Mother: Jessica Torres. Father: Tyler West.
She was born two months ago. Which means that nine months before that was September. Which also means that she belongs to the woman with the tired eyes and the vodka tonicfrom the dive bar with the sticky floors, who left a note the next morning. Which means the one night I wrote off as forgettable was apparently the opposite of that.
"Oh god," I say to nobody. "Oh fuck."
Harper screams louder, her tiny face scrunching up like she's personally furious at the universe for the situation it has put her in.
Honestly? Same.
I look up and down the street one more time, half-convinced someone's about to jump out and explain this all to me, but the street stays empty, and the baby stays real. I pick up the carrier handle with both hands—nearly dropping it when the weight pulls my arm down—adjust my grip, and haul her inside.
I set her on the living room floor as far from my dumbbells as possible, which is the only rational thought I'm capable of at this moment. She's tiny—genuinely, incomprehensibly tiny. Her fists are clenched, her face is turning red, her cries are sharp and relentless, and I have no idea what to do.
"Okay," I tell her. "It's okay. You're okay."
She is very clearly not okay.
Food. Babies need food.I go to the kitchen and open the fridge, which consists of protein shakes, leftover pizza, two beers, and something that might have been yogurt two weeks ago. Nothing appropriate for a two-month-old. I close the fridge. Open it again. Close it.
Diapers.I remember from somewhere that babies need diapers.
I go back to the living room, and that's when I see it: the front door is still open, and just outside on the porch is a diaper bag I completely missed, black and worn, and shoved off to the side. I was too busy staring at the baby to notice it. I grab it, kick the door shut hard enough that the frame rattles, and don't breathe properly until the deadbolt clicks.
I dump the bag onto the floor: diapers, wipes, bottles, formula, and a handful of other items I can't identify fall out. Ipick up what looks like the most urgent thing and try to figure out the diaper situation.
It turns out—and I say this as a professional athlete who has trained through torn ligaments and played with cracked ribs—changing a diaper is very fucking hard.
I unbuckle Harper from the carrier with hands that won't stop trembling, trying to support her head the way I've vaguely seen people do in movies. She's warm and solid and real, and she screams directly into my face when I pick her up. I lay her on the floor and fumble with the snaps on her onesie. There are so many snaps. An unreasonable number of snaps for a garment this small.
I get the diaper off. Put the new one on backward. Realize it. Swear. Try again. And by the time I finish, there's pee on the hardwood, I've used most of the wipe packet, and Harper hasn't stopped crying for a single second.
"Food," I say, my voice coming out rough. "You need food."
The formula instructions might as well be in a foreign language. Ounces and scoops and something about boiling water and temperatures, which I don't have time for because she is screaming right now. I read the whole thing twice, retain nothing useful, and use tap water because it's there and it's fast. The powder clumps. I shake the bottle harder, and the formula goes everywhere: over the counter, my hands, my shirt. I test the temperature on my wrist like I've seen someone do once in a film, and realize I have absolutely no frame of reference for what I'm feeling.
I pick Harper up again, terrified of the wrong angle, the wrong grip; every small movement is a potential disaster. I guide the bottle to her mouth. She turns her head away. Her cries get louder.
"Please," I say. It comes out cracked. "Please. Just eat."
I try again. And again after that.
By nine-thirty, I'm covered in formula, Harper is covered in spit-up, and we are both crying—which is not something I planned on doing today—but here we are. By ten, I've changedher twice more, walked about forty laps around the living room, and tried three different bottles; nothing has worked. My arms are shaking, and not from the push-ups. My throat is doing something I can only describe as a variety of panic that feels like grief.
I set her back into the carrier as carefully as I can, make sure she's secure, and stand up. I press both hands over my face.I'm going to drop her.That thought, quiet and certain.I'm going to drop her. I'm going to ruin this the way I've ruined everything. She deserves better than whatever I am.
I pull my phone out of my pocket.
There is exactly one person I can call. The fact that I have any right to call her at all is a grace I know I didn't earn. I dial before I can talk myself out of it.
She picks up on the second ring.
"Hey, Tyler. What's up?"
Her voice is the same as it always is.Warm. Steady.Like she doesn't notice—or has decided not to notice—everything I put her through.
"Em." My voice breaks clean in half. "I need help. Please."
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