Maybe This Time

by Joan Kilby

  “I—I just wanted to let you know I had the baby a couple of hours ago.”

  He was silent for three long beats. She could hear the clink of glasses in the background. Maybe he wasn’t sure if he heard right. “I said—”

  “Was there a problem? Is that why you delivered early? Are you all right? And...and the baby?”

  “I’m fine. The baby’s fine, too. I don’t know why he came early. Sometimes they just do.”

  Again, there was a brief silence. “He?”

  “Yes. I had a boy.” She paused. “I thought I would call him William. Not necessarily after you. I just like the name.” No response. She stroked her sleeping baby’s hair where it was stuck to his temple. The skin there was nearly transparent, traced with fine blue veins. “Darcy? Did you hear what I said?”

  “I heard you.” His voice was gruff.

  “Labor was really quick.” Briefly she related events, not sure if he wanted to hear this. But he listened as she told him about the parking lot and the urologist and being whizzed into the delivery room with no time to call Alana, her birthing partner. “The main thing is the baby is healthy. He’s seven pounds, two and a quarter ounces. His hair is thick and dark. The first growth falls out but I think he’s going to take after you—”

  “Thanks for calling, Em. Sorry, but I have to go now. A big group came through the door and I’m here on my own.”

  “Sure, okay. I’ll let you go.” She clicked off and slowly lowered the phone. There was no reason to be disappointed at his reaction. What had she expected—that he would jump up and down in joy? He’d let her know from the beginning the baby meant nothing to him. And she’d made it clear he wasn’t welcome in her son’s life.

  She softly stroked the baby’s dark hair, still streaked with traces of white wax. “I know you’re going to be a strong little man, William. You’ll need to be.”

  She frowned. William sounded too formal for a baby. “Will?” Better, but still too grown up for a small boy. “I’ll call you Billy. Yes, that suits you.”

  She trailed the back of her finger along his downy cheek. She wished Darcy were here. A father should see his son being born, and hold him in his first hours.

  “It’s just you and me, Billy. Your father is a good man, but he won’t be around for you. Don’t worry—you’ve got grandfathers and uncles. We’ll be fine on our own.”

  A lump formed in her throat. Huskily, she added, “I’ll be such a good mother it won’t matter that you don’t have a dad. I’ll do everything for you that a mother and a father would do. I’ll care for you and play with you....”

  Work to pay the bills, and study to ensure their future. She would do it all because she wanted to and because she had to. Her baby was not going to miss out on a single thing simply because his father wasn’t around.

  * * *

  DARCY HUNG UP the phone after saying goodbye to Emma. He’d lied about the large group coming in—although he was alone, the pub was empty. For reasons he couldn’t explain to himself, hearing her talk about giving birth had been too much.

  He carried on with the task of replacing the soft drink canisters, his movements mechanical. The steel containers clanked against each other, the sound overloud in the empty pub.

  He had a son named William. Of course Emma had named her baby after him. She wouldn’t do that by coincidence. She was big on family connections and most of the names on her side of the family were odd.

  She hadn’t asked him to visit. That was good. He didn’t want any tugging on his heartstrings to sway him into making the mistake of thinking he could try to be a father, even supposing Emma would relent and let him. But she wouldn’t. And he didn’t want to risk it. He’d screwed up with Holly. He didn’t want to do the same with this baby.

  Emma had sounded elated on the phone. Elated and tired and a bit wistful. Shame she hadn’t had anyone with her for moral and practical support. Giving birth was hard work. Of course she would be tired. And emotional.

  Carrying an empty canister in each hand, he went out the rear door of the pub and stood them against the building where the delivery truck could pick them up. Across the empty parking lot, through a thin stand of trees, he could see a boy’s soccer team practicing on the public playing field. Parents, mostly fathers, stood on the sideline or in the bleachers, calling encouragement to their sons. He would never be one of those dads, supplying orange segments and lobbying the coach for more field time for his boy.

  He would never hear his son’s first word or see him take his first steps. He would never know the feel of small arms circling his neck or a chubby cheek pressed against his. He would never watch his son graduate from high school or get married.

