His Brother's Baby (Bad Boy Ballers)

by Imani King

  I blush. “It’s just common sense.” Imparted by Tamara’s old doctor, I neglected to add.

  “I’d feel better if you took her in,” Lillian says as she folds the paper. “She’s so small.”

  I don’t protest when Jackson dials the doctor’s number on file. Instead,I focus on eating the eggs and toast while he speaks to the receptionist or nurse. My churning stomach makes the task difficult.

  He sighs when he returns to the table. “There’s no reason to bring her in unless she hits 100.” He turns to glower at me. “I guess you were right.”

  My brow furrows at his annoyed tone. I ignore his grumpy attitude, knowing my lack of sleep would cause me to respond in the same manner.

  A silence fills the room, with only the sound of Tamara banging a teether on the highchair from time to time. She bangs too hard and it falls to the floor, causing her to whine. By the time Jackson retrieves the toy and washes it, she has worked herself up to a wail. She refuses to take the ring when he offers it.

  He places the toy on the table and lifts her from the chair. Then he paces around the kitchen until she quiets. “There. All better—”

  As soon as he stops walking, she starts screaming again. He resumes pacing, and she stops crying. The cycle repeats each time he tries to sit down. Finally, he walks to the phone again and demands an appointment, almost yelling to be heard over Tamara’s screams.

  I take pity on him and lift Tamara from his arms. He gives me a grateful look, turns his back, and presses the phone closer to his ear. I begin the trek around the kitchen, whispering soothing words to my daughter, to no avail. When he gets off the phone, sI am ready to take in the baby too.

  “They can squeeze her in between appointments. I said we’d arrive in about an hour.”

  “Do I have time to take her temperature first?” I ask, concerned by how flushed she has become in such a short span of time.

  He looks at his watch. “Yeah, if you hurry. The drive might take a half hour with all the road work.” Then he lifts the phone to call the office.

  I take her upstairs and use the ear thermometer—a convenience I never could afford when Tamara and I lived in Topeka. I frown at the 101 on the digital readout and take time to bathe Tamara’s face and back with tepid water. I bundle her into a snowsuit and hurry downstairs.

  Jackson frowns when we enter the room. “It’s twenty degrees outside, Shawna.”

  “She’s in her snowsuit—”

  “Your jacket isn’t adequate.” He returns from the mudroom with a puffy down coat. “Wear this.”

  I hand him the baby, take off my Oregon Zoo fleece jacket, and slip on his coat. Tiny frissons of awareness raced through her body as her nose absorbed the scent of him on the smooth lining. I resist the urge to bury my face in the garment and inhale his scent of musk and cedar rolled up in salt. I follow Jackson carrying Tamara to the car. I wonder if this is what it smells like to Tamara in his arms.

  The clinic is crowded, with an assortment of children suffering varying afflictions. Jackson steers clear of a kid with large red bumps, as do most of the other parents. He insists on moving again when the toddler near them burst out with a croupy cough.

  My eyes track the slow movement of the clock on the wall as it ticks on its cyclic path. Nearly an hour of its journey is complete before the waiting room has thinned, and the nurse calls us back.

  After weighing a fussy Tamara, we are shown to an exam room. The nurse tells us to remove her clothes down to the diaper, and leaves after getting another temperature reading.

  Tamara seems interested only in being held. Tamara shivers in Jackson’s arms. I rummage through our changing bag and give him Tamara’s receiving blanket to wrap her in. Then I sit on the bench beside them, fighting back tears.

  He slowly pats Tamara’s back, and she eventually nods off. He turns his head and catches sight of me with tears in my eyes. “She’ll be okay.”

  I nod, incapable of responding, for fear of giving into my sobs.

  His eyes study me intently. “You really love her, don’t you?”

  “She’s my whole world,” I say in a voice thick with tears.

  Jackson shifts Tamara to one arm and puts his other around me. He doesn’t repeat his offer of marriage, or point out the baby could be mine as well if I weren’t being so stubborn, to my everlasting gratitude. Instead, he offers silent strength, and a shoulder for my tears.

