back, and he had even dried out a little when he entered her building. But his shoes were still so saturated, he left them outside her door.

  Jordan was sitting cross-legged on the sofa feeding the baby when he entered. Murphy experienced a sharp clutch around his heart. She looked like hell—pale, dark circles under her eyes, and he could sense a deep, unsettling despondency in her.

  But she managed a wan smile when she saw him. “Hi,” she said, trying to make her tone bright. “You look like a drowned rat.”

  He gave her a wry half smile. “I feel like a drowned rat. It was coming down in buckets out there.” He hung his damp jacket on the back of a dining-room chair, then went into the nursery and changed into the dry sweat suit he’d left there. Heading back to the living room, he paused at the archway, his expression turning very sober as he studied her. He couldn’t remember her ever looking so fragile. He wondered how she processed her history, especially when, he knew without a doubt, she would have laid down her life for her own child. And he wondered what it would be like, knowing your mother had abandoned you. Or what it was like, growing up knowing you were all alone.

  Recognizing that kind of thinking was going to get him in big, big trouble, Murphy eased a deep breath past the sudden tightness in his chest. He told himself he was Jumping to conclusions, that he didn’t know for sure. But there was something deep in his gut that said he did.

  Bracing himself to play out the scene, he entered the room and settled in the opposite sofa. Slouching down and propping his feet on the coffee table, he asked the question he knew she expected. “So how was your day?”

  The baby had fallen asleep, and she did up her nursing bra and straightened her clothes. Then she looked up at him, giving him that tight little smile. “Well, it wasn’t a hundred percent.”

  Murphy remembered his sister, the mother of the colicky baby, saying she wished she could just trade the kid in on a new model. Jordan didn’t even joke about it. He dragged up a lopsided smile. “Maybe we should quit shooting for the honor roll and just start aiming for a good, solid C-minus.”

  A tiny glint of amusement appeared in her eyes. “You mean like some sort of remedial program?”

  She truly did look like hell. Besides the pallor and dark circles, her hair was sticking out every which way from a disintegrating French braid. She was wearing one of his T-shirts again with damp spots from overproduction, and her slacks looked as if she’d slept in them—which she probably had. And to him, she had never looked more appealing. He wanted to touch her in the worst way.

  Unobtrusively clenching both his hands, he managed another wry smile. “Let’s face it. This kid has been sent here to test us.”

  Gazing down at the baby asleep in her arms, she gently stroked his black hair with her thumb. “He’s a good boy,” she whispered softly. “He just needs a more experienced mom.”

  It was as if she’d reached over and sta
bbed Murphy right in the heart, and he got such a sharp pain in his chest he almost winced. It took every ounce of strength he had to keep his hands to himself. His gaze never leaving her, he spoke. “No, he doesn’t,” he said, his tone quiet and gruff. “He already has the best possible mother he could ever have.”

  Her head came up and she looked at him, her expression one of sharp surprise. Then all of a sudden, her eyes filled with tears and she quickly looked back down and fussed with the baby’s clothing. Murphy couldn’t stand it anymore. And he knew it was a good thing he was sitting as far away from her as he was. His gaze was level and steady when he spoke. “I haven’t been very easy on you in the past, and there have been times you’ve royally ticked me off,” he said quietly. “But that old history is something else altogether. I want you to know, as far as this parent thing goes,” he said, looking straight into her eyes and meaning every word of it, “you are an excellent mother, Jordan. Don’t ever doubt that.”

  More tears appeared, and he made himself smile. “I love this kid to death, and I wouldn’t part with him for a million bucks. But let’s be frank here. He’s a rotten baby, and he’s giving us both fits. And if we don’t both get a decent night’s sleep here pretty soon, I am going to dump him off on Dr. Jackson for a couple of days.”

  Jordan tried. She really did. She tried hard to smile. She tried to answer. But the tears just kept coming, and there was such a beseeching look in her eyes that Murphy simply reacted. He got up and went to her. Sitting down beside her, he put his arm around her shoulders and gathered her against him, then pressed her head against the curve of his neck. His voice husky with emotion, he spoke against her hair. “I’m going to give you ten minutes to have a good cry, then we’re going to talk.” Giving the back of her neck a light squeeze, he rubbed his chin against her temple. “And you’re going to tell me what other nasty little self-doubts have been going through that pretty head of yours, okay?”