The Next Little Thing: A Jackson Falls Mini

by Laurie Breton

  "Oh." She glanced up at him. "Come to think of it, you're right. I guess Emma really is a MacKenzie, after all."

  "Hah. You're so funny."

  "I thought so."

  "And tired. You look wiped out."

  She mock-frowned. "You left out beautiful. Again."

  "What the hell was I thinking? Exquisitely beautiful, but you need some rest. Maybe I should leave for a while so you can sleep."

  "It'll be some time before they let me sleep." She studied his face, the strong bones, the square jaw, the faint webbing of laugh lines at the corners of those soft green eyes. "You must be starving. All you've eaten since you got off that plane was two Butterfingers. You worked those off in the first hour of labor."

  "Me? You're the one who did all the work."

  "Don't try to scam me, MacKenzie. I know how much work you put into this little operation. I was here, remember? Besides, you have important phone calls to make."

  "Are you throwing me out, Wife of Mine?"

  "Your work is done, my good man. Now it's just me and baby Emma. You, my darling, have been rendered superfluous. Redundant. Utterly obsolete. So very last year's model."

  "Good thing I know you so well. If I thought you were serious, it would be a crushing blow to my ego."

  Cradling the baby against her breast, she reached out to caress her husband's cheek. "Go," she said tenderly. "Go make your phone calls, get something to eat, recharge your batteries, and come back in a few hours."

  "Are you sure?" He caught her hand, kissed her knuckles. "I hate to leave you. Both of you."

  "I know." She pressed a kiss to the top of Emma's head. "She's precious, isn't she? I can't imagine ever being separated from her. But we both need some rest, and they're about to toss you out on your hiney anyway so they can get me cleaned up and settled. And fed. Especially fed."

  "After all the work you did, the least they could do for you is feed you a brontosaurus steak, medium rare."

  "Ha! It'll more likely be a bowl of chicken noodle soup. Without salt. Or flavor."

  "I'd smuggle in a pizza, but I probably wouldn't get past the front door with it."

  "Go on. Get your incredibly sexy butt out of here."

  He leaned, touched his lips to Emma's cheek. "Bye, baby." Gave Casey a brief, tender kiss on the lips. Smiled at her with his eyes and said, more softly, "Bye, baby."

  Casey cupped his cheek and kissed him back. "Bye."

  She watched him walk away. He paused by the door, said something to one of the nurses as he peeled off the green scrubs he'd worn over his street clothes and dropped them into a rolling laundry cart. He turned once, gave her a salute, then he opened the door and was gone.

  Casey turned her attention back to Emma, who was watching her with huge eyes, and said, "Who was that masked man, Miss Emma?" The baby just blinked at her. "That was your daddy," she said. "We like him. A lot."

  Rob

  Everything they'd told him had been a lie.

  It wasn't as much a lie of commission as one of omission. They'd satisfactorily explained to him the mechanics of birth. He'd learned how to feed Casey ice chips, how to rub her back and keep her feet warm. He knew the different stages of labor, knew he needed to prepare for his mild-mannered wife to turn into a raging shrew during transition. Knew how to breathe during each stage, how to help her hold back if she felt the need to push but wasn't fully dilated. He knew that he should expect his brand-new offspring to look red and wrinkled and misshapen. He'd sat, with great discomfort, through a movie that showed a live birth. He was prepared. Or so he'd thought.

  But in leaving out the most significant part, they'd told a massive whopper. Although the childbirth educators had imparted a wealth of factual information, they'd failed him miserably by their failure to address the emotional aspect. He'd had no idea he would feel like this. Even after weeks of childbirth classes and hours spent talking with Casey about the impending birth, he'd been woefully unprepared for the reality of it. Unprepared for the intensity of emotion, for the astonishing level of pain she'd suffered to give birth to the child he'd planted in her. For her stoic response to that pain. He'd smugly believed he knew how he would feel afterward: pleased and proud and happy, ready for the handshakes and the backslaps and the congratulations. How could he have known that the first time he held that little girl and looked into those huge, innocent eyes, he'd feel as though he'd been dropped down an elevator shaft?

