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“Can you stop doing that and come over here to clean her up, please?” I asked in a tone that had a hint of frustration and horror at the prospect of having to do it. My baby was a month old, and apart from the black newborn tar stuff and the French mustard looking poops she’d had in the first few days, I hadn’t cleaned her butt.
“I can’t mix her food and clean poop at the same time. It isn’t hygienic. You’re going to have to do it because you don’t know how to make her formula.” Gesturing her head at Layla, she grabbed a bottle brush and some sterilizer before adding, “Look at her, poor little soul, she can’t wait. The poop will burn her delicate skin.”
Cussing under my breath, I sighed heavily and lifted my daughter over my shoulder while I dug into one of the small compartments for a clean diaper and some wipes. As I stood up straight, the hand resting over her butt suddenly felt warm.
Swapping my hands over, I checked it out and wrinkled my nose in disgust because Layla had shit all the way through her onesie. “Damn,” I cussed again, laying her flat on her back on the changing mat. Grabbing a few wet wipes from the packet, I cleaned the offending gift off of my hand.
Harper turned to look at me and smirked. “Your child has a hidden talent for doing that,” she commented deadpan and placed the newly made bottle into a bowl before running the water in it to cool the newly made formula.
“There’s nothing hidden about it. It’s splattered all over my fucking hand, and through her clothes I might add. Is it normal for shit to ooze from a diaper and spread out like this? I mean judging by the amount in that bottle it’s multiplied tenfold in her gut,” I commented dryly, as I began to pop the fasteners and peel Layla’s clothing away. Harper kept her back to me and didn’t comment, but I heard the soft chuckle she made.
It took me a good three minutes to wipe the shit from her back, between her legs, and halfway up her ass, and all the while she was stubborn and uncooperative, kicking her legs, clenching her fists, and baring the back of her throat at me with some belly busting yells.
By the time I was finished making her clean and decent again, she was a purple hot mess; her normally pale skin tinted by how pissed she was by my interruption of her glory at sitting in her own pile of manure. Gently, I picked her up and calmed her the fuck down before I even attempted to put a new diaper back on her.
Lifting Layla gingerly from the changing mat, I did what they taught me in the hospital and pulled her body close, chest to chest with mine. Splaying my huge rough hand across her tiny, silky back I took a deep, deep breath at how warm and perfect she felt skin to skin.
A lump of emotion swelled in my throat as the fragrant smell of her baby hair hit my nostrils. I cleared my clogged throat when the tiny little person I’d helped to create wriggled and nuzzled closer. When her hissy fit finally ebbed she became a quiet, contented, and innocent little bundle in my arms. When she started to coo I felt my hard, frozen heart melt.
Layla was half Grace, half me, and my mom was spot on. If I had anything to be thankful for in this whole fucked-up, devastating situation, it had to be the beautiful child Grace had left behind. A tear ran down my face, but I only knew I was crying when I felt Layla’s wet little head nuzzle into my neck. Then she cooed louder.
“I… I think I will feed her, if you don’t mind,” I heard myself say. A camera click drew my attention to Harper, and she stood holding her phone high in the air. I immediately frowned.
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to sell it. It’s for you and Layla to keep as a memory of the first time you visited her here in the nursery.” My heart squeezed tight and my small smile was immediate, if a little guilty. Layla was a month old, and this was the first time I’d braved the few steps from my bedroom to where she slept. Shame on me.
I was also embarrassed for thinking the worst of Harper’s motive, but for the previous six years of my fame, the people who had taken candid pictures of me usually sold them to the highest bidder.
“Thanks, that’s really thoughtful of you,” I mumbled, a little concerned at how shitty my appearance had been when I looked in the mirror earlier. I placed Layla back on the changing mat and fought her fresh protests as I wrestled her into a badly positioned diaper.
When I had secured the tabs as best I could, I picked her up again and slowly lowered myself into the nursing chair. It rocked back and forth as I repositioned my baby into the crook of my arm. Harper’s smile was encouraging as she walked toward me with my daughter’s bottle. Crouching beside me, she gently placed a small bib under Layla’s chin.
Immediately, my feisty little daughter protested at being disturbed again and her lungs delivered a twenty-decibel yell in my direction. Taking the bottle from Harper, I quickly shoved the nipple into Layla’s mouth and silence reigned. Harper and I both shared a small smile, then she turned and went back to what she was doing at the sink.
Greedily, Layla slurped the formula like she’d been starved for weeks. Sometimes she’d suck until she had no more breath left in her lungs and then she’d release, causing bubbles of air to fill the bottle before she’d have at it again.
After Layla grunted like she was going to produce another mess, ungraciously farted, and burped her way through her lunch, Harper offered to dress her again.
“It’s okay, I’ll do it. My mom wanted to take her for a walk in the fresh air, but she read me the riot act and left,” I shared with no hint of humor. “I’ll take her. Go take a couple of hours for yourself and I’ll let you know when we get back.” A warm smile lit up Harper’s face and she nodded.
“Sounds like a plan. Thanks, I have some laundry to take care of so that would be great,” she replied. The smile she gave me was big and bright and not the kind anyone with laundry would give. It was a smile of approval for me finally waking up to my responsibilities as Layla’s father.
CHAPTER FIVE
During the first year after Grace had died nothing inspired me. My total disinterest in life, apart from Layla, continued to worry Dorian—a single, quiet guy who had, by then, rerooted himself permanently in my house.
At the nine-month mark, he sat me down and did some straight talking about how he saw things, and at that point I was still too lost to disagree.
“I’ve called a local architect to come and discuss building a house next door to this one for me. Nothing fancy, just a space of my own. What we have here is a long-term situation, and I figured it was time I did something about these temporary living arrangements.”
My house was massive, even emptier without Grace, and there were plenty of spare rooms to create a suite for him, but Dorian was determined to have a place to call home. I couldn’t fault him for that.
Being a computer geek, he carried his business in a soft-top sports bag and a fine leather satchel. He’d been known to work from all around the world because as long as there was Internet and electricity, Dorian’s office went with him. It wasn’t a surprise he wanted to stay; we’d always been close, and he wanted to be near Layla and me.
By the time he’d been with me almost a year, he’d all but driven me crazy with his techno music while he worked and punk rock when he relaxed. If I’d ever asked myself the question, who the fuck relaxes to punk? I had the answer. Being a rocker, the tunes he played were disturbing to my ears and as irritating as marker pens squeaking painfully on a whiteboard.
It was the music that finally broke my patience at his intrusion, and with plenty of land around the property, I was thankful he’d taken the decision out of my hands. My only stipulation was soundproof walls and acoustic glass to deaden the drone from his taste in music.
Secretly, the concept of Dorian living right next door actually appealed to me. It was a win-win situation because as Layla grew she’d have her uncle next door, and when I went back to work; he’d be able to oversee her welfare while I was away on the road.
