Chapter 12 #2
“I only just got her back,” I protested. “You kidnapped her this morning, took pride of place next to her all the way home, and then stole her again as soon as our visitors started arriving. I’d like to spend a minute with my own daughter if it’s okay with you.”
Ma put her hands on her hips and narrowed her eyes at me. “You’ve always been a selfish little feck, you, Donovan O’Shea.”
Atlas chuckled.
“Your brother Tadhg wouldn’t begrudge me my own granddaughter,” she added. “He’s a good son to his mammy.”
“Tell Tadhg to have a kid then,” I shot back.
“I will not,” she snapped, her gaze falling on my kid and softening. “Why would I need him to get a rush on when I’ve already got my little angel face, haven’t I, Imogen love?”
It was on the tip of my tongue to tell her Maeve’s secret, but I clamped my mouth shut.
Cal had been so good about the whole Imogen ‘who’s the daddy’ shit show that it wouldn’t be fair to fuck him over.
I mean, he’d been on the hook for a while there and probably went through his own personal version of Hell.
He hadn’t ripped me a new one, so there was that to thank him for; plus, it was Maeve’s news to tell, and I wouldn’t take that away from her. It wouldn’t be fair.
I’d just have to put up with Mam acting nuts; though I had to admit, it was nice seeing her so happy. She’d been lost since Da died, but Imogen had given her a new lease of life, so I knew Callum and Maeve’s baby news would be the icing on a very big cake.
Imogen lifted her head to watch Mam walk away to speak to Rosie. Then she swiveled her little neck and touched my jaw.
“Hey, gorgeous face,” I said brightly.
“Baba,” she announced, and wriggled her butt uncomfortably
My forehead creased. “You okay, baby?”
“Baba. Baba. Baba,” she babbled and wriggled again. Then, to my horror, her sweet little rosebud lips downturned and her face screwed up. “Baba. Baba. Baba,” she cried, tears filling her eyes.
My jaw dropped.
What the fuck?
Why was she crying?
What did I do?
A tear leaked out of her eye and dripped down her cheek. “Baba. Baba.”
My eyes darted around to see Atlas watching intently. “Why’s she crying?” I demanded.
He shrugged one shoulder nonchalantly. “She’s not my kid. I don’t fucking know.”
“Baba. Baba,” my daughter cried out, wriggling her little ass in my arms.
“Jesus!” I exclaimed. “I don’t know what the fuck to do!” I started to sway from side to side. “It’s okay, baby,” I crooned. “Daddy’s gotcha.”
“Baba. Baba,” she sobbed, her shoulders heaving with the force of her cries.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” I chanted, looking around for help.
“When Lola whined, it was usually because she was hangry or she needed a diaper change,” Atlas told me. “Have you checked?”
My face screwed up in confusion. “Checked what?”
“Her diaper, you fuckin’ simpleton. Have you checked to see if her diaper’s shitty?”
My heart plummeted. “No.”
Atlas shook his head as if I was the resident village idiot. “Well, don’t ya think you oughta?”
My gaze dropped back to Imogen, who was clearly distressed. “Will she want me to see...” I nodded downward. “You know, her bits...?”
“She’s not even a year old, shit for brains,” Atlas said dryly. “I don’t think she has a fuck to give. But I suggest you do somethin’ because you can’t leave the poor kid sittin’ in her own shit. She’ll get a sore ass.”
My lungs tightened, and suddenly I found it hard to breathe. “I... Yeah... Right.” My hand felt twice the size as normal and clumsy as fuck as I hoisted Imogen a little higher, turned, and made for the house.
I was almost at the kitchen door when Rosie walked out with Imogen’s diaper bag over her shoulder. “Oh, there you are. Immie’s due for a change, so I thought I’d bring her bag out to you.”
“Who the fuck’s Immie? And I can’t change my daughter out there,” I protested haughtily. “Everyone will see her,” my eyes bugged out and I whispered, “Hoo-ha.”
“Nobody cares about you changing her diaper, honey,” Rosie said softly. “Every single one of those boys has been in the same position. All kids need diaper changes, and you’re Immie’s dad, so you have to learn.”
“What’s with the Immie?” I asked again.
“The girls thought it was cute. Your mom wanted Dolly, and she’s not backing down, so it looks like Imogen may get two pet names which could confuse—”
Rosie was interrupted by Immie letting out a little sob followed by a loud hiccough, and she zeroed in on Imogen’s face. “Why’s she crying?”
“I dunno,” I wailed. “Atlas said she may need a diaper change, but I don’t know how to do that shit. What the fuck, Posy? I can’t even change my own daughter's ass.” My voice took on a whiny quality. “Can you do it? Please?”