  After another long wait, the doctor enters. He is in his early fifties, with graying hair, a mustache, and baby-smooth hands. His smile seems distant, but still holds a note of concern. “Is this Tamara Reeves?”

  Jackson nods and withdrew his arm from around me.

  “Lay her on the table, Mr. Reeves.”

  Tamara whimpers as he stands and cries when he lays her down. I press against his side, anxious to reassure the baby. I grasp her little foot.

  The doctor glances up and smiles at me, and does a double take. “There certainly is a resemblance between the two of you,” he says, before he turns his attention to Tamara.

  I am too distracted to be afraid that Jackson will make the connection by the doctor’s observation.

  After an exam, Dr. Walsh sets aside his stethoscope. “Has she received all immunizations for her age?”

  I almost say yes, before remembering that in my nanny role I wouldn’t know that information.

  Jackson shrugs. “From what I know of her parents, probably not.”

  “I think it’s just a viral infection, but I want to immunize her before you leave.”

  “No!”

  All eyes turn to me at my outburst. Even Tamara’s round and confused eyes fasten on me.

  “Mrs. Reeves?”

  I don’t bother to correct his assumption. “Uh, what if she’s had those shots already?”

  “It won’t hurt her to get a second round. It’s better to be safe than sorry.”

  “Won’t she get sick or something?”

  He nods. “She might, but that’s a normal reaction to the shots anyway. I would feel better ensuring she’s up-to-date.”

  I can’t continue to protest without raising Jackson’s suspicions, so I nod.

  “Let’s hold off, Doctor,” Jackson says abruptly. “I’ll ask my brother to find out.”

  I look up at him and find him looking down at me. He’s got a troubled expression, mixed with an emotion I can’t define. I bite my lip as his gaze shifts from me to Tamara, and then back again. He appears to be mulling over something.

  Dr. Walsh sighs. “I suppose it won’t hurt to hold off until she’s feeling better, but you’ll need to find out soon, in case she isn’t protected. Those diseases are nothing to play around with.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “She’ll need a humidifier and over-the-counter cold medicine. I’ll give her some medicine to lower the fever before you leave.” He strips off his gloves and writes on Tamara’s chart.

  “Is it okay to take her shopping? We don’t have a humidifier at the house.”

  “That’s fine, Mr. Reeves. Just keep her warmly bundled outside. A change in scenery might even distract her from how bad she’s feeling. Don’t tire her out, of course.”

  30

  Before returning to the ranch, Jackson stops downtown and we enter the Christmas crush. He holds Tamara tight, and casually slips an arm around my waist. “I don’t want to lose you in here.”

  I nod. “I can’t believe it’s less than two weeks until Christmas.” I had never had any reason to get excited over the holiday before. Once I began living on my own, I generally skipped right over December 25th. Last year, Destiny had put up a tiny tree on the coffee table. We exchanged cheap gifts and ate Swanson’s Turkey from the microwave, along with canned cranberries.

  “I nearly forgot.” Jackson laughs. “I’ll bet Mom hasn’t. She goes all out every year. She has a party and hires caterers. This year, she’s probably in seventh heaven with a baby in the house again. You and Tamara will love it.�

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  We find the pharmacy outlet to purchase the humidifier, and battle our way to the exit. As we pass the Santa line, Tamara babbles and waves her arm.

  “Do you think she’s asking to see Santa?” Jackson asks.

  I can’t resist a hint of sarcasm when I say, “Well, she’s not quite six-months-old yet, so probably not.” I give him a big grin to show I am teasing.

  He shakes his head and gets in line.

  “Jackson, we’ll be here all day.”

  He shrugs. “Don’t be a spoilsport.”

  I sigh. “Fine. I’m going to do some shopping while you wait.”

  He fumbles in his coat pocket and removes a pager. “Here. I’ll call you with my cell phone when we’re done.”

