Chapter 6
DENNY
Tyler’s cries make me want to cry. “I don’t know what you want,” I complain, keeping my voice down so I don’t startle him. “I just changed you. I just fed you. I burped you—I still feel sticky because of it. What do you want now?”
He continues to cry, and I close my eyes. He doesn’t have one of those loud, obnoxious cries that makes you think your ears are bleeding. They’re kind of quiet. The level of sound you think would come out of a person this small.
I take a deep breath and carefully pick him up. His cries quiet to whimpers as I hold him. “That’s what you wanted?” I ask as I rock slowly. “You just needed a hug?”
His whimpers stop, and I think he’s asleep. Just like that.
Closing my eyes, I continue to rock him and revel in the silence. Not for the first time in the past week, I think, I can’t do this.
I don’t know what I’m doing, but whatever it is, I’m failing. I don’t know how to make him happy. He cries all the time. Or maybe it just feels like it’s all the time.
Opening my eyes, I look around. The living room, where we’ve taken up residence, is a disaster. Which is a little startling since I don’t think I’ve done a damn thing but hold him and read baby things on my phone to try to keep him alive!
One of the many things I’ve read is that I shouldn’t hold him all the time.
If he only sleeps in my arms, he’s only going to want to sleep in my arms. It means I’ll never be able to get anything done.
I’ll never be able to sleep. How the hell am I going to play hockey with a baby who I can’t put down?
Not that I’ve been to the arena since bringing Tyler home. Winnipeg has been very understanding of my extenuating circumstances. It’s not like I planned on Sally dying. I have to be with Tyler right now. There’s simply no one else.
They’ve also sent me a whole lot of care packages. Management, my team, my friends, Coach. Everyone has been stupidly helpful and caring.
Also, I’ve called April like eighteen times to clarify something I’ve found online.
She agreed that I shouldn’t always hold Tyler while he sleeps.
But if he cries, it’s absolutely okay to comfort him.
All the bullshit about making babies self-soothe instead of comforting them when they cry is a line of shit.
Sure, I don’t need to jump the second he whimpers, but I don’t need to listen to him cry, either.
I take a breath and, so fucking carefully, I lay Tyler on the couch. Tucked up against the back. I rub his tummy gently and then cover him. I push a pillow in front of him; not touching him, but in case he suddenly learns how to roll, there’s a barrier.
Then I shove the table against the couch, so even if he rolls and the pillow falls away, there’s another surface before he falls to the ground.
I should just lay him on the floor, right? There’s no falling from the floor.
Once I have the table moved, I stand still to watch Tyler. Is he going to stay asleep? Is he going to cry again? Is he comfortable?
As silently as I can, I release a breath and look around. I need to clean this mess. Everything I read says I should sleep when he sleeps. None of those things says who does the laundry or dishes or cooks or cleans while I sleep when he sleeps.
Yawning, I gather the bottles and bring them to the kitchen. I’ve had two deliveries from the hospital of breast milk for him. April stopped over and showed me how to make a formula bottle, too, so I can alternate, or if I run out of breast milk before my delivery, I have something to feed him.
Tyler doesn’t seem to like the formula. I bought every kind that the store had and had it delivered.
April was amused when she looked at my pyramid of formula options.
She immediately took three away, telling me that he likely won’t need them.
They’re for specific circumstances, and Tyler isn’t showing behaviors that indicate he might need something specific in his diet. It helps that he has breast milk.
She’s been more helpful than anything in this entire world. No article or chat has the information she does. Once I get my head on straight, I’m going to find some big way to thank her. Maybe a tropical vacation.
My friends have been over to help me, too. Kroy was here yesterday and… wait. I look around. He cleaned the room. I watched him do it. How the hell is it so fucking messy?
Sighing, I turn to the kitchen and open my fridge.
I smile. Ren has been here. I see a handful of Asian meals in my fridge.
I love when he cooks. Pulling one out, I stick it in the microwave.
I know that’s not the best way to reheat them.
He’s told me before. But I’m too damn tired to put much effort in.
