Boys Don't Cry (15 page)

‘
Emma!
’

Emma turned towards me but her hands were past the top stair now. Her momentum was going to pitch her forward.

‘EMMA!’ I’ve never yelled so hard or moved so fast.

Emma cried out, her body tilting forward. I snatched her up – but only just in time. And it was only sheer luck that I didn’t tip over and plummet down the stairs with her in my arms. Emma was wailing now – and God knows I knew how she felt.

‘EMMA, DON’T EVER DO THAT AGAIN!’

She bawled even louder at that. I wasn’t helping matters, but I’d had to shout over the sound of my own heart roaring. I felt sick. My blood had been replaced by adrenalin to get to her in time, but now I actually felt physically sick. My head was filled with images of what might have
happened – and all because I’d left my bedroom door ajar. I half collapsed, half sat down on the landing, Emma still gripped in my arms. I rocked back and forth slowly whilst dragging air back into my lungs.

‘I’m sorry, Emma. I’m sorry.’ The words were softly spoken and heartfelt. It wasn’t her fault. I was the one who’d left my bedroom door open. I hugged her even more tightly. ‘I’m sorry.’

And I was, and for more than just my bedroom door.

That was five years off my life, right there.

Dad used to say that, whenever Adam or I got up to some mischief which he then had to bail us out of: ‘
That’s another five years off my life
,’ was what he always said after he’d finished shouting at us.

For the very first time, I knew exactly what he meant.

‘What’s going on? What’s all the shouting about?’ Dad emerged from the kitchen.

‘Nothing, Dad.’ I stood up, my legs still wobbling.

Dad frowned at me. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Yeah, I’m fine.’

Still clutching Emma to me, I headed back to my room. I needed to buy a gate for the top of the stairs as soon as possible. The cost would put a considerable dent in what was left of my money, but no way was I going to go through that again. The envelope containing the swabs lay on the bed, mocking me. I sat down next to it and rocked Emma in my arms until she quietened down. Snatching up the envelope, I made tracks whilst holding Emma firmly.

There would be no more accidents or incidents.

Less than a minute later, Emma was back in her buggy
and I was wheeling her towards the nearest postbox. But when I stood in front of it, for some reason I couldn’t fathom, I hesitated. I looked down at Emma, who was trying to eat her own toes. I looked down at the brown A5 stamped envelope in my hand.

And still I hesitated.

What the hell was wrong with me?

‘This isn’t about her or me,’ I told myself. ‘This is about the truth.’

And I’d already paid a whole heap of money for this so I couldn’t afford to bottle out now. Forcing myself to focus on what was in my hand rather than what was in the buggy, I thrust the envelope into the postbox.

I was doing the right thing.

Wasn’t I?

That evening, Emma just wouldn’t settle. I guess her teeth were still giving her grief, which meant her teeth gave everyone grief. I rubbed some baby tooth ointment on her gums and the hard shell of her emerging two bottom teeth but it didn’t seem to make much difference. I rocked her, I paced up and down, I lifted her high, I even tried playing my favourite songs on low volume to try and get her to fall asleep – but nothing, and I mean
nothing
worked. Plus the phone wouldn’t stop ringing. I hadn’t replied to any of the messages or texts on my mobile so my friends had resorted to using our landline. By the time Dad had taken the fifth message, he was getting pretty pissed off.

‘Dante, I’m not your social secretary,’ he told me. ‘Next time, you answer it.’

Then, on top of everything else, the doorbell rang. As I was already on my feet rocking Emma, I headed for the door before Dad or Adam had the chance to stand up.

It was Aunt Jackie.

Damn! The family grapevine was working overtime. The moment I opened the door and saw her, my heart didn’t so much sink as dive-bomb. Emma took one look
at my aunt and cried louder. She was very perceptive.

Looking at my aunt always made me feel . . . wistful, I guess. She and my mum had been twins, though not identical, but close enough in looks for me to see Mum every time I looked at Aunt Jackie. But their looks had been the start and the end of their similarities. Mum had been honey, whereas my aunt was vinegar. Mum always had a ready smile. It needed an Act of Parliament for my aunt’s lips to turn upwards. And from the look on her face, I was about to get it – both barrels.

