by Ella James
"Well, dammit, baby," I murmur. "You want me to, what? Just talk and talk and talk? All day? Huh? You want me to talk all day long?"
The crying stops in confirmation. The little thing is making pitiful whimper sounds.
I try adjusting his or her head, propped in the crook of my recently surgerized elbow. It seems strange to hold a baby in that arm, which is still weak, but I’ve been warned against moving the other shoulder.
"Damn...those little sounds are pretty sad. Maybe we should just be happy. Hakunnah matata...isn't that what they say over there at Disney?" I sing-whisper, "It means no worries...for the rest of your day-ay-ays! It's a problem free...philo-sophy....hakunnah matata!" I grin for the baby, spreading my hand out behind its back, which I'm shocked to find is not that much bigger than my hand is.
"I can't keep singing,” I tell it. “I sound ridiculous. People will stare at me, and you know what? I think they're already staring every time I step foot in here, so more staring...I don't know about it."
Dammit all! The little scream machine turns up the volume as I hang a left onto a different hall, where there’s a meeting room door ajar.
"Baby, baby,” I whisper. “If we scream our way through the church, I can tell you for sure there will be a lot of...notice. And that will just be...I don't know. Fodder for gossip or some such shit. Do you wanna be fodder for gossip? Your other daddy, I don't think he needs more gossip." My face actually heats as I realize what I just said. "Your other uncle. We're not daddies. Not yet. If we are, we're just the sexy, screw-me kind of daddies. We're still young guys. You understand that, right? We can’t even agree on how to properly store an apple."
The baby stops wailing abruptly, but he or she looks troubled.
"You're a bald baby. Did you know that? Not a stitch of hair up there. Looking kind of like a little old man." I peel the blanket—which at first looked white, but now, in the light, I realize is pale yellow—back, revealing a white outfit that's got snap buttons up the front.
"I don't know about you, baby. I don't know if this is what a just-born baby looks like, or if you're more of an older guy or gal. You have some very brown eyes. So that's something. Brown eyes are nice. I'm a fan. What do you think of my eyes?"
I widen them as we approach the kitchen. Then I realize that with just my dark, buzz-cut-length hair, which isn’t growing back the way I hoped it would atop the surgical scar up there, my wide eyes are probably more terrifying than anything else.
“Never mind on that. You know, just keep it to yourself,” I murmur.
I'm at the kitchen doors, dammit. I hold the baby closer, using my bum shoulder to push through the swinging door and whispering in a quiet and hopefully soothing fashion as I speed walk through the eating area.
"I don't want to see another human right now. You get that, right? Scandal isn't what we're after. Not today, baby. So we'll just jet up to the pastor's office. You and me. You wanna go up there?"
The little critter blinks, its small mouth twisting like it might cry again.
"Yeah, that's what I thought. You do. You're feeling pretty happy you got dropped with me, a guy that can sing...I don't know...at least better than average. Not great. What do you think the odds are that I found you? Out of everybody? Or maybe some other people passed right by you. Surely not, though? Who would do that?"
Fuck, fuck, fuck...only a few more atriums and then I'll be at the big corridor, and then the staff stairs to the pastor area. If I try to look official, like I'm anyone other than the not-exactly-Christian artist in residence who's fucking the head pastor, maybe no one will stare too much.
But...no dice. The baby starts to wail again right as a bunch of students—at least I think they're students—led by two college-aged girls in deep purple Evermore shirts—approach me.
I give them a brief smile, trying to look normal.
"Oh my goodness," one girl coos. "Is that a baby?"
"Yeah, but he's unhappy. Maybe needs to eat." I shrug and jet toward the staff stairs.
"Is that it?" I ask the baby in the echoing stairwell. "Do you need to eat? I don't know what we'd do about that. Oh wait—I bet there's some baby stuff down in the church's nursery!" I nod my head, and the baby settles down again as I shift my arm. "You understand me, don't you? You're a magic baby."
I have lost my fucking mind.