  He would never do all those things with Holly, either. But here he had another chance and he wasn’t taking it. Wasn’t allowed to.

  Suddenly he was filled with a sense of loss so overpowering he almost fell to his knees on the oil-stained pavement. Loss and shame that he couldn’t step up in any meaningful way for his son. What kind of a man didn’t acknowledge his child?

  Emma wasn’t letting him in. And for good reason. He’d told her he didn’t want another child long before they’d hooked up on the cruise. Nothing had changed. They were still divorced and had no intention of getting back together. Making a lame attempt to be a husband and father again against his better judgment wouldn’t do Emma and the baby any good. He would only prolong the emotional fallout of his failed marriage. The baby was better off with her.

  He dusted off his hands and went inside. Emma was still his friend. He could at least send her flowers. Or even better, take them to her in person.

  Even though it was the middle of the afternoon, he locked up the pub and hung the closed sign on the door, something he hadn’t done since Holly’s funeral. At the local florist he picked out an arrangement of yellow roses and pink carnations and drove to the Frankston Hospital.

  Holly had been born here. Stepping off the elevator onto the maternity ward he was hit by déjà vu so overwhelming and painful he wanted to turn right around and go back to the pub.

  Instead he clutched his bouquet tighter and walked around to the nurses’ station, peering into rooms as he went. Some mothers were sleeping, their babies in a bassinet at their bedside, others were holding court with family and friends. So many mothers, so many babies.

  Emma’s laughter rang out from a room two doors away. He stopped and listened, drinking in the sound of her happiness. For a moment some of her joy found its way into his heart. He’d done that for her, given her the baby she so desperately longed for.

  He paused outside the doorway. Emma was sitting up in bed, her hair tied back in a ponytail. Her eyes shone as she chatted with Alana, who was perched on the bed. Dave, holding Tessa, stood with his back to the door. A nurse stood next to him—Emma’s friend Sasha, probably, judging from her shoulder-length blond hair—and he recognized dark-haired Barb in a black skirt and red jacket at the foot of the bed.

  There was no bassinet. The baby must have been taken to the nursery. The tightness in his chest eased a little. Was that relief that he didn’t have to see his son?

  He raised his hand to knock and then paused as Emma made a quip about some get-together they’d all obviously attended in the recent past, and everyone laughed. Darcy lowered his hand. He didn’t belong here. He wasn’t part of her life anymore. He didn’t know what she was talking about, and quite likely none of these people would welcome him. Alana had been openly hostile to him when he’d run into her at the grocery store not long after the divorce. He didn’t know what Emma had told her, but she clearly regarded him as the enemy.

  He didn’t want to make Emma uncomfortable by barging in and ruining her party. Darcy spun on his heel, wanting to get away before they saw him. At the nurses’ station he passed over the bouquet of flowers. “Give these to Emma Lewis, thanks.”

  As he walked off he realized he’d automatically given her married name. He had no idea if she still
used it or had gone back to her maiden name. Hopefully there weren’t any other Emmas on the ward.

  Where were the damn elevators? All the corridors looked the same. He came to a junction and went right. He found himself in front of the floor-to-ceiling glass walls of the nursery filled with rows of bassinets.

  He picked up his pace to hurry past then found himself slowing. And stopping. With his fingers pressed against the glass like any doting father, he looked in, scanning the sleeping babies for a head of thick dark hair. One look to satisfy his curiosity, and then he would go.

  There, was that him? No, the name tag on the bassinet indicated the baby was a girl. A nurse came into the nursery and moved through the rows. She wheeled away a bassinet near the window.

  And there he was, in the bassinet behind. William James Lewis. His son, bearing his name. Even though he’d been warned, seeing the name tag threw his emotions into unexpected turmoil.

  She should have consulted him before she’d used his name. William. They’d planned to call Holly that if she’d been a boy. Back then he’d wanted a boy so badly. Then Holly came along and instantly he hadn’t cared a jot that she was a girl. He didn’t think it was possible to love another human any more than he’d loved his daughter.