Aunt Jackie gave Emma a significant look. ‘I see the news is correct. You’ve been a busy boy.’ She launched straight in with this verbal uppercut to the chin. Then she tapped her cheek. I reluctantly gave her a kiss, following our usual ritual. I stepped away from her pretty damned sharpish the moment the kiss was planted. Emma was squirming in my arms. Terrified I was going to drop her, I tried putting her down on the ground, but she just cried harder at that. With a sigh, I placed her against my shoulder again. Aunt Jackie gave Emma a long, hard look before turning her attention back to me.

Here it comes
, I thought, bracing myself.

‘Can you say the word “contraception” or is that too many syllables for you to handle?’

Right hook to the temple.

‘Hello, Aunt Jackie,’ I said faintly. I doubt she even heard me over the sound of Emma’s crying, which was probably just as well. The tone of my voice would’ve given far too much away.

‘I seriously thought you had more sense,’ said my aunt.

Left jab to the stomach.

‘But like ninety-nine per cent of men, you don’t have enough blood in your body for your brain and your willy to function simultaneously.’

My blood turned to lava and not just my face but my whole body was now burning hot with embarrassment.

Knockout blow – and down for the count.

‘Hhmm, give her to me.’ Aunt Jackie held out her hands.

I wasn’t keen on handing Emma over to Aunt Jackie’s tender mercies, but my aunt wasn’t a woman who took no for any kind of an answer. Aunt Jackie gently touched Emma’s hair and stroked her cheek, before resting my daughter against her shoulder and gently jiggling her. But Emma was still crying.

‘What’s wrong with her?’ asked my aunt.

‘She’s teething.’

‘Ah! Teeth giving you gyp, love?’ she said to Emma. ‘Well, I’m over . . . er . . . twenty and my teeth still give me gyp. If they weren’t so useful, I’d have them all taken out.’

I didn’t know whether to laugh or snatch back my daughter.

My daughter
. . .

‘Dante, you look tired.’

‘I am,’ I admitted.

‘Get used to it.’

Stupid me. For one brief second there, I’d actually thought that some sympathy might be heading my way. Aunt Jackie placed her free hand under my chin and gave it a squeeze.

‘Honey, don’t beat yourself up. Yes, you were careless, but you were also damned unlucky.’

I waited for the tripwire. None appeared, so I tried to smile but it wobbled on my face.

‘You hang in there, OK?’ said my aunt. ‘All this must be totally overwhelming but for now just take one day at a time.’

‘I’m trying, Aunt Jackie, but it’s hard.’ I couldn’t speak above a whisper. Any louder and the words would make me choke.

‘And Emma has everyone’s attention?’ asked Aunt Jackie with a smile.

Her words made me start with surprise. ‘Something like that,’ I admitted.

‘Honey, just hang in there.’

‘I’m hanging on by my fingertips as it is,’ I told her.

‘You hang on by your fingerprints if you have to,’ said Aunt Jackie.

‘What if I muck up?’

‘Don’t you think every parent worries about exactly the same thing?’

‘Do they? Even when they’re old and in their thirties?’

Aunt Jackie smiled. ‘Yes, even when they’re that old.’

‘But, Aunt Jackie, what if I fail? Emma is a real, live person. I muck this up and someone else suffers.’

‘D’you want some advice?’

I nodded warily.

‘Do your best, love. That’s all any of us can do. If you can look at yourself in the mirror and know you did your best then you’re ahead of the game.’

‘Aunt Jackie, how come you never had any kids?’ I asked.

My aunt looked at me thoughtfully as if she were trying to decide something. Then she sighed. ‘I was desperate to be a mum actually. I managed to get pregnant four times, but each time I had a miscarriage.’

‘Oh, I didn’t know,’ I replied, not quite sure what to say next. ‘Did you decide to stop trying after that?’

‘After my fourth miscarriage, I was told I’d never be able to have children. That’s when my ex walked.’

‘That’s why you and Uncle Peter got divorced?’ I said, shocked.

Aunt Jackie nodded.

‘What a bastard.’

Aunt Jackie smiled sadly, shaking her head. ‘No, he wasn’t. He was just as desperate to be a dad as I was to be a mum. But he could walk away from the situation, and I couldn’t. That’s just the way it is, Dante. Some get to walk away. Some don’t.’

Aunt Jackie and I looked at each other, and in that one moment, we understood each other perfectly.

‘Jackie? You should’ve warned me that you were coming round.’ Dad emerged from the sitting room.

Aunt Jackie pursed her lips. ‘Oh, so you need a warning now?’

‘I didn’t mean that the way it came out,’ sighed Dad.

