by Imani King
“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” I say even though I’m panicking. She’s too small. Too fragile. Too sweet. Too precious to be anywhere near my brother.
Brad bends over my shoulder. “See? She’s been doing that for the past 24 hours. I can’t take her on a plane.”
Plane? What was he talking about? I glare at him. “If you don’t start explaining this, I’m calling the cops.”
“What?” he asks. “Where did that come from?”
I bundle the baby up in my arms. She starts squirming, terrified. I can’t blame her. “This is a baby, Brad. Not an unpaid parking ticket. Not a $10,000 hotel room bill. Not a totaled Benz.”
“Jesus, calm down. I knocked up a chick. Nine months go by, and suddenly that thing—” he points at the beautiful baby girl in my arms, “—is there. I still can’t believe it.”
I, also, was having difficulty believing it. “This is your baby?” I ask, though the question isn’t really for him but for the god who thought it was a good idea to let my brother have a baby.
“Yeah. My little girl. Tamara.” For the first time, he looks at the pile of blankets with something akin to sweetness. “She looks just like her mama, too.”
My stomach turns. “Does ‘her mama’ know she’s here?”
His eyes go cold. “She knows.”
I’m startled by the venom in his voice, especially considering the tenderness it suddenly replaced. “Is she okay with you taking her?”
“Definitely not.” His lips curl into a grin. “But it doesn’t matter what she wants. Shawna is into prostitution and addicted to drugs and lord knows what else. Her life imploded the moment she left me. Not that I wouldn’t take her back on the right terms. I’m not a monster. Plus, she loves that thing in her own twisted way.”
I grit my jaw. I don’t like the way he keeps calling his own daughter a thing. “Why were you with a woman like this?”
“She was a good girl when I met her. I can make her a good girl again.”
I take a deep breath. Something about this isn’t making sense. If the woman is on drugs and prostituting herself, why does he want a relationship with her? Why does he want her in his daughter’s life? I mean, I don’t like the idea of separating a child from its mother, but shouldn’t he be more worried about her road to recovery and waiting until she could actually be a positive influence in his daughter’s life than simply being with her? And how, exactly, does one stop being a “good girl” the moment they leave a man like Brad? That comment about making her a “good girl again” sent chills down my spine.
Then again, Brad’s logic has never made much sense to me.
“I’ve had full custody for about a day, and I can’t take it anymore. She won’t stop crying.”
I cradle Tamara closer. “She’s a baby, Brad. This is what babies do.”
“Well, I don’t know what I am going to do. I’m going to Lisbon and then Tokyo. I can’t take that thing with me. I don’t even think they’ll let me on the plane with it.”
Ah. Finally, things were starting to come together. “So you want me to take care of Tamara for a while?”
My brother looked like he’d just been freed from prison. “Jackson, I know it’s a lot to ask--”
“It is,” I agree.
“And it might not go over too well with Anastasia...”
“Understatement of the century,” I blurt out before I can think better of it. Anastasia is a lot of things, but maternal is not one of them.
“I know this is big,” he continues. “It would mean a lot to me. I won’t forget it.”
I wet my lip, thinking. If I say yes, I’d be allowing my brother to avoid taking responsibility yet again. On the other hand, the man obviously lacked the discipline, patience, and heart to care for another human being.
I sigh. There is never a real question. I have to take the baby. There is simply too much at stake. The only question is how I would ensure he can’t take the baby back.
“I’ll do it, but I we need to settle a few things first.”
His eyes grow weary. All of the warmth he’d projected a few moments ago vanishes. “What?”
“If you leave her, she stays here. No sending for her later or dropping in and out whenever you feel like it. Until you prove that you’re able to care for her, this will be her home.”
Brad’s eyes narrow. “What do you mean ‘prove?’ I’m her father. I don’t need to prove anything.”
