Boys Don't Cry (19 page)

Another deep breath. Chillax, Dante. Don’t lose it.

‘I was trying to help. This way the baby can be taken into care or looked after by a foster parent and you can get your life back,’ said Collette. ‘I’ve only seen you three times since she arrived on the scene. She’s stopping you from doing all the things we’d planned and I miss the way things used to be.’

Collette spoke of my daughter like Emma was a fence which needed to be knocked down and trampled underfoot.

‘Collette,
she
has a name – Emma. And Emma happens to be my daughter.’

‘Not from choice.’

I had to restrain myself from answering for a few seconds.

‘What exactly did you tell your sister?’ I asked when I could trust myself to speak.

‘Only what you told me,’ Collette replied. ‘That Emma had been dumped on you and you didn’t want her.’

‘You had no right!’ I shouted.

‘Excuse me?’

‘You had no right to poke your nose in and interfere. You had no right to set your sister on me like some pit bull just ’cause you were feeling neglected,’ I said with scorn.

‘That’s not why I did it. I was trying to help you . . .’

‘By letting your sister take Emma away from me?’

‘But you don’t want her . . .’

‘Collette, get this into your head because I’m only going to say it once. Emma is my daughter and she belongs with me. She’s staying with me. If you don’t like that, then tough. Tell your sister I’m coping just fine and both of you can keep your bloody noses out of my business. Enjoy university.’ I hung up. Within seconds the phone was ringing. I accepted the call, then immediately hung up again. Hopefully now she’d get the message.

I headed back into the sitting room.

‘Come with Daddy, Emma.’ I held out my hand. ‘Let’s get you a drink.’

Emma waddled over to me and took my hand without hesitation. Her hand was warm in mine and so tiny. We shared a smile as I led the way to the kitchen. Popping her in her highchair, I poured out some diluted blackcurrant juice into her beaker. I stood and watched as she drank it thirstily. Grit or dirt or something was making my eyes smart. And I must’ve tried swallowing down my breakfast too quickly because it felt like there was a ball of concrete stuck in my throat.

‘You’re staying with Daddy,’ I told Emma softly. ‘I promise I won’t let anything or anyone change that.’

I can’t do this any more.

What I am isn’t wrong. How I feel is nothing to be ashamed of. But that’s how he’s making me feel. Why did he even ask me out? It was his idea for the two of us to get together, not mine. But I think he sees me as some kind of spotlight, shining down on him mercilessly and drawing too much attention.

I want to live my life out loud. He wants me to whisper my way through life like him. He wants to keep his true self hidden away in the shadows, hoping no one will notice him.

I can’t live my life like that.

I won’t.

I really like him but I think . . . I think it’s time to call it a day. I never realized it before now but he’s my worst-case scenario.

This is never going to work until he learns to be happy with who and what he truly is. I’m beginning to think that’s never going to happen. One thing I know for sure, it’s beyond anything I can say or do to make him accept himself.

And I’m getting fed up waiting.

The next morning found me third in the queue outside the doctor’s surgery, waiting for them to open. A sign on the door said that buggies had to be left in the porch area and couldn’t be taken past reception so I took Emma out of her buggy and held her with one hand, whilst folding up the buggy with the other. What was up with this nationwide hatred of buggies? Luckily I didn’t have to wait too long before the doors opened. The two people ahead of me made their appointments at the reception desk and headed straight into the waiting room.

‘Can I help you?’ asked the receptionist when I reached her.

‘Hi, yes. I’d like to register Emma here with a doctor, please.’

Emma was watching the receptionist with avid interest.

‘Are you already registered here?’ asked the receptionist.

‘Yes, I am.’ I gave her my name and address, watching as she stared myopically at the screen to her left. ‘And how old is . . . er . . . Emma?’

‘She’s one next Monday,’ I informed her.

The receptionist frowned at the screen before turning
her frown on me. ‘Do you have her NHS card, her birth certificate and her red book on you?’

‘Huh? Er . . . no. What’s her red book?’

‘The book of her medical details to date.’ At my blank look, the receptionist elaborated. ‘It has information in it like all the vaccinations she’s had to date, her birth details, that kind of thing. And I’ll also need photo ID and proof of address from the person registering her.’

‘Photo ID?’

‘A passport or driving licence and a current utility bill showing your address.’

