Boys Don't Cry (7 page)

‘Dante, look at your daughter,’ said Dad.

‘What?’

Dad stood up and walked over to me. He adjusted my hold of the baby until it was lying in the crook of my arm, its eyes closed, its face turned up towards mine. It was the first time I’d had to look at it, properly look at it. Its face was round, with plump cheeks and a tiny pink mouth. Such a lot of noise could come from that mouth. Its black hair framed its head like a swimming hat. And it had the longest eyelashes that swept down its cheeks as it slept. It was warm and still in my arms, as exhausted from all that crying as I was. I don’t know what Dad was expecting. Did he think I’d look down at it and decide that flipping burgers for the rest of my life was a small price to pay for having this thing in my life? Did he think I’d hold it in my arms and suddenly realize just how much I loved it? Well, I didn’t. I felt nothing.

And that, more than anything else, scared the hell out of me the most.

Oh. My. God! Was I hearing this right?

Dante has a kid?

Uh-oh. Someone’s heading my way.

Time to make myself scarce. Temporarily, of course.

Dad ran a weary hand over his head. ‘God, what a mess,’ he said more to himself than to me. ‘And I’m already late for work. I told them I’d be in by noon at the latest.’ He headed for the door.

‘Dad . . .’ I struggled to speak but couldn’t say another word. I wanted to shout out to him to stay, to help me, to fix this. I didn’t want him to leave. At that moment, I might have been the sole living creature on planet Jupiter. I’d felt that way ever since Emma had come into my life.

Emma . . .

And now Dad had abandoned me to my stupidity. And God knows I didn’t deserve any better, but I needed someone, somewhere, to help me.

‘Hi, Ian, it’s me – Tyler. I’m sorry, but something has come up. I won’t be able to make it back to work this afternoon after all . . . No, no, Adam is fine. Well, he’s been sent to hospital for further tests but he’s no worse. No . . . I mean, yes, but I’ll explain when I see you, OK? No, nothing like that . . . Yeah, see you tomorrow.’ The phone in the hall beeped as it was put back on its stand on the
table only seconds before Dad re-entered the room.

‘Thanks.’ The word was little more than a whisper, but it was heartfelt.

‘Oh, Dante,’ Dad sighed. ‘You’re supposed to be smarter than . . .’

Pause. I frowned, not following him. ‘Than . . . ?’

‘Smarter than . . . that, Dante. You’re supposed to know that actions have consequences. You’re supposed to be smarter than to end up with a kid at your age.’

But I wasn’t smarter, so what was the point of going on about it?

Dad headed over to the buggy and pulled the oversized bag off the buggy handles. Sitting on the sofa, he opened the bag and started taking out the contents. Formula milk, a baby bottle, a few disposable nappies, a book with chewed corners, an A5 envelope bulging with papers, an all-in-one baby-gro thing with poppers down the front, a couple of baby wipes in a plastic bag loosely knotted at the top, a feeding cup, a couple of jars of baby food. Dad pulled out a wodge of papers from the envelope, glowering as he sifted through them.

‘What are they?’ I asked.

‘Medical records, from the look of it.’ He pushed the papers back where he’d found them. ‘They can wait. I need to think.’

What did he need to think about? I was the one neck deep in crap.

Dad must’ve read my expression because he answered my unspoken question. ‘Priorities, Dante. We both need to concentrate on the priorities now.’ He gave a sigh. ‘I wish
your mum was here. She was always much better than me at being practical.’

‘What kind of priorities d’you mean?’ I asked.

‘Well, for a start, Emma needs food and somewhere to sleep.’

I hadn’t even got that far in my thinking. ‘You mean, like a cot?’

‘Of course.’

I looked around the sitting room doubtfully. ‘A cot is going to look a bit out of place in here.’

Dad nodded. ‘That’s why it will be at the foot of your bed.’

Was he kidding? ‘What? No . . .’

‘Where else is it going to go, Dante?’ Dad glanced down at his watch. ‘I’d better head for the shopping centre now, otherwise I won’t find anywhere to park.’

‘It’s sleeping in my room?’ I asked, aghast.

‘Of course. That way, if Emma cries in the night you can get up and change her or feed her and rock her till she goes back to sleep.’

Oh, hell. ‘I’m a guy who needs his eight hours a night – uninterrupted.’

‘Welcome to the world of parenting,’ said Dad, a knowing smile on his face. He strode towards the door, turning back to face me as he reached it. ‘Oh, and Dante?’