Ro tilted her head to one side. “I’m not doing it for you, but I’ll talk you through it. You have to learn this stuff.”
“Mary, mother of Jesus,” I wailed.
“Come on, Drama Queen, we’ll go into the lounge where it’s quiet and lay her on the couch.” Rosie turned on her heel and disappeared back through the door, beckoning for me to follow.
I beat feet, hitching Imogen further up onto my hip and cradling her little head soothingly as I followed Rosie through the hive of activity that was the kitchen.
“I apologize in advance, sweetheart,” I breathed close to her ear.
“I’ve never done this before, and I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, but Rosie’s right; I guess I have to learn some time. ”
“Yeah, you do,” Atlas’s deep voice agreed from behind me.
I swiveled my head. “What are you doing?”
“Watchin’,” he confirmed. “Wouldn’t miss this for all the cider in the Shamrock.”
“Danny,” Rosie drawled in a warning tone.
“What?” he asked, like butter wouldn’t melt. “I may be able to help the useless twat. I got two girls, ain’t I?”
We walked into the living room, and I headed toward the couch where Rosie was setting down Imogen’s diaper bag.
Atlas went straight to the armchair and sat his ass down, then with a cocky grin, he propped his boots up on Mam’s coffee table, laced his fingers together, and rested them on his stomach.
I shot him a pleading look and mouthed, Help.
He just sat there with a stupid grin on his face, ready to watch me go down.
“Lay her on her back and take her diaper off,” Rosie urged.
Gently, I laid Imogen on the couch, took my seat, and then, tipping my head back, I sent up a silent prayer to God and the angels to help me get through the next five minutes of my life.
Lowering my eyes, I slipped Imogen’s little pink wooly pants off and peeled away the tabs of her Millie Moon diaper, eyeing the little cartoon owls on them. Then, taking a deep breath to calm my nerves, I pulled back the front of her diaper with trembling fingers.
The stench that hit me was so fucking violent that I thought I’d been gassed. “Oh God,” I gagged, recoiling as I blinked back tears. “What the actual fuck?”
Atlas choked a laugh out.
“Baba,” Imogen babbled.
“It’s just baby poop,” Rosie berated me gently. “She can’t help it.”
“It smells like she’s got a dead animal living up there,” I protested, glancing up at Rosie. “D’ya think she needs to see a doctor ‘cause that ain’t normal?”
Atlas snickered.
“Oh my God, Donovan,” Rosie said exasperatedly. “Get the wipes out and clean her up.”
Grimacing, I grabbed the wipes from the bag, extracted one from the packet, and very gingerly began to clean shit off my daughter’s ass. “It’s the sticky type,” I whined, trying not to balk.
Atlas cackled. “You missed a bit.”
“Fuck off,” I bit back.
The fucker choked back another laugh.
Rosie crouched beside me, her chin almost touching my shoulder. “Just take your time and make sure you get in all the little crevices. If you leave any behind, her little fairy may get infected.”
My eyes snapped up to look at her incredulously. “Fairy?”
“It’s what our family’s always called a baby girl’s hoo-ha,” Atlas explained.
I pulled Imogen’s legs up, swiped at some hidden shit that had somehow squelched up her back, and cringed.
“You have to get in there, Donovan,” Rosie snapped. “Jesus, she needs you to get her clean. Stop being a fucking baby.” Her voice softened, and she placed a hand on my shoulder. “Just take your time and concentrate on what you’re doing. You won’t hurt her as long as you’re gentle.”
I did as she instructed and carefully cleaned my daughter’s ass like I was performing delicate brain surgery, not scraping poop off a baby.
Imogen looked up at me with huge eyes and gurgled happily, totally unbothered by her old man’s less-than-stellar shit-cleaning skills.
Somehow, I managed to get the job done. After I washed Imogen’s butt with a water wipe and smothered her in lotion, Rosie talked me through clean diaper placement and showed me how tightly to fasten the tabs so it was comfortable but still secure.
“Right, so now just bundle the dirty diaper up and put it into a scented bag ready for the trash, and you’re done,” Ro told me. “You did great for your first time—”
As she said the words, Imogen kicked out happily and caught the dirty diaper that I’d just picked up with her foot.
It flew out of my hands, landed smack bang in the middle of my shirt, and stuck to it like glue with a sickening squelching sound.
I looked down and gagged again at the god-awful stench rising up from the shit-covered polyethylene top sheet that hung from my favorite Led Zeppelin tee.
My tongue came out, and my eyes rolled into the back of my head as I made a choking sound.
Atlas threw back his head and roared.
“Oops,” Rosie said, rolling her lips together to stop herself from laughing out loud.
Slowly, I closed my eyes.
Fuck my life.
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