Maybe This Time (17 page)

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?

Slippery little devil, too. He wriggled and twisted, slipping out of Darcy’s grip and flipping over with his face below the water. Crap! Darcy grabbed him and whipped him out and upside down to drain any water that might have filled his nostrils. Darcy was sweating in the humid room and he could smell his own fear.

“What are you doing?” Emma asked.

He glanced over his shoulder. The shower had stopped and he hadn’t noticed. Emma stood directly behind him, naked and dripping, watching his clumsy handling of her precious baby with a curiously detached expression. Even though she was shivering with the cold she made no move to dry herself or wrap up in a dressing gown.

She’d completely lost it. Non compos mentis. He’d been thinking he would bathe Billy, make sure Emma fed him, clean up the apartment and leave. Now he realized there was no way he could leave her on her own.

In a detached fashion another part of his brain registered her body. Her belly was still slightly rounded from childbirth, her breasts were full and the nipples bright red. Even postpartum she was sexy. Ordinarily he would feel lust seeing her fresh from the shower without a stitch on. But with her in this state it was wrong, like lusting after someone not capable of rational thought.

He averted his gaze. Even looking at her was wrong because he was doing so without her informed consent. Instead he concentrated on Billy, holding him firmly in one hand while he cleaned him with a soapy cloth, gently getting in between the crevices and folds.

“You’d better dry off and put some clothes on,” he said. “Then get ready to feed him. He feels hot.”

“I have no milk.”

Darcy glanced over his shoulder again. She’d made no move to dress. “What have you been feeding him?”

“I have a trickle. And I’m supplementing with formula.” She cupped her breasts, wincing when she touched her cracked nipples. “He won’t latch on properly so the milk hasn’t come in the way it should.”

Darcy pulled the baby from the water and looked around for a towel. “Pass me a towel? And put something on, for heaven’s sake.”

She pulled her dressing gown on over her still-wet body. “I’ll see if I can find a clean towel in the hall.” Off she went as if everyone kept their clean linen on the hall carpet.

Meanwhile Billy was shivering and whimpering. Darcy couldn’t wrap him back up in the dirty towel. Poor little sod. He unbuttoned his shirt and tucked the wet baby inside next to his bare skin, pulling the shirt over his back as far as he could. Billy stopped wriggling. He stopped crying. He snuggled in as if he belonged there.

Oh, man. Darcy could feel a tiny heart beating next to his. He glimpsed himself in the foggy mirror, a frazzled-looking man with a huge lump in his chest. And he didn’t mean the baby.

* * *

E
MMA SIFTED THROUGH
the piles of clothes for a clean towel. She really ought to tidy up a little. But hey, it wasn’t like Darcy had never left a dirty mug on the coffee table. She held a towel to her nose but her sinuses were too blocked to tell if it was clean or dirty.

She picked her way across the living room and drew the curtains to hold the towel up to the window. She was surprised to see daylight. What time was it? The clock on the TV read seven o’clock. Was that morning or evening?

Had she dreamed that moment in the bathroom when she’d stepped out of the shower naked in front of Darcy? Had that really happened? Maybe she’d imagined it. The past few days had been a blur. Once, she’d woken in the dark, delirious with fever, and thought she’d seen hundreds of dwarves in medieval tunics marching off to the mines with pickaxes over their shoulders.

Maybe she’d hallucinated Darcy, too. She listened. She could hear him in the bathroom, clearing his throat. Thank God. She hadn’t gone completely off her rocker. But now she cringed to think he’d seen her postbaby flabby stomach, stretch marks and heavy breasts.

Forget about her appearance, it was her emotional state she was worried about. She had to hold it together. She couldn’t let Darcy know how close she was to losing control. There must be no repeat of her earlier outburst. Cool and calm and organized, that’s what everyone said about her. And she was, really she was. This— She glanced around the room as if seeing it for the first time, and was horrified. This wasn’t like her.

At least Billy was quiet for once. When he cried and cried and cried her brain short-circuited, and she couldn’t think. The cold/flu/bronchitis—whatever it was she had—made her head ache like it was going to explode.

“Did you find a towel?” Darcy stood in the doorway, his shirt half-open revealing olive skin flecked with dark hair. For a moment she couldn’t figure out what the bulge in his shirt was. Then she saw it move and whimper. A fleeting revulsion made her look away.

Billy was her baby, the child she’d wanted so badly she’d basically sacrificed her marriage to have. She didn’t love him. She wanted to, and Lord knows, she’d tried. Sasha, who knew all about maternity matters, had told her that sometimes it took time, that once he was nursing well, the love would fall into place.