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The shrill, terrified scream of a kid jerked me from my sleep. It took me a moment to remember who that scream belonged to, and where I was, but as soon as I did, I jerked through my stupor on the couch and rushed to the tent. Wolfie was in a full-on fit. "Wolfie? Hey, it's okay, it's okay, I'm here."
The boy looked up at me with tears streaming down his face. "I want my mommy," he wailed.
The words tore at me, and I would've given anything at that moment to be able to somehow produce his mother for him. "I know, buddy. But I'm here, and it's going to be okay," I tried to assure him.
He kept crying and saying that he wanted his mother, and I sat there awkwardly, not having a clue what to do. Finally, I thought about what I would've wanted to be done at his age in that situation and what I'd actually wished for much more when I was a kid, but it just didn't seem to be something my family had been capable of.
I pulled him to me, held him in my arms, and rocked him slowly, murmuring words of assurance, telling him that everything was going to be okay, even if I wasn't sure of that. Although, at that moment, I did feel fairly certain that I would do just about anything to make sure that that would be the case for this little boy, no matter what happened.
"Shh, shh, shh, it's okay," I said in a low, soothing voice. "Uncle Adam’s here." I halted, not sure what else to add. Then, I remembered what Reagan had said, about what all kids really wanted. "You're safe here, Wolfie. You belong here," I said the words over and over again till I lulled him back to sleep.
I stayed that way with him in my arms for a long time after he went back to sleep, and it wasn't until my back cramped up that I finally laid him gently down and worked my way back to the couch, hoping I didn't grunt or groan too loudly from the pain. As I finally plopped down on the couch, I looked at his sleeping form and allowed myself to do the thing that I wouldn't earlier: I cried my eyes out and, in my head, cursed the truck driver who hit his parents and took them away from him.
I had some impossible decisions that stood before me. I vowed to do whatever it took to make Wolfie feel okay, even if that meant swallowing my pride and asking for help. It wasn't just about me anymore. I had a child to look after, and I needed to make sure that he was happy and healthy.
That would mean turning to somebody who I had been trying to avoid for several months. There was still a lot of feelings between me and Reagan, that much was obvious— at least to me. But I had a new reason to tamp down those desires for the woman I couldn't have: Wolfie.
Once Wolfie had started opening up, he talked nonstop about meeting Reagan, all the things they talked about, and how she looked at his Pokémon cards with him. I wasn't surprised to hear he was infatuated with her since I was suffering from that myself—though I would deny it come morning.
But one thing that I wouldn't deny in the light of day was that I needed her help. She was the closest thing to a child expert I had in my life. All my friends were bachelors, my family was no good at child-rearing, and I felt like I was plenty of evidence of that. But Reagan at least had some knowledge because of that little sister of hers. She had managed to connect with Wolfie somehow in the short time they spent together. Maybe if she was around, he would feel more comfortable more quickly. At this point, I was desperate as I tried not to think about the horrible way that child screamed for his mother.
Desperate to take my mind off the agony of it, I focused on the one thing that seemed like a safe spot, even though my body knew she wasn't. I thought about the way she looked in that hall, trying to comfort me. And I thought about if I had to do it all over again, then I would've just kissed her then, just to see her reaction. I imagine she would've sputtered, then cussed me out—and I would've loved every second of it. I managed to drift off to sleep, thinking of arguing with Reagan, and how it made her face flush, just like it had when I kissed her.
***
The next morning, I woke to the shrill ring of my cell phone. Groggily, I answered, "Hello?"
"Adam?" It was Reagan. Had I dreamed of her calling me?
"Reagan, what time is it?" I asked, trying to straighten up from the couch. I peeked in the tent, where Wolfie was still out cold.
"I'm sorry I'm calling early," she said in a placating voice. "I just wanted to make sure that you two were doing okay. Yesterday was a pretty momentous day," she added, sounding a little nervous. The knowledge that she was nervous to talk to me caused a ripple of excitement inside me. What the fuck was wrong with me? I wondered to myself. Who was I kidding? I loved any reaction from this woman, as long as she wasn't walking away from me.
"Admit it," I said in a low voice, "you missed us."
I could hear her huff over the phone line. "Maybe Wolfgang. The kid makes quite an impression."
"Yes, yes, he does," I agreed. Sobering up, I told her, "Listen, I'm glad you called."
She laughed dryly. "Are you now? Was it that bad?"
"No, no—not at first, anyway. He's a good kid, and we had a good time. But he woke up with nightmares…screaming for his mom and…I don't know what to do with that. The only thing I can think of is just to make him as comfortable as possible, so it won't be so scary without his parents," I reasoned.
"That makes sense. He may not be able to stop from missing his mom and dad, but routine and structure are key for kids. His routine has been completely destroyed. So, you two are going to have to work on building one together," she pointed out.
"That's the thing, where do I even start?"
"I can help with that," she volunteered. "One of my best friends is a teacher and a mom. She's always preaching about routine and having to stick to the schedule, so I could ask her for some advice. While I'm at it, I can ask her about some things Wolfie might need that maybe you and I overlooked. You know what? I am going to put together a spreadsheet and share it with you, that way you can see it whenever I update it."
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold your horses. I know how you love yourself some documents and spreadsheets and such, but I'm not going to be able to keep up with that. Can’t I just write it on a post-it somewhere?" I asked.
She laughed. "Do you think all that's going to fit on a post-it note?"
"Okay, So, two Post-its?”
Chapter seven
Reagan