  I slip the box in my purse. “I bet I’m done before you.” With a quick kiss for Tamara, I merge into the crowd of shoppers, making my way to a clothing store I’d spotted on the way to the pharmacy. I make a few selections, still carefully budgeting the money in my wallet. With this second paycheck, I had enough to repay Destiny the $5,000. I still have a few hundred left. I have no idea how I might have to use that money, so I still need to be cautious with spending.

  Once my purchases are wrapped, I stop by two more stores to buy Christmas gifts for Lillian and Jackson. I don’t shop for Tamara yet, knowing I would get carried away with my selections. My daughter’s first Christmas calls for all-out splurging.

  The pager beeps as I near the Santa display. Jackson and Tamara stand away from the line. The baby sleeps against his shoulder, sleeping. When he catches sight of me, he folds the cell phone and puts it back in his pocket.

  I stop beside them. “Did you get the picture?”

  He shakes his head. “She fell asleep, and given how cranky she’s been, I didn’t want to wake her for a picture. Did you get your shopping done?”

  “I still want to pick up a few gifts for the baby, but I’m mostly done.” I touch Tamara’s cheek, pleased to find she has cooled considerably.

  As we walk out of the mall, Jackson wraps a blanket around Tamara and holds her inside his coat. At the Prius, he is careful to keep every inch of her covered transferring her to the car seat.

  A warm smile teases my lips as I watched him take care of Tamara. His tenderness is evident with every move of his hard body. Not for the first time, had I noticed this contrast—strong enough to hurt a baby beyond repair, but so gentle that Tamara might have well been made of glass. My throat tightens and I swallow hard and slide into the passenger seat.

  Jackson slides in behind the wheel and starts the car a moment later. “I called Mom,” he says as he negotiates the parking lot. “She was relieved to hear the baby will be fine.”

  “Um hmm.”

  “You know, you’ve never mentioned your mother, Shawna.” His tone is casual, but his eyes are watchful. “You haven’t said much about anyone.”

  “I lived in foster homes. I told you that.” I slouch in the seat and keep my face turned toward the window.

  “For twelve years. What about the six before that?”

  I shrug. “It’s not a pretty story, from what I’ve heard.” I only truly remembered snatches of those six years.

  “I don’t care. I want to know more about you.”

  I whip my head around to meet his eyes. “Why?”

  “Call me curious.” His eyes slide from mine.

  I reel off the facts rapid-fire, with absolutely no emotion. “My father went to prison for robbery. My mother turned to prostitution to make ends meet. She got a live-in keeper who liked little girls a little too much. When she found him trying to touch me, she stabbed him in the neck.”

  Jackson’s eyes widen. “Did he die?”

  “No, but the cops and Social Service got involved. They decided she wasn’t fit and removed me.” My even tone belied the emotions churning inside me. I don’t remember much of my life with mother, but I do remember the day the social worker came and took me away. I had clung to mother, screaming and crying. I swore to be a good girl if they would let me stay with Mommy. I remembered the mascara-trail of tears streaming down Mommy’s face, and the words she had hurled at the CPS woman and two cops. I remembered seeing Mommy attack one of the officers who had restrained her. The last image I had of my mother had been of her pinned beneath a burly cop, being handcuffed. Then the social services woman lifted and carried me from our dingy apartment. Then I couldn’t see her anymore but I heard Mommy screaming my name.

  “It sounds like you were better off.”

  My eyes widen. “She loved me, which is more than I can say for the procession of foster mothers who came after her.”

  “Why didn’t she get you back?”

  I think I detect some criticism in his tone. “She tried, but the judge denied her petition and ordered her to be self-sufficient before reapplying. As incentive, he refused her requests for visitation for at least three months.”

  He clears his throat. “What happened when she reapplied?”

  “She didn’t.” The words sound stark even to my ears. I blink back the tears threatening to fall.

  He frowns. “Why not? Surely you were worth trying to turn things around for?”

  I glare at Jackson. “She was killed before she could get back to court. They never caught the guy, but I’m convinced it was the ex she stabbed in the neck.”

  He seem to deflate right before my eyes. “Jesus, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply—”

  “Didn’t you?” I ask bitterly. “Aren’t the courts always right? If a woman loses her child, she must be an unfit mother. No one ever slants a case, and judges never favor the wealthy, do they?” I take a deep breath and bite down hard on my tongue to restrain the end of my tirade.

