Chapter 21
Ashlyn
“It’s a baby,” Zane says as if that answers the twenty questions that just dumped into my brain.
“I see that,” I say, my eyes darting between a panicked Zane and a distressed baby. As much as I empathize with panicking people, my maternal instincts kick in and the baby takes priority.
“Who’s baby is it?” I ask, going over to the car seat.
“I don’t know,” Zane says as he shakes his head.
“Why is this baby here?” I ask as I unbuckle the belt and free his arms from the straps.
“I don’t know!”
“Where did he come from?” I ask as I hold him in my arms, rocking and shushing him. Then I grab the blanket off the counter and drape it over him.
“I don’t know. The porch?”
“Jesus, he’s freezing. He’s only wearing a onesie,” I say, and hold the baby closely.
“A what?” Zane asks, looking even more confused.
“Nothing,” I say. I pad over to the couch, and Zane follows. “It’s alright. Let’s just take a little peek in your diaper and see what’s going on,” I coo at him. I am curious how long he’s been sitting in his diaper because while it doesn’t smell, it’s definitely full.
“So let me get this straight,” I say as I unbutton the onesie. “Somebody just dropped him off?”
“I mean, I assume he didn’t walk here,” Zane says, and I give him a look.
“Any idea who he belongs to?” I ask.
“Nope.”
“Alright,” I smile down at the baby whose chin is starting to quiver. “Did he come with anything?” I ask.
“You mean like an instruction manual?” he asks snarkily.
“I mean, like a diaper bag.”
“Oh. No. Should he have?” he asks.
I decide to ignore Zane for now and focus on the baby. I peel the diaper back, and he wiggles before he starts crying again. The sound is an immediate trigger for panic on Zane’s normally cool and collected face.
“What’s happening? What’s wrong with it?” he asks.
“Could be a lot of things,” I answer as I inspect him. There’s no sign of rash or neglect, though this diaper is definitely saturated. “Babies cry for all sorts of reasons.”
“Well, fix it,” Zane says, and I look over at him.
“Fix it?”
“Yeah,” he nods. “You worked at a daycare. You’re a professional. What do we do with it?”
“Well, it’s a boy. Let’s start there.”
“How can you tell?” he asks, and I peel back the diaper a little further. A geyser of pee shoots into the air.
“Any more questions?” I ask.
“We gotta figure out whose baby this is,” he says, pulling his phone out of his back pocket. “Bryan? Oh good, you’re still there.”
“Tell Bryan he should probably call the police,” I say as I pull the diaper out from under the baby.
He can’t be any more than a few months old.
I bundle him back up without the diaper.
I’d rather he be warm and dry than sitting in that diaper any longer, even if I am taking the chance of getting peed on. I pull him close to me again.
“Ashlyn and I decided we should have the cops come for sure,” Zane says. Then he stops. “Wait. How do you know Bryan?”
“I met him at the front gate the night I came in to take photos,” I say casually as I rock in place. “He caught me trying to sneak in. I offered him a bag of M&M’s to keep his mouth shut and give me thirty minutes.”
“M&M’s?” Zane shouts, and the baby starts to cry again.
“Can you not?” I ask. “You’re scaring him.”
“It’s that what my security is worth to you, Bryan? A bag of M&Ms?” he asks.
“They were peanut,” Bryan answers on speakerphone.
“Just get the police over to my house,” he snaps before hanging up. He runs his hand through his hair and down his face. I have to admit, he’s pretty hot when he’s frazzled.
“He’s probably hungry,” I say.
“So feed him,” Zane says.
“With what?” I ask, and Zane’s eyes land on my breasts.
“You do know that’s not how that works, right?” I ask.
“I don’t know anything about babies,” he says. “I never had any.”
“Clearly,” I say as I bounce and sway. As the baby continues to fuss and rub his face into my chest, I offer him my pinky to suck on. He takes it, and while I can tell it’s not what he wants, it suffices enough to calm him for now.
“You’re really good with him,” Zane says, crossing his arms over his bare chest.
“I’ve worked with a lot of babies,” I say softly, and Zane’s eyes land on mine.
“You know you never said why you quit that job,” he says, and I feel something inside of me tighten like a layer of protection around my heart. Then I stop, my eyes catching something on the floor below the carrier.
“What’s that?” I ask, and Zane looks.
“It looks like an envelope,” I say. He bends down and grabs it. Sure enough, that’s what it is. I watch as Zane tears it open. But before he can read it, there is a knock on the door, and he sets it back down again.
Zane lets the police in while I continue to sway and cuddle the baby. Despite how wild this whole thing is, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t enjoying holding him. It’s been so long. Well…since the daycare.
“So you woke up–”
“To a security notice on my phone,” Zane tells them.
“And it doesn’t show anything?” they ask.
Zane shakes his head and proceeds to show them the footage. “Whoever it was stayed low to the ground.”
“And walked,” one of the cops says.
“If they were on foot, they would have had to pass Bryan,” I point out.
“Maybe they gave him peanut M&M’s,” Zane mutters.
“M&M’s?” the other cop says and scratches his head. I bite my lip, and Zane waves it off.
“What are we supposed to do? I mean, I’ve never seen this baby in my life,” Zane says.
“We have a system for things like this. Surrendered kids, that sort of thing,”
“There’s a whole process,” I add because I know. Working in the child care field, you deal with CPS from time to time. With the baby in arms, I go over to the counter, curious about the letter Zane was looking at. It’s a handwritten note. I start to read it but stop abruptly.
“First things first, we need to get him to a hospital. Make sure he’s healthy, no neglect or abuse,” the first cop says. “Next, we need to find out who he is.”
“That might not be too hard to figure out,” I say, setting the letter down.
“What do you mean?” Zane asks.
“It looks like his mom left a note with him. It’s not signed, so I have no idea who she is. The baby’s name is Bentley, and according to his mama…” I trail off for a moment, running out of steam. Because the next words, if they’re true, seem to have knocked the wind out of me.
“He’s yours,” I say to Zane.