Damn! I thought I’d be in and out in about a minute flat. ‘I don’t have any of that stuff.’ I shook my head. ‘I thought you’d only need her name, address and date of birth and that would be it.’

The woman behind the desk gave me a pitying smile. ‘I’m afraid not. Maybe you could get your mum to come in and register her once she’s got all the appropriate documents together?’

‘My mum is dead,’ I replied.

‘Oh.’ The woman looked embarrassed. ‘Well, how about your dad? Would he be able to come in and register your sister?’

Oh God.

‘Emma is my daughter. My dad is her grandad,’ I said, trying to keep my tone even.

‘Your daughter?’

Here we go again, I sighed inwardly. ‘Yes, my daughter.’

‘And you’re . . .’ The receptionist turned back to her screen. ‘You’re seventeen.’

‘I’m eighteen in two weeks.’

‘Ah, I see. Maybe her mother could come in with the necessary documents and—’

‘Are males barred from doing this kind of thing then?’ I asked impatiently.

‘No. No. Of course not. I just meant that maybe her mother has access to the necessary documents and she could come in and—’

‘Emma’s mother isn’t around any more,’ I explained, resenting the hell out of the fact that I had to. ‘I look after my daughter and all I want to do is register her with a doctor.’

‘If you could come back with all the things I mentioned then there should be no problem,’ said the receptionist.

By which time all I wanted to do was repeatedly bang my head off the reception desk.

‘OK,’ I said, hanging onto my patience by a single thread. ‘I’ll be back soon.’

I turned and headed out, ignoring the curious and speculative glances from those who’d been eavesdropping behind me in the queue.

‘Well, Emma, this is going to be a right p.i.t.a.’ I told her as I reassembled her buggy and placed her in it. ‘That stands for “pain in the buttocks”,’ I explained.

‘Rannggghh . . . flluuuuffff . . .’ Emma agreed.

Once I got back home, I sifted through all the documents Melanie had left behind. I should’ve done it sooner. And now I thought about it, I remembered Dad telling me to do just that. There was indeed a red book with gold writing on the front which read ‘Personal Child Health
Record’. Inside were a number of pages as well as various unattached sheets of folded paper. One sheet gave baby delivery details. I learned that Melanie had been in labour for seven hours and eleven minutes and she’d suffered a second-degree tear and blood loss. God . . . It sounded horrific. Who had been with Melanie when she gave birth? Her mum? Her aunt? Or had she been alone? No one should have to go through something like that alone. She should’ve told me, given me a chance to wrap my head around the idea and step up. I should’ve been there. Not just for Emma’s sake and Melanie’s, but for my own as well. Why hadn’t Melanie told me?

Was it that she thought I’d hit the ground running?

Would I have tried to persuade her to have an abortion?

Would I have washed my hands of the whole deal?

I didn’t know. I looked down at Emma, sitting on the carpet, playing with her teddy and I honestly didn’t know.

There was a whole heap of other stuff on the same sheet of paper that I was clueless about. Things like ‘Apgar scores’ and ‘Presentation:
Occipito – Anterior
’. Was that even English? I vowed to look up each and every word and phrase I didn’t understand. Flicking further through the book I saw all the immunizations Emma had already had. She was due for another one between twelve- and fifteen-months-old, which I hadn’t realized. There were developmental charts, weight and height graphs, pages of help and advice and a couple of pages of comments at the back of the book which I assumed were made by a nurse or maybe a health visitor or something. It wasn’t much when you got right down to it, but at least it filled in some gaps.

Immunizations, work, a place at a state nursery, checking out the local schools, developmental milestones – I had to get my act together and sort all of those out and more besides. I couldn’t afford to slack off, not if I wanted to keep my daughter.

And I did.

But I needed to find a way to make that happen.

Oh God! I wish he’d stop phoning me and texting me and bombarding me with emails and messages. It’s driving me nuts. It’s got to the stage where I’m afraid to even turn on my phone any more.

It’s over.

Why doesn’t he get that? Does he think any of this is easy for me? This isn’t what I hoped would happen. I thought that maybe . . .

I was stupid.

Why can’t he understand that I’m just giving him what he wants – an uncomplicated, straight-as-a-ruler, boring-as-hell life?

Why can’t he just leave me alone?