‘Yes, Dad?’

‘You can call Emma “it” instead of “she” until she’s collecting her pension, but that’s not going to change a damned thing. Now, are you going to be OK for an hour or so?’

No.

‘Dante?’ Dad came back into the room. ‘I know this is a bit of a shock, son. Hell, it’s a shock for all of us, including Emma. But you can and will get through this – if you don’t do anything stupid.’

‘Like what?’ What did he mean?

‘Just . . . hang in there. OK? I’ll be back soon.’ And with that, he left the room. Then . . . ‘Adam, what the hell? When I’m having a private conversation, don’t listen at the bloody door. D’you hear?’

‘Yes, Dad,’ came the contrite reply, as fake as silicon boobs.

My brother was the nosiest. Adam loved to know everyone else’s business. But there was no way to hide what was going on.

‘I’ll be back as soon as I can. Dante, take care of your brother and Emma till I return.’

‘Yes, Dad.’ I stood up to put the baby back in its buggy, but it immediately started to stir and to grizzle plaintively, even though it was still half-asleep. I gave in and sat back down again. The baby quietened down at once.

The moment the front door closed, the sitting-room door opened.

‘Did I hear right?’ Adam asked, his eyes round and bright as a full moon.

‘What did you hear?’

‘You’ve got a daughter?’

I’ve got a daughter . . .

I shrugged. I still wasn’t ready to admit to that, not without a bit more than just Melanie’s word for it. ‘This is Emma.’

‘Whoa . . .’ Adam stared at me, eyes still wide, eyebrows raised, mouth open in the shape of a capital O. His expression was a confused cocktail of disbelief, astonishment and awe. ‘Can I hold her?’ He tiptoed over to me as if his footfall would wake up the baby.

I stood up again, already stretching out my arms to hand it over. But then I hesitated.

‘Er . . . you’d better sit down first,’ I advised.

Adam sat down immediately, no argument. He stretched out his arms, impatient to hold it. And yet I hesitated.

‘I won’t drop her,’ Adam promised. ‘Please, can I hold her?’

I placed the baby in his arms. It shuffled and stirred, kicking out one leg, but it didn’t wake up. Adam carefully readjusted his grip so the baby lay securely in his arms. He rocked it slowly before kissing its forehead.

‘She’s lovely,’ said Adam. ‘Hello, Emma. Aren’t you beautiful? That must be from your mum ’cause you sure didn’t get your good looks from your dad.’

‘You’re my brother, Adam, so what does that say about you?’ I pointed out.

‘Good looks bypassed you and waited for me to be born,’ Adam informed me. ‘She’s gorgeous. She smells all fresh.’ My brother raised his head to grin at me, but only for a second. He couldn’t bear to tear his gaze away from the baby. He carried on speaking, his voice only just above a whisper. ‘Hello, Emma. I’m Adam. I’m your dad’s brother. Hang on . . . Wow! I’m an uncle. Emma, I’m your uncle Adam.’

That made me start. My brother was an uncle. At
sixteen years old. Damn. And Adam was so happy – not just his face but his whole body seemed to fizz with joy. The baby opened its eyes. Oh no! I held my breath, waiting for the cacophony to kick off. The baby looked straight at my brother – and smiled. Then it closed its eyes and went straight back to sleep.

‘I’m your uncle Adam and I love you.’ Adam kissed Emma once again on the forehead before holding the baby closer.

Emma had smiled at him. And I’d never heard Adam say he loved anyone. But just like that, he loved the baby. How did that work? And why did it make me feel so . . . so empty?

Adam didn’t want to give Emma back which, to be honest, was fine with me. I had things to do – like desperately trying to find a way out of my predicament.

I went on the Internet and looked up adoption, fostering, Melanie Dyson and paternity tests. It seemed that Dad was right about adoption – it would be bloody difficult, if not impossible, without Melanie’s agreement. Finding information about fostering was even harder. From the info I did manage to find, fostering seemed more likely than adoption, but even that was involved and convoluted. There was website after website about becoming a foster carer, but precious little about putting a child into foster care. All sorts of health workers and social workers had to get involved apparently. More people to witness the mess I’d made. And it seemed that the vast majority of kids were taken into foster care
because
of their parents, not put into foster care
by
their parents.