  To have a son now, when his marriage had broken down and he couldn’t handle the thought of being a father again, seemed like fate had played a cruel joke on him. Surely Emma could have found another name, one with no connection to the past.

  He was about to leave when the baby opened his eyes, yawned and blinked. Despite himself Darcy was mesmerized. The baby seemed to be looking directly at him. Even though he didn’t think the baby could focus yet, it still gave him a funny feeling. He had to leave. Now.

  His eyes blurring, he walked swiftly away. Seeing his son had confirmed what he already knew—he didn’t want any contact with the child. Emma probably thought he was coldhearted. The opposite was true. He would bond too easily with this child.

  With Holly, he’d wanted to be a father so badly, but he’d never quite measured up. The pub took up much of his time, and even when he’d been home he couldn’t seem to manage the basics of baby care. Toward the end of Holly’s life he’d actively avoided times of the day when she was most demanding—dinnertime, bath time, anytime he could screw up somehow, the way he had that time he’d tried to change her.... He’d failed Emma and he’d failed Holly. He didn’t want to do that with William.

  Holly’s death had brought him face-to-face with unimaginable pain, made all the worse by knowing he had a hand in it. He never wanted to go through that again.

  October, Spring

  “HEY, ALANA,” Emma said into the phone. She paced the living room with a fussing Billy over her shoulder. “Would you be able to look after Billy tomorrow afternoon for a couple of hours? I need to get some work done on my term paper.”

  “Sorry, I can’t,” Alana said. “Brett asked me to work full-time while Janet is on holiday. I can’t say no. He’s really under the gun. And this is my big chance to show him I can act in an assistant manager role as well as lead fitness classes. Sorry.”

  “No worries. Thanks, anyway. I’ll manage.” She tried to keep the desperation out of her voice. She’d just got home from school. Billy was wet and hungry but she’d wanted to talk to Alana before her sister got busy with dinner. With a new baby there always seemed to be a dozen things that had to be done at once. She was hungry, too. Her nerves were shot, her apartment was a mess and to top it all off, she was coming down with a cold.

  “I could babysit tomorrow night after dinner,” Alana offered.

  “No way. Dave and Tessa need you in the evenings. I’ll be fine.”

  “If you’re sure...”

  “I’m positive.”

  “Is your milk coming in any better?”

  Emma jiggled Billy and kept pacing. He was only two months old and although with Holly she’d loved the infant stage, with Billy she wondered when he was ever going to grow up. “No. I don’t know what’s wrong—other than that he won’t latch on properly. He’s feeding every two hours and not satisfied. I’m having to supplement with formula.” Plus her nipples were cracked and burning, and nursing sessions invariably ended in tears—both his and hers.

  “Put him on the bottle. Why go through that?”

  “I’m not giving up. I nursed Holly till she was a year old and I’m going to do the same with Billy.”

  “Does he still have colic?”

  “Yes,” she said tersely, not happy at the reminder. Every night at ten o’clock when she was ready to fall into bed, Billy woke up and cried for three or four hours. Nothing settled him. She’d tried everything. And she was so sleep-deprived she felt like a zombie.

  She changed the subject. “Have you told Dave about your job yet?”

  “Not yet. I’m really enjoying the work. And I can’t bear to have another fight about expanding the family. He’s pressuring me.”

  Emma winced, hearing herself in the description of Dave. Had she made Darcy feel as desperate as Alana sounded? “If you talked to him, told him how you feel, I’m sure he’d understand. Tell him you’ve been a full-time mum for three years and you just want to feel like you’re your own person again. Find a compromise.”

  “Like you and Darcy, you mean?” Alana sighed heavily. “Sorry. I know you mean well but you giving me marriage advice when your own marriage broke down...”

  “I know but...” Emma hesitated. The difference was, Darcy hadn’t talked about his feelings because his resistance to another child was wrapped up in his grief over Holly. Still, she’d made mistakes, too. “I wish now I’d tried to compromise with Darcy instead of pushing to have a child right away. I should have waited.” Easy to say in hindsight. At the time she hadn’t seen any other course of action open to her.