Then I'm at the door that leads into the pastor's wing. I push it open with my back this time, so as not to irritate the just-shot-up shoulder, and the baby starts to cry again.
This time, there's no hiding from the eyes on me. I don't know names for most of these cats, but they know who I am, and their eyes pop open wide when they see I'm holding a wailing baby.
"Wow," one says, at the same time another guy says, "That guy's not happy."
I just nod, moving as quickly as I can toward Luke's door. When I reach his receptionist, I blink and realize it's not even her. It's Pearl sitting behind the desk.
"Vance! Hi there.” Her eyes widen as she realizes what I’m holding. “Oh, wow. Who is this darling little angel?"
"I've got a baby in these blankets, Pearl," I whisper-hiss. "Someone left it at the door for me and Luke."
Her eyes peel open wider.
"Can I see Luke, or is this a bad time?" I ask.
"Any time is a good time if it's you, Vance. He tells me that all the time."
She knocks once, and the door opens. Luke is already standing there, frowning. His eyes widen as he registers me.
"V. What's—"
I step past him. "Sky. I've got a baby."
Luke
"Well, you're right. That does seem like a baby." I can't help laughing as Vance hops from one foot to the other with the blanket-swathed baby in his arms, looking horrified and also guilty that he can't appease it. "Where’d you get it?"
His face falls, and my stomach does a quick twist. "That's the bad thing here, Luke. Someone left this little tyke," he says in a slight sing song, looking down into the baby's face, "by the back door. In a box, like a U-Haul moving box. With a note that said the baby is for us. For the gays or some shit like that. Since the pastor wants a lot of babies."
I can't even process what he's saying for a second. "So you're telling me this is a safe-surrendered baby?"
Vance frowns, holding the bundle closer to his chest, and my eyes move down him, noting his blue T-shirt and black jeans and his short hair and the scruff on his jaw. I don’t remember him wearing that this morning, but he looks amazing.
"We get that sometimes here,” I go on. “People drop their babies off. I would say it happens roughly every two months?"
His eyes fly from the baby to me. "Are you fucking kidding?"
I can't help a soft laugh at the look on his face. "Yeah, Rayne. It seems like a safe place, and a lot of people are in trouble, or they don't have the resources to care for a new baby. We even became a designated drop off spot last year. In the same way the fire stations are. It’s called a Safe Surrender spot. So they know it's okay to drop their babies off here."
"Do they put your name on them like this every time it happens?"
I laugh again. "They don't. Not normally. I mean, I think it might have happened once or twice."
"Once or twice, someone gave you a baby, and you never mentioned this before now?"
I laugh again. "I guess it is a little unusual."
"Um...a little." He bounces with the baby. "Dude, I think this thing is hungry. Do you see it chewing on its little fist here?"
He steps closer to me, and I do see the baby eating its hand. "We'll have to take it to the nursery,” I tell V. “And get some infant formula. That's the fastest way. Then we can call the right people."
Vance nods and I stroke the baby's soft forehead. "Hey little guy. Or girl. You want to find out?" I ask V.
He shakes his head, looking horror-stricken. "One wrong move, this scream machine will go off again. I think we should feed it first."
I can't help a big grin.
"You look nice holding a baby, Vanny. I like it."
"It's making me nervous," he says, looking nervous.
"Don't be nervous. We can find a rocking chair down in the nursery and you'll give the little girl or guy a bottle. That's when babies go to sleep, and they can be sweet to hold and look at."
"How do you know?" Vance asks as I grab my cell phone from my desk.
"From some of the other ones that people dropped off here. I usually go down and see them. Also, from the aid work I’ve done, back when I was younger."
"So you really do that?" There's a notch between his dark brows.
I'm smiling at the baby, so I'm not sure what he means at first. "Oh—do I go see the surrendered babies?" I laugh. "Yeah, I do. Does that seem strange?"
"Sort of. Like someone dropping elves off at the workshop, and big Santa ho-ho-hos on down to see them."
I don't know why, but the way V quirks one dark brow combined with those words is so funny that I start laughing and can't stop till my cheeks ache.