  After having Paige in his life for the better part of a year, he'd thought he understood fatherlove. But this was vastly different. Paige had come into his life without warning, and nearly fully grown. They'd danced warily around each other for months before the relationship ripened into something resembling a normal father/daughter bond. The difference between that relationship and this one was so fundamental, so profound, he couldn't put it into words. The birth of this child had his emotions racing all over the place, ping-ponging like a crazed tennis ball. He bounced between elation and terror, pride and terror, adoration and terror. Awe, gratitude, tenderness, protectiveness.

  And terror.

  There weren't supposed to be negative emotions mixed in with all that other stuff. Were there? If this was normal, it would have been nice if somebody'd bothered to mention it ahead of time. He loved that little baby, loved her so much he would gladly lay down his life for her. But the terror wouldn't let go of his vital organs. It wasn't even a concrete terror that he could identify. It was vague and amorphous, an invisible bogeyman that clutched at his insides and squeezed them into a hot ball of anxiety. Wasn't it the mothers who were supposed to suffer from post-partum depression? Not that he was depressed; what he was, during fleeting moments tucked in amongst the pride and the joy, was scared shitless.

  He wasn't the kind of guy who spent much time going to dark places. For the most part, he had a sunny disposition. But sometimes, when those dark places were inside him, he couldn't stop himself from going there.

  What the hell did he know about being a dad? He'd missed those first fifteen years with Paige. By the time she reached him, the most significant portion of her growing-up years was already behind her. The best he could hope for with his eldest daughter was to provide guidance and support, something more avuncular than paternal.

  But this was different. This was the real thing. Parenthood, with a capital P. And with an infant, there was no wiggle room. The first time you dropped the kid on her head, it was instant fail.

  God, she was beautiful! Perfect in every way. Casey had told him once, a long time ago, that it was the most incredible feeling you could experience, the knowledge that you and the person you loved most in the world had created that exquisite creature from an act of love. He'd understood her intellectually, but not viscerally. Not until now. The simple biological fact of sperm and egg uniting to create something so precious, so flawless, was mind-blowing. His awe and astonishment sprang not only from Emma herself—which would certainly have been enough—but also from Emma as a symbol of their deep and abiding love. He and Casey were in a place he'd never really believed they would ever be. He'd wanted to be there, for so long. But it had always seemed so far out of reach it was laughable.

  He wasn't laughing any longer.

  The house was quiet, the kitchen clock ticking in the silence. He'd been gone for five days, and in the interim, Casey had been packing; there were boxes stacked everywhere. Hard to believe that his universe had been irrevocably altered since this morning. Hard to believe, after the intensity of what they'd been through, that the entire birthing process had taken just over five hours. He'd packed a lifetime into those five hours, and now he was as high as a kite.

  He walked to the refrigerator, opened it, stood staring at the contents, remembering his mother's perennial refrain: "For the love o' Mike, close the damn door. Whatever you're looking for, if you didn't find it in the first ten seconds, it's not there."

  He pulled out a chicken leg, unwrapped it, and took a whiff. It passed the sniff te
st, so he ate it cold, standing right there in front of the fridge. He was ravenous, too hungry to care about heating it up. Once he'd eaten everything in the fridge that wasn't nailed down, he was going to take a long, hot shower. Maybe, while standing under the steaming spray, he could wrestle his swirling emotions into submission. Maybe even have a good cry, to release some of that built-up tension. When he wasn't contemplating running away, he wanted to climb the highest hill in town and shout his news to the world. Wanted to relive every moment of the experience. Wanted to smother his wife, that goddess who stood above all other women, with love and gratitude.

  He settled for calling his mom.

  "Congratulations," he said when she answered. "You have a brand-new, beautiful granddaughter. Emma Danielle MacKenzie."

  He heard her sharp intake of breath. "Well," she said, in her classic understated tone. "That is something to celebrate, isn't it?"