  Jackson clears his throat again. “So, what happened after you got out of foster care?”

  I go limp against the seat, glad he has changed the subject. My emotions are close to slipping beyond my control. “I didn’t have good enough grades or the money for college, so I went to work and took Vo-tech classes part-time.”

  “When did you meet him?”

  My throat closes with panic, and I stiffen. I have to swallow several times before I can form any sort of answer. “Who? What?”

  “The man who hurt you.”

  I sag with relief. “I was eighteen and stupid. He wowed me with his sophistication and charm.”

  “Did you love him?” He sounds like he is choking.

  I hesitate. “I thought I did, but no, I never loved him.”

  “How did it end?”

  The memory floods back before I can stop it.

  “You don’t tell me no.”

  “Please, Brad, don’t. I’m not feeling well.” I struggle against the weight of him, trapped between his body and the soft Berber rug beneath me. I screamed and pleaded, but he wouldn’t stop.

  I blink away the memory. “Badly.”

  “Did he physically hurt you?”

  I unconsciously finger the scar at the corner of her eye. My voice is strained when I answer. “He hurt me in every way a person can be hurt.”

  “What—”

  “Please, can we drop the 20 questions? My head’s killing me. I didn’t sleep well last night.”

  Our eyes lock for a long moment before he turns his attention back to the road. “Neither did I,” he says softly.

  I ignore his words and turn to gaze out the window. I try to shake off the memories clinging to me as we cover the distance back to the ranch. I am grateful he doesn’t speak again.

  31

  Shawna

  Over the next few days, Tamara steadily improves. Her fever breaks by Friday and doesn’t return through the weekend. She turns sunny and placid once more, much to everyone’s relief.

  Sunday morning, when we sit down to breakfast, Tamara eats a full jar of creamed bananas and drinks half a bottle. “I think she’s all better,” Lillian says.

  I nod and smile.

  “We won’t have to postpone the festivities, in that case. We’ll have our Christmas party next Friday, don’t you think, Jackson?”

  He looks up from his plate. “What?”

  “Will next Friday work for the party? That’s the day before Christmas Eve.”

  “Hmm, that’s fine.”

  “Since the little one’s feeling better, I thought perhaps you and Shawna could select a tree today?”

  He groans. “Can’t we just buy one?”

  She shakes her head. “With all the trees on our land, there’s no sense paying for one.”

  He lifts a brow. “How about you pick it then, Mom?”

  She sniffs at him. “Shawna will do a fine job of selecting the tree. You chop it down.”

  Jackson stands up to take his plate to the dishwasher. “Fine. Dress warmly, Shawna. Who knows how long we’ll be traipsing through the forest.”

  My eyes sparkle with excitement as I abandon my half-finished breakfast to run upstairs and change. The thought of picking the tree and helping to chop it down, thrills me. It seems so traditional, so Christmassy. I can’t wait to get started.

  I change from the leggings and crew neck long-sleeve shirt into new jeans and a raspberry colored sweater. I slide on the new boots I purchased and shrug into Jackson’s jacket, which I had absently slipped in my closet after returning from the doctor. Maybe someday I will return it, but I am not in a rush. It is almost like having Jackson’s arms around me when I wear it.

  When I come downstairs, he holds out a stocking cap and a pair of gloves. “Mom’s,” he explains.

  I slip on the orange set, not even bothered by the color, which fades my complexion. “Okay, I’m ready.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” He shakes his head. “I don’t see the appeal.”

  “It’s the first real Christmas tree I can remember.”

  He looks surprised. “Oh. We’ll have to make sure it’s a beauty, won’t we?”

  I grin and nod, following him into the garage. After loading a chainsaw, rope, and an ax in the back, he climbs into the Tacoma, and I followed suit. “Why the truck?”

  “The best trees are located roughly between hell and yonder,” he says with a grimace. “You don’t want to be dragging a tree back that far.”

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