Chapter 13 #2
She kicks her chubby legs and makes little high-pitched sounds. My lips twist, and I can’t help a smile watching her. She lifts her fists and slaps them down again, making the chair bounce. Then she does it again, squealing with delight.
“You’re pretty smart, aren’t you?” I say, watching her learn.
“I can’t call you Christine. You’re just a baby.
” I take a step to the side, pinching my bottom lip between two fingers as I think.
She makes another little chirpy coo, and it hits me.
“How about Cricket? You’re like a little cricket. What do you think of that?”
Her legs pump, and I decide she likes it.
Pulling out my phone, I shoot a desperate text to Edward to please come help me. Then I download the CitySitter app and start entering my information.
I have no fucking clue if there’s a nursery at the Dome, but even if there is, I don’t know where it is or how it works. I’ve got to have help before then.
* * *
I don’t know how everything went to hell so fast.
I thought I could take a shower while she was happy, but no. The minute I left the room and turned on some music, she started to cry.
Okay, I think, babies don’t like to be left alone. So I put her in the room with me in her bouncy chair. I positioned her so she didn’t see me naked, turning my back while I stripped down, and guess what? The minute I closed the shower door, she started crying again.
“Cricket, bro!” I hollered from inside the shower stall. “I’ve got to get cleaned up. Just be cool. I’ll be out in a minute.”
I might as well have been talking to myself. She was all fuck that, and she yelled the entire sixty seconds it took me to get the stink off my body. I jumped out, grabbing a towel and slinging it around my waist, but even with me in plain sight, she was still upset.
She started doing that little baby-hiccup thing again, like she was devastated that I would dare to shower… in the same room as her, talking to her the whole time.
I tried to do like Mom did. I held her to my bare chest and bounced, kissing her little forehead.
It didn’t work. She was pissed at me. So I carried her into my room, put her on the bed in this pillow-framed nest-thing Dove picked out, and got dressed as fast as humanly possible, then I noticed it was almost six.
Okay, so maybe she’s just hangry. I get that. So I carried her into the kitchen and made that disgusting cereal, and she ate it. She stopped crying, but she was still doing a little hiccup thing that made me worry she was about to barf everywhere.
We took it slow, then I tried to give her some of those sweet potatoes Dove said she should have at dinner. She spit them all over me. Of course.
I stood, walking over to get a washcloth to clean the orange goo off my white tank. When I returned, I caught the telltale scent.
“Aw, c’mon, Cricket,” I groaned.
She crapped her pants.
Scrubbing my fingers over my brow, I inhaled slowly. Damn, that’s pungent.
No clue how this was going to go, I carried her to the living room and put her down on a towel on the rug.
Dove showed me how to do this, and she was really good at it. I should FaceTime her so she can talk me through it again.
Of course, my FaceTime says the call wouldn’t go through. Probably because they’re back on the farm in bum-fuck Egypt.
Exhaling a growl, I look down at the crying baby and decide I can do this. I’m a grown-ass man, for chrissake. I can change a poopy diaper.
Growling deep in my throat, I square my shoulders, making sure all the necessary equipment is within reach. I’ve got the fresh diaper here… the wipes right there… the towel is large and open… Shaking out my arms, I decide I’m ready.
Reaching for the tabs on her little sides, I pull them apart, and the diaper falls open. A wave of vile malodorous filth hits me slap in the face, and I fall back onto my heels, gripping my face with a loud “AW!”
Cricket starts to cry, pumping her little legs up and down like she does and smearing baby poop all over herself.
“No! Cricket, nooo…” I try to catch her legs, and the shit gets on my hand.
I cry out holding my hand as if I’ve touched toxic sludge. It’s orange-yellow and smells like the backside of death.
That’s when my stomach taps out. My throat closes, and the gag reflex starts. I gulp a deep noise that pulls my chin to my chest. Reaching up, I cover my mouth with my other hand, thinking it’s clean.
My eyes drift down, and I catch a speck of baby poo on my knuckle, and it’s over. I barely make it to the half bathroom before I barf loud and long into the toilet.
“Fuck…” I huff, pressing my eyes against my forearm.
A squeal from the den tells me Cricket is not lying still waiting for me to return. I jump up, running to the den when I see she’s rolled onto her stomach and is kicking her legs right in her poopy diaper.
Baby shit is on my rug, all over her legs, the scent is rising.
“Jesus… Somebody help me!” I cry out in desperation.