  Of all people, his mother understood. Mary MacKenzie might not know all the details, but she knew enough about the struggles he and Casey had gone through to get to where they were now. She understood the significance of this baby. Mary had grieved with them through the losses. She understood that Casey had been the other half of him since day one. She knew about the other women who'd been substitutes because he couldn't admit, even to himself, that he was in love with his best friend's wife. More than anyone besides Casey herself, his mother knew what lived inside his heart.

  "She's beautiful, Ma. Five pounds, eight ounces. Just a little bitty thing. She looks like Casey, but I think she'll have my coloring. She has the most delicate little blond eyebrows."

  "And she's a healthy, full-term baby?"

  " Even though she came early, even though she's small, everything seems to be working the way it should. I helped deliver her. Can you believe that? I actually helped deliver my own kid. I was the one who caught her when she came out. The first one to hold her."

  "Well, then," she said, "that's pretty amazing. In my day, fathers weren't allowed in the delivery room. They all sat in the waiting room, smoking cigarettes, until it was over."

  "Things have changed, Ma. It's a shame Dad never got the chance to experience what I just did. It changes you forever."

  "It does. And darlin' Casey is fine, as well?"

  "She's fine, but she's exhausted. It was a hard labor. It only lasted five hours." He paused, unsure of how to proceed. He'd never thought of his mother this way, as a sexual being. To imagine her going through what he'd just witnessed was unreal. "How did you do it, Ma? Nine kids. I saw firsthand what Casey went through. You know her. She's not one to whine or complain. But the pain just unraveled her. How the hell did you do it nine times?"

  "God made women strong, Robbie. It's all part of life."

  "Whoever said that women are the weaker sex never watched his wife deliver a baby."

  He heard a sound outside, glanced out the window to see Paige getting out of her cousin Luke's ancient Toyota. Long and lean, with a wild tangle of blond curls like the ones he'd worn for most of his life, she looked so much like him it was scary. Beautiful, where he'd been blessed with this ugly mug, but somehow on her, their shared features worked.

  "The first time's the hardest," his mother said, "because you don't know what to expect. After the first, it gets easier. She's been through it before. She knew what she was getting into."

  "We've talked about having two kids," he said, "but I just don't know. To put her through that again—” His voice broke.

  "She'll be fine. Casey's strong, and she's resilient."

  Paige burst through the door from the shed, looking breathless and anxious. He gave her a wink. Said into the phone, "I love you, Ma."

  "And I love you, my son. Your father and I will be up on the weekend to meet the new wee one. In the meantime, give my love to Casey. And congratulations to both of you. This one's been a long time coming."

  He hung up the phone, swiped at a tear. "What's wrong?" Paige said.

  "Nothing's wrong. You have a beautiful new baby sister."

  "And Casey's okay?"

  He tried to make sense of her anxiety, realized she'd already lost one mother and was probably terrified of losing another. He stood drinking her in, amazed by her beauty, crushed by the knowledge that if Sandy hadn't died, he might never have known he had a daughter.

  "Casey's fine. Tired, but that's to be expected. I think that right now, she's walking on air."

  Paige wrinkled her brow and said, "Then why are you crying?"

  He shook his head slowly. Blinked, and took a step closer to her, while she looked at him like he was some kind of alien life form. "Um, Dad?" she said.

  "S'okay." He reached out, fingered a single blond curl, studied her blurred face. "I am so sorry. So sorry I wasn't there for you. So sorry I missed everything. Your birth. Your first tooth, your first step. All those birthdays."

  "It wasn't your fault. We've already established that. Not your fault that my mom lied to me, not your fault that she never told you about me. I've come to terms with it. I think you need to do the same thing."

  He wiped his flooding eyes on his sleeve. And let out a choked laugh. "Count on you," he said, "to get right to the heart of the matter."

  "We're okay. It took us a while, but we're okay now." She stepped forward and gave him a hug. He clung to her, completely annihilated by this uncharacteristic show of affection.

  "Have you eaten anything?" she asked suspiciously.

  "Just a cold chicken leg."

  "Jesus. That was like, three days old. If you can give me a half-hour, I'll make you something decent."

  "That would be great, kiddo. I have a few calls to make anyway."

