Chapter 10
GUNTHER
Iwalk out of Cecie’s apartment at midnight with a scribbled-out name burned into my brain and a sudden, heavy weight in my chest that no spreadsheet could quantify.
In the old tongue, my grandmother used to say that a first son is a gift from the Plentiful God, a sign of a prosperous future that must be honored with a feast and an offering.
I am a man of logic and pocket protectors, but the sight of Orry’s dimple—my dimple—feels like a divine debt I haven't even begun to pay.
Try what, exactly?
Fatherhood. Partnership. Something that resembles a family.
No pressure.
I sit in my car for ten minutes. Hands on the wheel. Engine off. Clarence—my pocket calculator sits on the passenger seat. I pick him up. Press the equals button. Nothing happens. He's been dead for two years. I keep him anyway.
"What do I do?" I ask the cracked screen.
Clarence offers no wisdom.I drive home. Make a list.
Immediate Action Items:
1. Traditional Mandate: Consult my mother regarding the proper feast and offering for the Plentiful God to honor Orry’s safe arrival.
2. Schedule paternity test (for legal/analytical certainty).
3. Purchase age-appropriate developmental toys
4. Update personal insurance to include potential dependent
5. Stop spiraling
Number five gets crossed out. Then rewritten. Then crossed out again.
I don't sleep. I make spreadsheets instead.
Morning comes. I text Cecie at exactly 8:47 a.m. Professional. Respectful. Not at all desperate.
Good morning. Would you be available this week to schedule the test? I can arrange everything if that's easier.
She responds at 9:03.
Thursday work?
Thursday is perfect. I'll handle the details.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
You don't have to do everything yourself, you know.
Type. Delete. Type again.
I know. But I'd like to. If that's okay.
Okay.
One word. It feels like a gift.
I call the clinic at 9:15. The receptionist sounds bored.
"GeneTrust Labs, how can I help you?"
"Yes. Hello. I need to schedule a paternity test. Discreet. Professional. Preferably with minimal waiting room interaction."
"We do those every day, hon. What's the kid's age?"
"Nine months."
"Cute. Mom's bringing him?"
"Yes."
"Great. Thursday at ten work?"
"That's. Yes. Perfect."
"Name?"
"Gunther Ridgeway."
"Spell it."
I do. She yawns.
"You're all set. Bring ID. Mom brings the baby. We'll swab, send to the lab, results in three to five business days."
"Is there an expedited option?"
"Extra hundred bucks gets you forty-eight hours."
"I'll take it."
"Course you will." She sounds amused now. "See you Thursday, Gunther."
She hangs up. I sit there. Holding the phone. Three to five days. Forty-eight with the upgrade.
Forty-eight hours to know if I'm a father.
I add it to my calendar. Color-coded. Red for life-changing event.
Colum finds me at lunch. I'm eating a sandwich I don't taste while cross-referencing developmental milestone charts.
"You look deranged," he says cheerfully.
"I'm researching."
"What, the cure for overthinking?" He sits. Steals a chip. "What's going on?"
"Paternity test. Thursday."
His eyebrows climb. "Fast."
"Cecie agreed."
"And you're handling it."
"Obviously."
"Obviously." He grins. "You made a checklist, didn't you?"
"Three."
"Of course you did." He leans back. Studies me. "How you feeling?"
"Terrified. Hopeful. Nauseous. Excited. All of it. Simultaneously."
"Sounds about right."
"What if—" I stop. Start again. "What if the test says he's mine?"
"Then he's yours."
"What if it says he's not?"
Colum's quiet. Then: "Is that what you want?"
"No." The word comes fast. Certain. "No. I want. I want him to be mine."
"Then I hope he is."
I nod. Swallow. "Me too."
Thursday arrives. I shower twice. Change shirts three times. Settle on a button-up that's professional but approachable. Pocket protector stays. It's who I am.
I meet Cecie at the clinic. She's in jeans and a Sparkle Beauty tee. Orry's in his stroller. He sees me and grins.
That dimple. God, please let him be mine.
"Hey," Cecie says.
"Hey."
We stand there. Awkward. She shifts her weight.
"You okay?" she asks.
"Nervous."
"Yeah. Me too."
Orry babbles. Reaches for me. I crouch. Let him grab my finger.
"Hi, buddy."
He squeals. Cecie watches. Her expression's unreadable.
"Let's get this over with," she says.
The clinic's efficient. Sterile. The tech is a woman in her fifties with kind eyes and steady hands.
"Alright, Dad. You're up first."
Dad. The word hits like a freight train.
She swabs my cheek. I hold still. It takes ten seconds. She labels the sample. Sets it aside.
"Now the little guy."
Cecie lifts Orry. He's curious. Not scared. The tech talks to him in a sing-song voice.
"Open up, sweetie. Just a little tickle."
Orry opens his mouth. She swabs. He makes a face. Cecie kisses his head.
"All done," the tech says. "We'll send these to the lab today. Results in forty-eight hours."