"Big Santa! Is that what I am to you, Rayne? Nothing but a...big Santa?" I'm chuckling again—like Santa, I guess.
V rolls his eyes. "I don't know." He tilts his head, looking down at the baby before casting his gaze back to mine. "What do you think?" It's a murmur. "Do you think this face belongs to a girl or a boy?"
I arch a brow at Mr. Progressive Chelsea Artist. "I think it's a bit too early to say. Maybe by at least a few years." Touche
"Ohh, touché." He smiles, and it's warm and maybe slightly surprised.
"Whoever it is, they are awfully pretty." I open my office door and nod toward it. "Let's go down and get a bottle."
"Do you know how to make one?" he asks quietly as we make our way through the pastor’s suite.
"I think so."
Several people give us curious looks, but no one wants to interrupt us, I guess, because no one asks about the bundle.
"Do these babies like...go into foster homes or what?" Rayne asks as we go down the staff stairs.
"Yeah. I think they do a lot. We've got some foster families here within the church, so the babies we get here sometimes go to them. There's a bunch of us certified to take a baby."
"Us?" He twists his face into a surprised look.
"Yeah, even I am. Big Santa." I waggle my brows, and Vance still looks confused.
"I could take in foster children if I wanted, Rayne babe. I see you have questions." I laugh, and he laughs, too.
"Have you done it before?" he asks, smiling and looking confused all at once.
"I have."
"You have?" he says.
I laugh again. "You're giving me a complex, Vanny."
"It's just..." The baby lets out a small cry, and V starts cooing to her. Or him. I think the baby's features look more feminine, but who can say about a baby?
I spend the last few seconds we're on the stairs grinning as V twists his face up like a clown to amuse the tiny creature in his arms, and then Rayne says, "Oh shit!"
I look down and see the baby's gnawing on his finger.
"Hope they're clean." I chuckle.
"Shit, it's good that I'm a germophobe,” he says.
"Would you call yourself one?"
"Because of my asthma," he says with hesitation.
"That's right." We won’t get on that subject right now.
"So...this way?" He nods to a hall on our right. "To the nursery and the kid stuff?"
"That way."
He walks faster as the baby starts to fuss again. The bouncing seems to soothe him or her, so V turns his attention to me again. "You never mentioned taking foster kids."
"Because it wasn't kids. I took in a foster child once, shortly after I started working at the church. You want to hear the story?"
He nods, looking bright-eyed.
"It was a four-year-old girl. Ana. She was a refugee, and she needed someone Spanish-speaking to take care of her. I spoke Spanish. I happened to find her at the church's front doors, and she got attached. So I took her home with me."
"Oh, wow."
I nod, smiling at the memory. "I wasn't sure if I could do it, but I did, and we did well together. She was with me for three months until someone from our church adopted her. Turned out her mother took her to our doors as she was dying from cancer. So she needed something permanent rather than foster care. That family—the one that took Ana forever—had two Spanish-speaking children adopted from El Salvador, so it made some sense."
"Is she...uh...still around here?"
Sweet Vance. I can tell he’s being cautious. Trying not to upset me or something along those lines.
So I’m happy to report, "She is. She's thirteen or maybe fourteen now? I see her every Sunday."
"Damn. I just had no idea."
I wink. "Santa's full of surprises."
"Somehow I thought you'd mention a bag of toys." Vance chuckles, and I shake my head. "In front of a baby, too. Someone's on the naughty, naughty list, Rayne."
As if in protest of what I said, the baby starts to yowl, and Vance doubles the length of his strides, nearly bounding toward the nursery. I jog out ahead of him, grinning as I run backwards so I can watch V being awkwardly paternalistic with a little baby.
"I see a hot daddy," I tease as he shoots me a look.
"Sky, what if we waited too long?"
"Too long for what?" I ask.
"I don't know." He looks anguished as I hold my card up to the nursery doors and shoulder through one of them. "Can't a baby...die without enough sustenance?"