I scoop her into my arms, not even caring that now we’re both covered in poop. I run straight to my bathroom and reach into the shower, switching on the water, and waiting for it to get warm. I stand with her clutched to my side.
Banging on my front door makes me hesitate. I’m holding this baby, and we both have shit on us. Is it possible this could be someone coming to help me?
Maybe my mom experienced all the guilt feelings she should be having right now (and I hope she’s having all of them), and she turned around to come back? Or she sent Edward right away?
Leaving the water to warm, I dash across the living room as Cricket begins to do her little hiccuppy crying thing that means she’s on the fence about letting me have it.
I grab the doorknob, doing my best to keep my voice in check. I know if I shout, she’ll really cut loose into the full-blown, red-faced screaming.
“What?” I can feel the frustration coming off me in waves.
Then I freeze.
Melody Dunne stands in front of me in the hall, dressed in a track jacket over a long-sleeved tee and leggings. Her eyes are wide, and she looks like she’s witnessing a slow-motion train wreck.
Then her face scrunches, and she grabs her nose. “Oh, God! What is that smell?”
“Cricket, Melody. Melody, Cricket.” I introduce the two of them curtly. “Cricket shat her pants.”
Leaving the door open, I turn and walk all the way back to my bathroom. The water is warm now, and I step right into the spray, clothes and all, holding the baby against my shoulder as I let the water run over our bodies.
In clothes, I don’t have to freak out that I’m about to drop her on the smooth, travertine tile floor.
When she’s naked, she’s slippery as a bar of soap. I’m literally terrified I’m going to lose hold of her, and she’ll drown in that baby bathtub. Then I’ll go to jail for life on top of all of this.
See what I mean? Lemony Snicket.
Finally, when I’m sure we’re both free of baby poop, I switch off the water and grab a big towel to wrap around her. Holding her under my arm, I manage to strip off my soaked clothes and grab another towel to wrap around my waist, then I dry my feet on the rug.
Cricket watches the whole thing with wide eyes from where she’s perched in the crook of my arm like a football, and yes, I hold her like a football. I do not care. I have never dropped a football.
Melody stands in the middle of my living room when I return, looking all around like she’s in some sort of doomsday scenario.
She looks up at me. “What are you doing with a baby?”
“I have no idea.”
Her brow furrows, and she blinks from Cricket to me and back again. “She’s all wet.”
“Well, she rolled around in her poopy diaper.” I nod over my shoulder to the living room, and hiss. “Shit.”
“You can say that again.” Melody presses the back of her wrist under her nose. “Is it still in there?”
“Hold this.” I shove the towel-wrapped infant in her arms.
“Whooa! Oh, no…” Melody’s knees bend and she acts like she’s going to give the baby back.
I don’t have time for theatrics.
I run to the living room where sure enough, that crap-laden pamper is open with the contents smeared all around, including on my expensive Persian rug.
“Oh, fuck…” I bend forward, my throat tightening as I start to gag.
“Don’t do that!” Melody’s eyes are huge, and she’s holding the baby like she has a little more practice than I do. “If you barf, I’ll barf.”
I run to the kitchen, jerking open the cabinet that contains my trash. I hold onto the marble countertop, fighting the gagging sensation pulling at my throat.
The baby starts to cry, and I blink the moisture out of my eyes. I wipe the back of my hand over my forehead, looking over to where Melody still stands, Cricket’s back against her stomach.
“Congratulations,” I manage to say through the thickness in my throat. “You’re really going to see me fail this time. Front-row seat, in living color.”
“What?” She strides over to where I’m bracing myself over the trash can.
“Let me guess, the award for most careless ejaculation goes to me?” My tone drips with defeated sarcasm.
“No…” Melody shakes her head. “I-I don’t want that. You’re not going to fail, because I’m going to help you.”
My brow softens. My chest squeezes, and God help me, I might cry.
I take a step away from the ledge. “What did you say?”
Cricket hiccups, looking up at me, and I take her from Melody’s arms. Her little stomach is against my chest, and she pats my arm like she’s done since I met her.
“Ba!” she says, patting me again.
I look down at Melody, unsure what to do with these emotions surging in my chest. I’m sure half of them are the result of throwing up twice in one day. The other half is patting me on the arm with her baby hands.
“I said I’m going to help you.” Melody looks around my kitchen where the bags of baby supplies sit, half of which are unopened. “What’s all this?”
“My cousin helped me buy some baby gear.”
“Ba!” Cricket says again, patting my face this time.
“What does that mean?” I ask, looking at Melody.