There was something odd about the way Dad and Aunt Jackie acted around each other. There was a strange watchfulness between them, like two animals circling each other. Even when Mum was alive, I can’t remember
my aunt and Dad ever having much to say to each other.

‘Why are you still out in the hall?’ asked Dad.

‘I’m talking to my nephew.’

‘Jackie, the boy doesn’t need one of your lectures,’ said Dad.

‘No, but maybe the truth would help him instead?’

‘What d’you mean?’ I asked.

‘Yes, Jackie,’ said Dad, drawing himself up to his full height, a muscle pulsing in his jaw. ‘Why don’t you tell us all what you mean?’

And I didn’t need super-vision to see the look that passed between them. The temperature in the hall was rapidly approaching absolute zero.

‘Aunt Jackie, what’s going on?’

‘Tyler, don’t be so sensitive,’ Aunt Jackie told Dad. ‘All I meant was that you can help Dante, if he gives you a chance, ’cause you’ve had to bring up him and his brother alone for the last few years.’

It took a couple of seconds but Dad relaxed slightly and Aunt Jackie did the same, taking her cue from him.

‘Oh, I see.’

He might. I didn’t. There was definitely something not quite right going on.

‘Look, you two, we do have chairs. Why don’t you chat sitting down?’ said Dad. ‘Jackie, d’you want a cup of tea?’

‘I’d love one,’ said my aunt.

Dad headed off towards the kitchen.

‘Have you and your dad had a heart-to-heart about all this?’ Aunt Jackie lowered her voice to ask.

‘About all what?’

‘About how you’re feeling? How you’re coping?’

‘Of course not. Besides, girls do that – not guys.’

Aunt Jackie shook her head. ‘Dante, you are so like your dad.’

‘No, I am not,’ I denied. Adam had said the same thing and I didn’t appreciate it then either.

Aunt Jackie gave me a knowing smile. ‘Here, I think your daughter would rather be held by you.’

She handed Emma back to me. To my surprise, Emma settled against my shoulder and did indeed quieten down. Making sure she was secure in my arms, I leaned my head against hers briefly. Aunt Jackie gave me a significant look. I straightened up, moving my head away from Emma’s.

‘What?’ I asked.

‘Dante, don’t . . . underestimate yourself,’ my aunt told me.

‘What d’you mean?’

Aunt Jackie sighed. ‘I remember how . . . withdrawn you became when your mum died. I think Jenny’s death made you . . . wary of change.’

‘I’m still not with you.’ I frowned.

‘All I’m saying is, don’t let the past make you afraid of getting to know your daughter.’

Is that what she thought was going on? If so, then she had it all wrong. But I wasn’t about to argue with her.

We headed into the sitting room.

‘Hi, Aunt Jackie.’ Adam sprang up and gave our aunt a hug. Adam did that kind of stuff so much more easily than I did.

‘Hey, Adam, how’s life treating you?’ asked Aunt Jackie,
her eyes narrowing as she noticed his cut lip.

‘Don’t worry about this.’ Adam laughed it off. ‘I fell, that’s all.’

‘Any other injuries?’

‘No.’

‘Hhmm . . . Funny-peculiar fall that cut your lip and nothing else . . .’ Aunt Jackie was no more convinced than I was.

Adam shrugged but remained noncommittal.

‘So how are you?’ Aunt Jackie asked my brother.

‘Got a bit of a headache, but apart from that I’m fine,’ said Adam.

I only half listened as Aunt Jackie and my brother chatted about her shoes and some musical Aunt Jackie had recently seen at the theatre and other world-shattering stuff. My aunt’s words kept playing in my head. I held Emma on my lap until she wriggled to be free. Aunt Jackie watched as Emma crawled here, there and everywhere, exploring every corner of the room. At the first sign of potential danger, I was on my feet but nothing happened. Mind you, I was bobbing up and down like a yo-yo, just in case. Emma used the armchair to pull herself upright. She looked around the room, taking in me, my brother and my aunt.

‘Walk to Daddy,’ said Aunt Jackie. ‘Go on, honey, walk to Daddy.’

Emma turned her head towards me straightaway. Already she knew who I was. Just that one action made my heart hiccup inside me. Was there more to family than biology? Was there some instinct at work as well? I
mentally shook my head. What the hell? All kinds of strange thoughts seemed to have taken over – thoughts of Emma at five, and fifteen and thirty-five. Thoughts of playing football with her, going on holiday, taking her to school, discussing art and politics and music and truth, teaching her stuff . . .

Fantasies of her staying . . .