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “I panicked when he said he didn’t want another child ever. That made me feel I had to convince him now or I’d lose all possibility of having a family.”

  “That sounds horribly familiar. Hang on.” Tessa whined in the background for something to eat. “I’d better go.”

  Emma said goodbye and carried Billy to the nursery and laid him on the change table. He continued to cry as she peeled off his sleeper and wet diaper. “Shh, it’s okay,” she ground out, unable to muster even forced cheerfulness. “Soon you’ll be dry and fed and you’ll be happy. Please be happy. One of us should be.”

  Dispassionately, she went through the motions of caring for her baby, but the truth was, her heart wasn’t in it. It wasn’t only the breastfeeding that had gone wrong. He might as well be a stranger’s baby for all the love she felt. If only she could breastfeed him properly, she was sure the bonding would come. And the joy. At the moment she wasn’t enjoying Billy at all. She felt guilty for not being a better mother and guilt made her resentful.

  He wasn’t an easy baby. And she hated not being her usual self-sufficient, capable self. Nor did she like asking her sister and her friends for help. Everyone thought she was this amazing superwoman—student, nurse and mother.

  Marge had offered her services, anytime. She and Roy had come to see the baby in the hospital, but there’d been no contact since. Emma felt badly about that, but how could she call on Marge when she’d cut Darcy out of Billy’s life?

  Darcy hadn’t even come to see his son. That hurt, even though it was her fault he’d stayed away. She’d been so adamant she would do this on her own and he wouldn’t be involved. So she certainly couldn’t call on him for help.

  Which was fine because she could handle this. She sat in the rocker in her bedroom and put Billy to her breast, wincing at the pain as he tried to latch onto her cracked nipple. He gave up after a few seconds and cried harder. “All right, damn it. I’ll give you a bottle.”

  She went out to the kitchen, fighting tears, and prepared a bottle, grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl for herself. These days she didn’t even have time to shop for groceries o
r eat properly.

  Billy took the bottle with no problems, the little sod. Emma stifled a yawn even though it was only five o’clock in the afternoon. Her books and laptop on the desk taunted her with the work she should be doing. If this had been Holly, she could have put the baby to bed for a nap and had plenty of time to do her term paper. Billy was completely different in every respect to Holly.

  The rest of the evening was a blur—feeding, bathing and changing Billy again. Emma ate toast and peanut butter because she was too tired to make dinner. Finally she put Billy to bed and sat at the dining table to work on her paper.

  Around ten o’clock she was rubbing her eyes, more than ready to call it a night. Maybe, just maybe, tonight Billy would sleep through. No sooner had she thought that than he started to wail. Like clockwork.

  She hurried into the nursery, flipping on the Blinky Bill koala lamp on the dresser. Billy’s scrunched face was red and angry, his little fists clenched and waving.

  “Shh, sweetie, it’s okay.” She scooped him up and positioned him over her shoulder, ready to begin the hours of walking the apartment. Nothing she did seemed to help. He would nurse greedily, then cry some more. Sometimes he threw up everything he’d eaten, making him angrier than ever and hungry all over again. Emma was worn-out.

  In her dressing gown and sheepskin slippers, eyes open only enough to see where she was going, she paced a well-worn route from Billy’s room, past the stack of library books three weeks overdue; through the living room and the piles of clean laundry waiting to be ironed and folded; past the dining table, where flowers were rotting in the vase; into the kitchen, where dirty dishes and takeaway food cartons were piling up in the sink and down the hall to the nursery.

  “Please stop crying, Billy,” she murmured, even though he was wailing too loudly to hear. His hot cheek, sticky with tears, was pressed to hers. “I wish you could tell me how to help you.”

  She’d tried every remedy in the book and then some. Nothing worked. Doubts were creeping in about her fitness as a mother. Was she wrong to work and study? Did he cry because he sensed her fatigue and it made him anxious? Was it something she was eating that got into her milk and upset his tummy? How much longer would this go on? Was it retribution for having a baby on her own?