I’m a bit surprised by his suspicion since he obviously doesn’t want the responsibility of being a father, but brush it aside. There’s more important things to focus on now. “Look, I’m going to be frank. You are asking a lot from me. Before we proceed, we both must be certain of our positions and responsibilities. I need copies of the court documents. I want all of this in writing. We’ll draft something temporary tonight, and I’ll send you custody papers in Lisbon once they’re drawn up.”
Amazingly, my brother doesn’t bend. “I have custody. You don’t need custody. You’re just taking care of her. She’s mine.”
I stop for a second, unsure of how to proceed. Is Brad finally trying to take responsibility, but just uncertain of how to go about it? Just when my heart starts to melt, the little girl reaches out and grabs my shirt.
I look down into her sparkling eyes. This isn’t about Brad, but her. Tamara is my responsibility. Don’t worry, I tell her silently, I won’t let you go.
“Look, I don’t want to raise your child,” I tell him smoothly. “However, if I’m going to be her guardian, I need it in writing. I’m not going to open myself up to any potential lawsuits over this.”
Brad’s lips purse. Money is something he understood. “Fine, but it needs to be quick. I have a plane to catch.” He glances at the bundle in my arms. “Can I hold her a moment?”
My immediate reaction is no. However, I don’t want to do anything to startle him. Brad is fickle, and I don’t want to do anything to make him more nervous than he already is. I nod and hand Tamara to him.
“She looks so much like her mama,” he whispers as he looks down at her. “I’m almost gonna miss you.”
I turn my back so he doesn’t see the dark expression I know is on my face and return to my office. Quickly, I type up an agreement. I know it’s not good enough, but it’s something. First thing tomorrow I’m getting in touch with my lawyer, who will no doubt chide me for taking Tamara in before knowing the entire situation.
When I return, I’m disgusted to find the baby screaming louder than ever. Brad’s no longer holding the baby. She’s back on the floor.
I hand him the document and pick Tamara up. Brad signs it and hands it back. “Here you go.”
I glare at the document. Does he honestly expect me to put down Tamara so I can take it from him? “Put it on the desk by the door. You should get going. You’ve got that plane to catch.”
“Right,” he says slowly. Without a backwards glance, he leaves.
3
Jackson
“What in the world?”
Mom’s sharp question jerks me into consciousness. My eyes fly open and I see her standing in the doorway, arms crossed, eyebrows furrowed, and lips pulled in a tight, straight line.
Oh boy, it is going to be a long morning. She only gets that look on her face when she is brimming with unspoken questions.
Groaning, I struggle to sit up. The pain from my old injury is back with a vengeance. Guess it is my fault for spending a night on the couch.
“Jackson?” she prompts impatiently, tapping her cane on the hardwood floor.
Something brushes against the tip of my nose. I look down at my chest and see two big brown eyes looking back at me. Looks like Tamara slept through the night, so at least my sacrifice wasn’t in vain. I gently tap her little cute-as-a-button nose before turning my attention to my mother.
“Good morning,” I say, beaming with my signature country boy smile that has brought countless socialites, actresses, and models to their knees.
It doesn’t work on mother. She rolls her eyes. “You’re not getting out of this that easily.”
“Getting out of what?” I ask innocently.
“That!” She points to my chest. “Is that a baby?”
“Why, I suppose it is,” I say, cradling little Tamara in my arms.
Her frown deepens with confusion. “It looks real. It looks...alive.”
I have to laugh at that. Tamara also seems to think it’s funny, and does a little coo-giggle.
“Oh my goodness, Jackson. You have a baby in your arms,” she whispers.
“Why don’t you say hello to grandma?”
It’s not often that my mother is speechless.
Scratch that, I’ve never seen my mother speechless before. In fact, in unexpected situations, she generally can’t stop talking. Lord knows I love her, but the woman has an opinion on everything and always thinks she knows best. Of course, it doesn’t help that she often does know best.
I stand, cradling Tamara close to my chest, and walk across the room. “This is Tamara, Brad’s daughter.”