The bottles get stuck in the dishwasher on the top shelf. I’m not entirely sure where the bottles came from, to be honest. The breast milk comes in bags. Maybe April provided the bottles with the milk. She needs a raise.
I lean against the counter and eat my fried rice dish and moan inappropriately. It’s so good. He can cook for me anytime. I will eat anything Ren puts in front of me. I don’t even care.
With another yawn, I stick the glass dish into the dishwasher and return to the living room to check on Tyler. Still asleep. I grab the excess blankets and my twenty shirts scattered around before pausing on my way out of the room.
I’ve read a lot of horror stories about babies stopping breathing. Turning back, I stare at Tyler. I have to piss. It’s probably one of the most harrowing things—going to the bathroom because I can’t take him with me.
I have to trust that he can’t roll away. He won’t stop breathing. A meteor isn’t going to come through the ceiling and land on him. He’ll be fine for the thirty seconds I’m pissing.
I’d really like a shower. It’ll have to wait. My nerves are already frayed between his cries and my exhaustion; I don’t think I have it in me to chance waking him so he can come into the bathroom while I shower.
Making quick work, I dump all the clothes on the floor of my closet and head into the bathroom. Pee quickly, I tell my bladder. Constantly worrying about someone is exhausting. I’m so fucking tired.
I wash my hands far more than I usually do after I piss. Not that I don’t wash my hands, but now I’m terrified of somehow not washing enough and giving Tyler an infection. Babies are so fragile. So vulnerable and helpless, and they can’t tell you when they don’t feel good.
Tyler is exactly where I left him when I come back into the living room. He’s asleep. Thankfully. I kneel beside him and, as if he knows I’m there, he starts to cry in his sleep. I gently rub his stomach.
Maybe he needs the reminder that he’s not alone. Is that why he needs constant touch?
His cries stop, and he gives a stuttering breath in his sleep as he settles again. I lean my head against the couch and watch him through sleepy eyes as I continue to rub small, soothing circles on his tummy.
I’m reminded of Kroy massaging my back. What I wouldn’t give for that again.
I’m also reminded of the conversation that ensued that day.
Choosing not to parent. Knowing that miserable parents aren’t healthy homes for kids.
Acknowledging that choosing what’s best for a kid might not be with their biological parents. It’s okay to admit that.
I honestly didn’t expect to care so much.
The entire pregnancy, I felt detached. I was dreading his birth more than anything.
Call me a shitty person if you want. It is what it is.
I don’t feel obligated to live up to someone else’s opinions.
I won’t make either of us live miserable lives because it’ll make someone else feel justified that we’re living how they believe we should.
Now that he’s here, even as tired as I am, the decision is far more complex than I imagined it would be.
I kind of wish I could talk to Carson’s biological parents and ask them what directed their final decision.
I don’t have someone to ask. I have Carson, who lived as the child in that situation, and he says it’s the best thing that happened to him as a kid.
Some people just aren’t parents. Some people were never meant to be parents. I’m not sure where I fall anymore. I’m surprised to find this more complicated than I thought it would be. I love my little boy. I don’t necessarily want to give him up.
But I’m also aware that there’s no way I can continue down this path. I know with more certainty than I can possibly express that I’m not cut out for single parenthood. Even if I were, how do I go back to hockey as a single parent of a newborn?
With another yawn, I close my eyes. I’ll need a nanny. How do you find a person you trust enough with your newborn’s life, though? Then there are all the travel days that I’ll be away for more than just a handful of hours at a time.
Another yawn overtakes me. I don’t know what to do. I’m too tired to think of a realistic solution, though. My brain eventually turns quiet as I continue to rub Tyler’s tummy with slow, barely moving strokes of my hand as sleep claws at me.
The doorbell jerks me awake, and I groan. How the hell did I end up on the floor? Grunting, I push myself up and rub at my eyes. Tyler is still on the couch. Right where I left him.
