Chapter 6 James #2
At the time, what I didn’t realize was that I only had that one opportunity to straighten out the miscommunication. But since I didn’t set the record straight, instead choosing to play into the lie and act like her husband… well, afterward, there was no going back.
At least not without risking a media firestorm.
All it would take was one person—someone in the waiting room catching snippets of a conversation, a passerby recognizing me and seeing me with Georgie on the labor and delivery floor, or a hospital employee looking to make a quick buck—telling the tabloids that my pregnant wife was admitted to the hospital and then I deserted her and our newborn son, leaving them in the hospital.
Headlines like that stick, regardless of their veracity.
Hell, even if the truth came out, my reputation would still be tarnished. Who in their right mind pretends to be a husband to a woman he only met hours earlier? And that’s not even taking into account that I’m also pretending to be the baby’s father.
So, yeah, I have selfless reasons for staying, but I also have a pretty huge selfish reason, too.
Georgie nods, accepting my reason without further discussion. Seeing my phone in my hand, she points to it, asking in a teasing voice, “Want to show me around Reddit? Just so I can fully understand what’s being asked of me as a non-bang maid.”
I chuckle, glad that she’s making light of our predicament.
Plus, it sounds like a decent way to spend the time, so I put my phone on do not disturb mode and open Reddit. “Let’s start with the Am I the Asshole? subreddit first.”
“Subreddit?”
“A subreddit is like a discussion board that pertains to a certain topic. It can be anything from knitting to muscle cars to petty revenge and beyond,” I explain, grateful to discuss impersonal topics to distract us both from reality for a bit.
I scroll through the posts until I find one that sounds juicy.
“Am I the asshole for kicking out my deadbeat son after he gave my girlfriend an STD?”
“Um, no. I don’t even think you’ll need to read the post, James,” Georgie laughs. “The title alone is enough for me to say that’s an automatic no.”
“Technically, it would be judged as NTA, not the asshole. But sometimes the titles are misleading, so let’s read.”
As I read post after post, Georgie and I discuss the scenarios and cast our judgments. In a roundabout way, it provides us with a way to connect and get to know one another as we debate our opinions regarding the posts.
Georgie cradles her son against her chest until the nurse comes back to check on us. With Georgie’s eyelids fluttering shut for longer periods of time between each blink, I suggest it’s time to get her back in bed.
Georgie says goodbye to her baby, her voice thick with sadness and fear. The nurse and I wheel Georgie down to her hospital room, and while the nurse helps Georgie clean up in the small, attached bathroom, I recline on the long, padded window bench that doubles as a bed.
Earlier, one of the nurses provided me with a pillow and blankets and some ibuprofen to ward off the aches and pains from the wreck.
After touring for years with Outlaw, first in shitty vans driving ourselves across the country and later in luxurious tour buses and private jets, I’ve learned to sleep just about anywhere.
The following morning, the nurse encourages Georgie to start walking. With my arm wrapped around her waist for support, we amble up and down the hospital hallway slower than a three-legged turtle.
Wearing only hospital-provided grippy socks on her feet and two hospital gowns, she shivers in my arms in the chilly air-conditioned hospital.
When we make it back into her room, she thanks me. Again.
“Don’t worry about it, Georgie.”
But I can see my words do nothing to ease her worries.
Taking out my phone, I ignore all the texts and calls that have continued to pour in and open a browser window.
Adding things to my online shopping cart, I place my order.
If we’re going to be stuck in the hospital for a few days, we need things like basic toiletries and clothes.
Luckily, Target will deliver my order within the hour because the need for a shower and fresh clothes is overwhelming.
I’m not sure exactly when I gave up on Georgie’s mom returning my call, but I’d guess it was sometime between midnight and first light.
Now and then, I freak out as I consider what I’m doing.
Lying to everyone about being married and acting as the father to a baby who isn’t mine.
But, fuck, I don’t know what else to do.
I just can’t leave Georgie, who looks like she’s barely out of childhood herself, in the hospital alone.
“Knock, knock!” A woman chirps as she enters.
Unlike the nurses and doctors who have been in and out of Georgie’s room, this woman isn’t wearing scrubs.
She’s dressed in slacks and a button-down blouse, and she has a hospital employee ID badge draped around her neck. “I’m from the birth registry office.”
She places a stack of papers on the table next to Georgie’s bed.
Tapping the official-looking file folder, she explains everything that’s inside—the social security number application, newborn screening results, vaccination record, and the birth registration form.
“You’re required to fill out the birth registration form.
It asks for the child’s full name, time and date of birth, and the parents’ full names.
Once it’s completed, it gets sent to the state’s vital records office so that a birth certificate can be created. ”
“Okay,” Georgie says. But the uncertain expression on her face clearly states what her response did not—that everything is not okay.
“Do you have any questions for me?”
Georgie fiddles with the blanket covering her lower half. Her voice filled with hesitation, Georgie inquires, “What if… what if we haven’t decided on his name yet? Can we fill out the form later?”
“Yes, you can, but don’t forget about doing it because it’s imperative to get the form filed with the state.”
“Of course, we will,” I say, reassuring both women.
But something tells me it isn’t the baby’s name that’s tripping Georgie up.
It’s the father’s name.