Tamara’s head bobs to the side and her big, expressive eyes roll towards mother.
Mother’s still speechless, but now her mouth falls open. Her bottom lip trembles as her eyes grow glassy.
“Apparently, he fought a custody battle without telling us. Her mother was in a bad situation, and wasn’t fit to raise her. Luckily, he realized he wasn’t fit to raise her either, so he dumped her on us.”
Mother raises a trembling, gnarled hand. The baby reaches out to grab her index finger.
“So, what do you think?” I ask her.
However, mother isn’t listening. The baby lets go of her finger, and mother smiles. “Grandma,” she says softly.
“Yeah.”
Mother’s face crinkles into a smile and she sets her cane on the coffee table. “I would like to hold her.”
“Of course.” Carefully, I pass her into my mother’s arms. She coos at the baby and eases herself onto the couch. I pick up her cane and lean it against the end of the couch so she can reach it easily.
Tamara whines gently. Mother rocks her. “When was the last time she ate?”
I’m startled by the wave of anxiety that flows through me. “I don’t know.”
Mother shushes Tamara as she starts to cry. “I think she might be hungry.”
“Oh God...” Why didn’t I think of that? Of course babies have to eat! But how much do they eat? And what do they eat? And--
Mother smiles warmly up at me. “Don’t beat yourself up over it. You’re new to this.”
Obviously.
“Did Brad leave any supplies?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“Go see if he left any baby food.”
I nod, eager to be useful, and head to the kitchen. I fumble around on the floor, but my search comes up empty. Didn’t diaper bags accompany babies? I sift through the pile of blankets on the table. My heart soars when I grab a bottle, and…
It’s empty.
Of course.
I look around a little longer, but it’s obvious my brother didn’t leave formula. Tamara starts screaming, and anger taints my anxiety.
I return to my office with the empty bottle. “Brad didn’t leave anything but this. I’ll go to Hood River and pick up something up.”
“I should go with you. Picking something out can be overwhelming, especially with all the options available to mothers--and, er, fathers--today.”
I shake my head. “You can barely walk this morning.”
Mother’s smile has a distinct edge to it. “I’m fine.”
“Come on, mother.”
She sighs. “Fine.”
“Don’t look like that. Someone needs to stay with Tamara, anyway.”
Mother smiles down at the baby. “You’re right. I suppose I should be thankful. For the first time in so long, I can actually be of use to you.”
My chest tightens. “That’s not true. You help me out every day.”
“You and I both know that isn’t true,” she answers quietly. Tamara’s crying has subdued somewhat under my mother’s persistent care.
I don’t respond right away. I can’t. And it isn’t because I don’t have anything to tell her, because that just isn’t true. I want her to know that caring for her isn’t a hardship. Family matters more than a flashy life. I wanted this; I chose this; I regret nothing.
But she won’t believe me if I say those things. In fact, she’ll only think I’m lying and will end up feeling even worse.
So instead I ask, “What do I buy for the baby?”
“First off, how old is she?”
I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.
Mother frowns. “Jackson?”
“Brad didn’t tell me.”
“He didn’t tell you? Did he leave any instructions at all?”
I shake my head.
“Did he leave any paperwork? A birth certificate?”
“He left a copy of the custody agreement, and I got him to sign a paper relinquishing custody temporarily.” I run a hand through my thick hair. “Honestly, I was so focused on potential legal issues that I didn’t even think to ask.”
Mother’s eyes look distant and sad. “That’s understandable given his history. Anyways, to me she looks about six months, but it’s been so long since I had babies of my own that I can’t be certain.”
I take out my phone and take a picture of Tamara in my mother’s arms. “It’s okay. I’ll show them this and ask for help. Say that I’m babysitting for my brother and am in over my head and freaking out.”
Mother’s mouth quirks. “It won’t even be a lie.”
“Hey, that's not nice,” I chide good-naturedly.