I scratch my bare chest and run my hands through my tangled hair as I force myself to my feet. Ouch. Sleeping on the floor is not for the faint of heart. How long did I sleep? An hour? Five minutes? I don’t even remember sliding down from where my head was leaning against the couch.
Another loud dong of the doorbell has me hurrying, so it doesn’t wake Tyler up. I throw open the door and come face to face with… a stranger. I blink a few times, trying to figure out who he is. Did I order a delivery? He doesn’t appear to have any bags with him.
“Yeah?” I say.
“Denny Willow?” he asks.
Am I supposed to know him? I squint my eyes as if that will help me recognize him. “Yes,” I answer.
“I’m Tyler.”
I nod once. Not helpful. Something he likely guesses.
“Tyler Brassard.”
Brassard? Like Sally?
Maybe he reads my thoughts because he says, “I’m Sally’s brother.”
“Sally has a brother,” I repeat.
“She didn’t tell you,” he observes.
I shake my head.
He huffs. “She’s been keeping strange secrets,” he mutters and pulls his phone out. He immediately turns it to face me. “See?”
There’s a picture of the two of them on his lock screen. Heads bent together. Grinning hugely. Now that he’s put the idea in my head, I can’t not see how alike they look.
He pulls the phone back, taps on the screen a couple times, and turns it to face me again. It’s clearly a screenshot. Sally, in the hospital bed with Tyler… our baby Tyler… in her arms, and this Tyler in the upper right corner of the video call.
“She named our baby after you,” I say, a little confused.
He inhales sharply. “She did?”
I nod. “Yeah. Tyler Willow. Tyler Dennison Willow.”
Tears immediately fill his eyes, and he looks away, wiping them with his free hand. It pushes up his glasses, and he almost loses them.
“She wouldn’t tell me his name. She wanted it to be a surprise.”
“Well… surprise.”
He laughs. It’s watery. Sad.
He meets my eye, and I can tell I’m fucking tired because the first thing I think is that his eyes are ridiculously pretty.
Framed by rectangular, black-rimmed glasses, like they’re works of art.
“Can I be a part of his life? Please? He’s the only piece of Sally I have left.
My only family. I was on a plane here when the call came through that she’d died. I was moving here to be close to them.”
Before I can answer, Tyler’s—my Tyler—quiet cries travel through the house to reach me. I sigh. However long I napped, it wasn’t enough.
“Come in,” I tell him. “Take your shoes off. Lock the door.”
I leave him in the entry. My nerves are too hypersensitive right now to let my baby cry when I can’t see him. What if something’s wrong?
Nothing appears to be visibly wrong, at least. He’s where I left him. I stopped touching him, obviously. Sighing, I push the table out of the way with my knee and carefully pick him up. His cries immediately quiet, turning to whimpers before dying down completely.
Hearing Sally’s brother, also Tyler, come into the room, I turn to face him. This is going to get confusing quickly. His attention is on my baby. He stares, his eyes glassy, hands against his chest.
Without speaking, I stand in front of him and carefully offer him his nephew. Big Tyler’s jaw trembles as he accepts little Tyler. I watch as he hugs him closely, tears trailing down his cheeks as he silently cries.
Not going to lie, it makes me tear up.
So he doesn’t feel under constant scrutiny, I leave him where he is and drop onto the couch to watch him.
Not in a way that says I don’t trust him holding my baby, but just because he’s a little mesmerizing.
I can’t miss his resemblance to Sally now that he told me they’re siblings.
Yet, there’s something just… captivating about him.
I don’t mean to close my eyes. My eyelids are so heavy; it’s a struggle to keep them open. They close for longer and longer seconds in which big Tyler has sat on the other couch. He has little Tyler cradled in his arms. He hasn’t looked away.
Why didn’t you tell me you had a brother and named our baby after him? I ask the ether. Obviously, no answer comes to me.
In a way, I feel like I’m watching a part of Sally hold her son. Or maybe she’s looking over the Tylers’ shoulders. Perhaps sitting next to them on the couch.
Yes. This is good.
Good.
Sleep takes me before I can fend it off.