  First, he called Will Bradley, Casey's dad, and reassured him that all was well in spite of the unexpectedly early delivery. Next came his twin sister, Rose, and his sister-in-law, Trish. He chatted for a few minutes with Casey's brother Travis, in Boston, then called his sister Maeve and his brother Michael. His mother and Rose could take care of the rest of the MacKenzie clan. He would have phoned Colleen, Casey's younger sister, if he'd known how to reach her. She lived somewhere in Florida. But he was sure she'd get the word. Bill, the oldest of Casey's siblings, stayed in touch with his baby sister, even though the rest of the family hardly ever spoke to her.

  Once he finished the calls, he went upstairs, peeled off his clothes, and took a long, hot shower, letting the heat work its magic on his knotted muscles. He felt better afterward. He brushed his teeth and his hair, threw on clean clothes, then stood for a moment studying the stranger who stared back at him from the bathroom mirror. He still hadn't adjusted to the new Rob MacKenzie. It was still a shock every time he passed a mirror and wondered who the hell that guy was. It had been one of those impulsive, spur-of-the-moment things that might have led to quick regrets after the fact. But he'd been closing in on forty, with a teenage daughter and a baby on the way, and it had just seemed the right thing to do. It was time. So he'd called Jesse one Saturday afternoon and asked where he could get a decent haircut, and Jesse had pointed him to a downtown salon called Shelley's Cut 'n Curl and told him to ask for David.

  There, he sat in a swivel chair and watched in the mirror as a flamboyant, purple-haired freaking genius lopped off the wild tangle of curls he'd worn hanging past his shoulders since he was sixteen. A couple of inches long and shaped neatly to fit the contours of his head, his hair fell in soft waves that actually looked, to his utter amazement, pretty damn good. When it was done, he'd been so pleased by the result that he'd tipped the kid a hundred bucks, probably gaining a new friend for life.

  He'd returned home shaking in his shoes, terrified of how Casey would react. She'd taken a single look and her mouth had fallen open, and while he stood there feeling like he was about to face his own execution, she'd just stared at him. And stared at him.

  Then the tears welled up and spilled over, and he thought, Oh, shit. I really stepped in it this time. "Ah, baby, don't cry," he'd said miserably
. "It doesn't have to be permanent. It's only hair. It'll grow back."

  "No," she said. "No! That's not why I'm crying." She stepped closer to take a better look, and said through tears, "Just look at you, Flash. You have ears! Who knew?" She circled him slowly, touched a hand to the nape of his neck, bare for the first time in two decades, and ran her fingers up the back of his head to the crown, where David had left it a little longer. "At least they left enough for me to run my fingers through."

  "I told him to make sure to leave enough to get a good grip, because my wife likes to yank it out by the roots when we're having sex."

  She slugged him, hard. "Keep it up, funny boy, and sex will become nothing more than a distant memory."

  "Hah! You wouldn't last two days, Fiore. I don't want to sound like an egomaniac, but I happen to know that for you, I am like the most potent form of crack."

  Then she was standing in front of him again, and she was smiling. Still weepy, but smiling. "I'd hit you again," she said, "if you weren't right." She studied his face. "Oh, my. It's going to feel like I'm kissing a stranger."

  "As long as you're still willing to kiss me."

  "Are you kidding, MacKenzie? There will never come a time when I'm not willing to kiss you. And I'm crying because I don't know when or how you got here."

  "Here where?"

  "How you got from that scrawny, scruffy, disreputable-looking, guitar-toting twenty-year-old kid to this beautiful, well-put-together, gorgeous, sexy man. I can't figure out when or how it happened."

  He suspected that a couple decades of living might have had something to do with it. And while it had been a sweet thing for her to say, he had to admit that he still couldn't see it. He sure as hell hadn't been aiming for sexy; his loftiest ambition had been presentable. But every damn female in her family, from her sixty-eight-year-old stepmother right down to her seventeen-year-old niece, had fawned over him like he was Robert Fricking Redford. Who knew? they all kept saying. Who knew what was hiding underneath all that hair? Which he supposed meant he must have achieved his lofty goal of presentable, and possibly even surpassed that gleaming goalpost by a yard or two.