"Probably." Which means yes, of course; babies die all over the world every day from starvation—not that I’m bringing that up right now. "But this one looks healthy enough. It'll be okay."
The nursery is a brightly lit space with murals on two of the walls. I notice V's eyes sweep them—probably assessing and almost surely finding them wanting, in comparison to his own incredible work—before settling on a long row of white cabinets. "Where's the goods, McD?"
I smile as I step over to the cabinets. The third one I try holds all the formula.
"Good Start," he says, reading the label from where he stands beside me. "Is it a good start? Do you think she—or he—will go for it?"
"Oh, yes. Most of them are not picky."
V brings the baby closer to his face and gives it a sweet smile. “Don’t worry. I gotcha covered, cupcake.”
9
Vance
"I swear, I've never seen one do this," Sky says.
"Maybe it's the way the bottle is or something?"
Luke frowns at the cabinets and then walks over to them, rifling through one as I bounce the screaming creature on my lap.
"C'mon, little baby. You don't like the milk inside here?" That scrunched red face lets out another piercing wail, and Baby flails its arms and legs as I rock in the nursery rocking chair. I shake the bottle gently in front of her. Or him. "Look at this here. It's some milky milky. Everybody loves milk. When you're big, you get to eat it with cookies."
Luke huffs. "There's not another type of bottle here. I remember someone saying that these little round ones were the best. Some kind of European thing."
I frown at the bottle, which is oddly shaped. As I do, I shift the baby, and I feel his or her diaper.
"Uhh, is it okay for the diaper to be puffed up?"
Luke turns around. "Puffed up how?"
I get up, my heart still fucking racing because this baby is still screaming. I walk over to him, trying not to let the scream stress throw me off my game. "Do you want to hold her or him and see?"
"Let's just go to the diaper changing table over here in this corner,” Sky says, nodding at it.
He leads me over to a white table topped by a green cushion-like mat.
"Just lay the baby down and we can take it off and look."
I hesitate, and Luke smiles as he scoops the baby up and holds it to his chest. "Hi, baby. You having a rocky day?" I'm shocked when the baby blinks up at him, its poo
r, small mouth quavering, and Sky puffs his lips into a duck face. "Maybe this is what's the matter? Maybe you just want a different diaper?" He sounds so damn sweet and empathetic.
With one of his big hands behind the baby's tiny, bald head—red right now from all the screaming—Sky lays him or her down, unwraps the blanket, and exposes two small, wrinkly legs—I'm talking elephant-level wrinkly—and a plain white jumpsuit thing.
"So there's some buttons under here," Sky tells me, "and you just unsnap them." I watch as he does that. "And" —his eyes widen— "yeah. I'd say this baby definitely needs a fresh diaper. This one being puffed up like this isn't how it should be. You were right about that. The puffed up means the diaper’s too old and wet."
He pulls up the white fabric, exposing a Pampers diaper with a 1 on it. "I'd say this baby is about a month or so old," Luke says. “Maybe a few weeks?” Then he unfastens the diaper, sort of unfolds the front piece, and lifts his brows.
"And also a girl baby" he adds, giving her a funny little crooked smile.
I can barely swallow looking at him looking at her.
"Someone left her, Sky." It's a whisper, as if I’ll be able to keep her from hearing.
He's changing her diaper, but his gaze moves up to hold mine. "You'd be surprised at the reasons. Doesn't mean they didn't want her. Isn't that right, baby? Who knows what's going on? After we get you to eat, we'll make some calls and find someone who can help figure it out. Maybe it's just a bump in the road and they'll be able to take her in again. Most all of these people have good intentions."
I watch in surprise and fascination as Luke reaches into the changing tower's second level and pulls out a tube of something, squeezes some onto his finger, and smooths is quickly over the inside of the baby's fresh diaper.
"Diaper cream," he tells me. "Figure it's a good thing just to put it on the diaper," he adds.
It makes me smile. "What, so you don't violate the baby?"
Luke shrugs. "Never know, right?"