Emma had her first birthday, complete with a cake and one candle. We sang ‘Happy birthday’ to her and helped her blow it out. She loved that. And she loved the toys and clothes she got as presents from my dad, my aunt and my brother; yet more farm animals and an alphabet-block toy from Dad, a yellow dress with matching booties from Adam, and money from Aunt Jackie. Dad broke out his camera, the case of which was covered in dust, and took enough pictures to fill a dozen photo albums. It was just like old times. It made me smile to watch him at work with his camera again. We were all posed holding Emma, walking Emma, lifting her above our heads, rocking her, with Emma sitting on our shoulders (she really liked that one). You name it, Dad wanted a photo of it. And Adam loved it, of course. Turn a camera on him and he sparkled like champagne. But even he stepped aside when needed so that Emma could take centre stage. We all buzzed around her like bees – and she loved it.

It was a good first birthday.

A week later it was my turn. My eighteenth birthday
arrived but I sure as hell didn’t need a cake and I didn’t want presents.

‘If you want to spend money, buy Emma something,’ I told Dad and Adam.

Dad didn’t need to be told twice.

I had no plans to go anywhere or do anything for my birthday, but Dad put his foot down: ‘Dante, you and your brother go out and enjoy yourselves. It’s your birthday, for God’s sake. Go and have a meal or see a film – my treat.’

‘What about Emma?’ I frowned.

Dad raised an eyebrow. ‘I’ll baby-sit.’

‘Er . . . I don’t think that would look too good if Veronica turns up,’ I said.

There had been no further word from Collette’s sister Veronica, but I didn’t doubt for a second that she’d be back. She hung over me like the sword of Damocles.

‘Stuff Veronica,’ Dad dismissed. ‘It’s your birthday. You’re only eighteen once and it doesn’t make you a bad parent to have an evening out without your kid once in a while. Go and enjoy yourself. Adam, take your brother out and remind him what a good time feels like.’ He dug into his pocket, pulling out a few notes. ‘Go on, you two. Off you go and have some fun,’ he insisted.

I wasn’t sure about this. I picked up Emma to explain. ‘Daddy is going out but only for a little while. I’ll be back before you know it.’

‘Oh. Dear. God!’ Dad exclaimed. ‘You’re going out for a couple of hours, not leaving for an expedition to the Antarctic. Emma will be perfectly fine with me. Go.’

To be honest, it felt kinda good to leave the house and not be pushing a buggy!

Dad walked Emma to the door to see us off. ‘Say bye to Daddy,’ he told Emma. ‘Wave to Daddy.’

‘Dannggghh,’ said Emma, waving at me.

‘Bye, Emma. See you soon.’ I waved back. I really wasn’t sure about this. I was just about to head back to her when Adam grabbed my arm, dragging me away.

‘Dante, stop being so pathetically sad,’ he told me.

‘OK, OK,’ I conceded.

With one final wave goodbye to Emma, Adam and I set off down the road.

‘Where d’you fancy going?’ I asked my brother.

He shrugged. ‘The Bar Belle?’

‘We always go there.’ I pulled a face, remembering the last time I’d been in that place. ‘Don’t you want to go somewhere different for a change?’

‘The Bar Belle will be great,’ enthused Adam.

‘No, the Bar Belle will be the same as always.’

‘That’s what I said. Oh, go on. Please?’ Adam pleaded.

‘Oh, OK,’ I agreed reluctantly.

‘Yes!’ Adam leaped up, punching the air. He turned to me, a huge smile on his face, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

‘What?’ I was instantly on my guard. ‘What’re you up to?’

‘Nothing,’ replied Adam like butter wouldn’t melt.

‘Hhmm . . .’ I said, eyeing him suspiciously. ‘Whatever you’ve got planned, just don’t embarrass me – OK?’

‘As if,’ said my brother, his eyes – his whole body – fizzing with excitement.

The Bar Belle was insanely busy for a Wednesday. After being told that there’d be a thirty-minute wait for a table, I was more than ready and willing to try somewhere else.

‘We’re here now,’ my brother insisted.

So we parked it at the bar. Adam tried to order a Pina Colada – like that was going to happen! Dad would kill me. I was legal now but decided I’d rather have a ginger beer than anything alcoholic. Adam sat with his virgin colada, sulking that I hadn’t let him have one with rum in it, but he had about as much chance of drinking rum or any other alcohol as Emma did with me around.