However, mother’s attention is now solely on Tamara. “Say bye-bye Jackson,” she whispers. Tamara cries out again and mother rocks her. “I know, I know. It’s hard, but everything will be okay. You’ll see. Jackson will be back soon with something yummy.”
For a second, I can’t move.
I thought I knew what being under pressure was. In fact, if you’d asked me yesterday, I would have told you that I excelled at performing under pressure. But all that was before I knew what true pressure was...before Tamara.
No, there weren’t millions of dollars on the line. I wasn’t trying to carve out my own legacy on the football field, or trying to live up to my father’s expectations. To most people, taking care of a baby after all that might have seemed like child's play.
It wasn’t.
Tamara looked at me with raw, pure trust. I could never let that little girl down. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I did. For the first time in my life, I could feel the consequences of failure.
And it scared me.
I turn down the ranch’s long, bumpy driveway, thankful I’d taken the Tacoma. It’s amazing how much can be accomplished with unlimited funds and fawning sales girls. We’d stuffed the truck bed to capacity in under twenty minutes. I probably have enough supplies back there to care for a herd of babies.
That mental image makes me chuckle as I look out at the horses grazing in the fields. Far beyond them is a clear view of Mt. Hood to the south and Mt. Adams to the north. The sky is blue and there’s not a cloud to be seen. Man, it’s probably a perfect day up at Mt. Hood. In a few short years, I’ll take Tamara up on the weekends and teach her how to ski.
I wind around the front of the house, back up right in front of the kitchen door, and start unloading. Clothing. Diapers. Bottles. Formula. Weird, gushy food. There’s not a moment to waste when I get inside. Tamara’s hollering like a coyote in the next room.
“Jackson? Is that you?” my mother calls from the sitting room.
“Coming!” I call back, careful to keep the worry out of my voice. She sounds tired. With her fragile health, this is a lot for her. I’ll have to be careful about how I bring it up, though, because she’ll never admit it.
“Don’t come until you prepare the yummies!” She
says ‘yummies’ with such authority that I snicker. I haven’t seen this side of mother since I was a boy, and honestly it’s pretty cute. Still, no time to dawdle. Tamara needs me.
I pour premixed formula from a can into a plastic bag and try to slide the bag into the bottle. It doesn’t quite work out like I expected it to. Formula splashes out of the bag, hits me in the face, and sprays the counter.
I wipe my hand from my forehead to my chin. Okay, Jackson. Breathe. You can do this. You’re filling up a bottle, not fueling a rocket ship.
Taking a deep breath, I fill the bag with eight ounces again. The bottle has no bottom, so I grasp the lower edge as I try to slide the bag of milk inside. So far so good.
Then, it suddenly gets not-so-good. The bag falls from the bottle to my cowboy boots and splatters across the floor
What? Had I not secured the tabs?
Okay, round three. This time, I turn around the box of bottle liners and read the damn instructions. Heat fills my face as I read the very first line: Insert liner into bottle and fill with fluid.
“Idiot,” I chide myself softly as I take a fresh liner from the box. I get the easy-open tabs open after a minute of determined separating and slide the bag into the bottle. Then, I fill the bag without the formula spilling and feel like I just scored a touchdown.
Is that an over-the-top reaction? Maybe. But guess what? It’s also totally accurate. So maybe I do a little victory dance as I screw that hot pink lid on the bottle and strut to the sitting room.
Mother’s on her back with little Tamara crying on top of her. Her hands are shaking.
“She’s hungry,” Mother says, wincing as she tries to lift her.
“You relax, I’ll get her.”
I lift Tamara out of her arms. I can tell moher is about to protest, but at the last moment she tires out and sighs instead.
I sit Tamara on the floor, criss-cross-applesauce, bracing her with one arm while holding the bottle out for her with the other. “You like that, don’t you?” I ask as little Tamara goes to work.
“You’re a natural, Jackson,” mother whispers.
I look up at her. “She’s just so easy to take care of.”