Every page I scanned about fostering made me feel more and more sub-human. This was supposed to be my child, my daughter, and here I was searching for ways to get rid of it. But I wasn’t just thinking of myself, I swear I
wasn’t. I mean, what did I have to offer a baby? In spite of what Dad said, it’d be far better off without me.

But first things first. I wouldn’t have a legal leg to stand on until I established once and for all whether or not the baby was really mine. That meant a DNA test. But how did I get one of those done without going on one of those shows where people told the whole nation their private business only to be lectured and harangued by the host before the DNA results were produced. Didn’t fancy that – at all. I Googled DNA tests, not expecting much. To my surprise there were loads of online organizations who carried out DNA tests to establish paternity. I scrutinized the details. It looked straightforward enough. If I coughed up most of my hard-earned money, they’d send me a DNA paternity kit. I had to swab the inside of my mouth for cheek cells – what they called a buccal swab – with what looked like a cotton bud. And I had to do the same with the baby, then send off the swabs. Five days after that, they’d send me the results and I’d know once and for all whether or not I was the baby’s dad. It’s not that I didn’t believe Melanie exactly, but she might’ve made a mistake. She must’ve made a mistake, in spite of what she said. It was possible. I had to know for sure. Nothing else could happen until I knew one way or another. I phoned the number provided by one site which seemed more slick and professional than all the others. Lowering my voice so I’d sound more . . . mature, I gave the woman at the other end of the line my details and the number of my one and only debit card. The fee was more than half of all the money I had in the world but I figured that if the outcome
was the one I wanted, it would be a small price to pay.

When I’d finished on my computer, I headed back downstairs. Adam was exactly where I’d left him. As I entered the room, he grinned at me, whispering, ‘She’s still asleep.’

Dad already had an action plan which he was following up and Adam was so accepting. They were both swimming. I was the only one drowning. I flopped down in the chair opposite Adam and watched how he held the baby so naturally, like it was no big deal, like he’d been doing it for years. Like it was the easiest thing in the world.

‘She’s lovely,’ Adam said softly. ‘You’re so lucky.’

‘Lucky?’ Was he kidding?

‘Yeah. You get to be loved unconditionally – at least until Emma realizes what a crap-head you are, which will probably happen when she’s a teenager. That’s when most kids realize their parents are crap-heads.’

‘Oh yeah?’ I said dryly. ‘You know a lot about it for a half-pint sixteen-year-old.’

‘I may be shorter, thinner and younger than you, but in everything else I am greater.’

I laughed, and it felt and sounded strange – and good. This day had already lasted for ever and I hadn’t even been on the same planet as a smile since I woke up.

‘Modest as ever, Adam,’ I said.

But the thing was, he was right. Adam was one of those gits who breezed through exams with the minimum of effort. Actually, it wasn’t just exams but life in general. I, on the other hand, had to slog my guts out. Funny, smart and good-looking, everything came so easily to him.

‘One day I’m going to be a famous actor.’ Adam had regaled Dad and me with his plans for his acting career from the time he was twelve. ‘I want to be an actor more than anything else in the world. I live, eat, breathe and dream of being an actor.’

I mean, please! ‘Is that like the way I dream of being a pop star?’ I’d scoffed.

‘No, ’cause yours is just a dream. You sing like a creaking door. Dad’s gene! But my dream will become reality one day,’ Adam replied. ‘Look at me. I’m gorgeous and can act the spots off anyone else at school. In fact, it’s only my modesty that stops me from being perfect!’

I mean, pleeease! ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the ego has landed.’

‘Adam, don’t set your heart on being an actor. It’s very unlikely,’ Dad told him.

Adam had drawn himself up to face Dad directly. ‘So was going to the moon, or inventing penicillin, but it was still done. Unlikely things happen every day. And if I want it enough, I’ll get it – in spite of what you think.’

‘You should have a backup plan, in case it doesn’t happen,’ Dad warned when it became apparent that Adam was actually serious.

Adam just shook his head. ‘A backup plan means somewhere in my head, I think I might fail and that word is not in my vocabulary. Plus I’m too talented to fail.’

Dad and I had exchanged a look at that one.

And as for using the bathroom each morning, forget it! If Dad or I wanted to stand any chance of using it before midday, we had to put on jet packs to get in there
before my brother. Once Adam hit the bathroom, that was it. As my brother explained it, he had to cleanse, tone and moisturize to stop his skin looking like a gravel path – his words – only it usually took a good thirty to forty minutes minimum. I mean, no one has that much skin, for God’s sake!