"Thank you," I manage.
Cecie nods. We leave and wait in parking lot. The sun's too bright. The sky's too blue. Everything feels surreal.
"So," Cecie says.
"So."
"Now we wait."
"Now we wait."
Orry squirms. She sets him down. He toddles toward me. Grabs my leg. I freeze.
"He likes you," Cecie says quietly.
"I like him too."
She bites her lip. "Gunther. No matter what the test says. You've been. Good. With him. And I. I appreciate that."
"I'm not going anywhere, Cecie."
Her eyes lock on mine. Nods. "Okay."
Orry tugs my pant leg. I scoop him up. He laughs. Pats my cheek.
Right over the dimple.
The waiting starts.
I go home. Open my laptop. Stare at a blank document. Father Starter Kit I type.
Then I laugh. Because it's absurd. Because I don't even know if I'm his father yet. Because I'm planning for a future that might not exist.
I type anyway.
Essentials:
- Diapers (research brands, absorption rates, environmental impact)
- Wipes (unscented, hypoallergenic)
- Books (age-appropriate, diverse authors, educational value)
- Toys (developmental milestones: fine motor skills, problem-solving, creativity)
- First aid kit (pediatric-specific)
- Backup clothes (multiple sizes, weather-appropriate)
- Snacks (nutritionist-approved, allergen-free)
The list grows. I add sub-categories. Color-code priorities. Create a budget spreadsheet.
It's midnight before I stop. I look at the screen. At the careful, ridiculous plan I've built. What if he's not mine? The thought makes my chest ache. But then I remember his laugh. His dimple. The way he reached for me.
What if he is?
Day two. I buy books. I browse in the children's section of the bookstore for an hour. A clerk asks if I need help.
"I'm looking for. Books. For a baby. Nine months. Something that. Encourages language development. And emotional intelligence. But also fun."
She blinks. "That's. Specific."
"I'm thorough."
She pulls five titles. I buy eight. Add a stuffed dragon because Orry grabbed it and laughed.
At home, I arrange them on a shelf I don't have. I'll need furniture. A reading chair. Good lighting.
I make another list.
Day three. I find myself at a toy store. Overwhelmed. There are too many options. Too many bright colors and sounds and choices.
A sales guy approaches.
"Help you find something?"
"I need. Toys. Developmentally appropriate. Ideally something that promotes cognitive growth without overstimulation for a nine-month-old."
He stares.
"Or just. Something he'd like."
The guy grins. "First kid?"
"Maybe."
"Maybe?"
"Waiting on test results."
"Ah." He nods. "Come with me."
He shows me blocks. Stacking rings. A xylophone. I buy all of it. Add a plush calculator that plays numbers when you press the buttons.
The guy rings me up. "You're gonna be a good dad."
My throat tightens. "I hope so."
That night, I imagine it.
Orry in my apartment. Playing with blocks on the living room floor. Me reading to him before bed. Cecie stopping by. The three of us. Together.
It's terrifying. It's perfect. I lie awake. Stare at the ceiling. Wonder if this is what hope feels like.
The fever starts on a Tuesday.
I'm restocking the breakroom coffee when Cecie texts.
Orry's hot. Like really hot. Thermometer says 102.
My stomach drops. I'm moving before I think. Grab my keys. Tell Colum I'm leaving. He waves me off.
"Go."
I make it to Sparkle Beauty in four minutes. Three red lights ignored. Parking's a disaster. I don't care.
Inside, Cecie's pacing. Orry's in her arms. Flushed. Whimpering. His little face is blotchy and his eyes are glassy.
"When did it start?" I ask.
"Hour ago. He was fine this morning. Then he got cranky. Wouldn't eat. I checked his temp and—" Her voice cracks. "I don't know what to do."
I take a breath. Force calm into my voice. "Okay. First, let me see him."
She hands him over. He's burning up. I press my lips to his forehead. Definitely fevered.
"Did you give him anything?"
"Baby acetaminophen. Twenty minutes ago."
"Good. That's good. What's his baseline temp normally?"
"Um. 98.6? Maybe 99 when he's teething?"
"Has he been drooling more? Fussy?"
"Not really. Just. Suddenly sick."
I nod. Run through the checklist I memorized three days ago from a pediatric care manual. Fever management. Hydration. Monitoring for escalation.
"We need to keep him hydrated. Small sips of water or milk. And we need to bring the fever down gently. Lukewarm bath, light clothes. Do you have a cool washcloth?"
Cecie blinks. "You. You know all this?"
"I researched."
"Of course you did." She almost smiles. Almost. "There's a washcloth in the back. And a baby tub."
"Perfect. Let's set up."
The back room of Sparkle Beauty becomes a makeshift nursery. I fill the baby tub with lukewarm water. Test it three times. Cecie hovers.
"Is that too cold?"
"It's body temperature. We don't want to shock his system."
She nods. Wrings her hands. I've never seen her this rattled.
"Cecie. He's going to be okay."
"You don't know that."