It was a last-ditch attempt at comforting him that led us to where we are now. I’m laying on the couch with Lincoln on my chest and I’ve been rubbing his back for the last fifteen minutes. I guess he likes that and the slight movement from my breathing because the last I looked, his eyes were finally closing.
Thank god for minor miracles. I never knew how much it would hurt me to see my child in pain, but let me tell you, I understand those movies where fathers take hostages to get their kids proper medical care much better now.
I thought I was going to have to call Phoebe to come back early from her shopping trip, and Ireallydidn’t want to do that. I know she’s had a lot of help from her family, but I wanted to be the one to step up this time. I wanted to be the one to spend time with my son while his mother took care of herself.
I wanted to be a parent to him.
And damn, is it ever good to finally get that chance.
So good, in fact, that I’m still silently congratulating myself on my fine parenting skills when I hear the first rumblings of discontent from Lincoln’s lower half.
The firstpfftgets past me almost without notice.Aww. He’s so relaxed he let out a cute little toot. Adorable.It’s thethpptphtphphhphthat comes next isn’t nearly so cute.
And the smell that accompanies it is downrightfoul.
“Geez, dude. How do you smell this bad? You only eat milk.” Lincoln answers with anotherpfft.“Is that why you’ve been so unhappy? You had to fart? Well, better out than in, right? Fart away, if that’s what helps.”
I look at him, only to see his eyes are still closed, a serene smile on his face. He’s so cute.MaeLynn needs to see this.
I maneuver my phone from my pocket and snap a picture of the two of us, texting it to MaeLynn immediately. I take a few more pictures for good measure, and as I’m about to put my phone back in my pocket, Lincoln unleashes another long, smelly fart. And then another. And another.
And then another. The trouble with this last one, though, is that I don’t just hear it and smell it, Ifeel itseeping through my shirt. Liquid pools on my stomach. I roll up, trying to see it, hoping it’s not what I think it is, but Lincoln lets out a whimper, so I plaster my back to the couch again. Now what? I can’t see from this angle. A stroke of genius occurs to me and I grab my phone again. I open the camera and snap a picture, horrified at what I see.
A greenish brown sludge seeps from Lincoln’s lower half and onto me, soaking through my shirt, drenching my ugly Christmas sweater, making it even uglier. It drips down my side, pooling where my back hits the couch. “Heurgh.” Oh. My. God. “Heeuurgh.”The contents of my stomach are attempting to claw their way up my throat, and I’m stuck on the couch while baby shit drips down my stomach. Every time I try to move, Lincoln squawks and whimpers unhappily. I can’t move without disturbing him, and besides, I wouldn’t know what to do with him after that, anyway. This requires more than a simple diaper change.
What do I do?
I think for a moment, and realize I have the answer in my phone. Pulling up my contacts, I call the only person who can help me. Gavin.
“Hello?”
“Gavin, you’ve got to help me.”
“Archer? What’s wrong? Is Lincoln okay?”The panic in his voice is palpable. If I weren’t doused in baby crap, I’d feel guilty for worrying him.
“He’s sleeping right now—heurgh—But I need—heuurgh—your help.” The more I talk, the more of the noxious odor seeps into my mouth. Oh, god. I think I can taste it.Heurgh.“Come to the Westborough Business Tower. I’ll get security to bring you up to my place.Heurgh.Please. Hurry.”
“Shit. Yeah. Okay. I’m nearby. Maybe five minutes.”
I hang up without saying goodbye and dial the security desk. I don’t know how much longer I can keep my breakfast on the inside. How do babies smell this bad? It’s like the leaky dumpster behind a fast-food restaurant on a scorching summer day.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Fade. How can I help you?”
“William! I’m so happy to hear your voice. I’m incapacit—heurgh—ated at the moment and I have a guest coming shortly. Can you bring him to my apartment? I’ll need you to open my door and bring him all the way inside.” I gag and choke out a cough. “His name is Gavin…Gavin… Shit. Hold on.” I pull the phone away from my ear and navigate back to my contacts. “Gavin St. James. He’s my son’s uncle.”
“Are you alright, Mr. Fade? Should I call an ambulance?”
“No, no, William. I’m—heurgh—fine. I just need some help with my son. Nothing serious. Gavin can handle it.”
“Yes, sir. Mr. Fade. If you’re sure. I’ll bring him up as soon as he arrives.”
“Thank you, William. And call me Archer, would you?” The request to use my first name falls from my mouth habitually despite the situation.
I hang up and drop the phone on the coffee table, where it’s still within reach.
Pfft. Thpptphtphphhph. THPPTHPHTPPPHTHPPFT.
“Not again,” I groan as another rush of liquid cascades down my side and drips onto the couch. “Lincoln, buddy. That’s not cool, man. Not cool.” He lets out a tiny whine in response before stretching his little arms up with an enormous yawn. Aside from the poop soaking through his diaper and clothes, he doesn’t seem any worse for wear. His forehead is cool to the touch, and he doesn’t appear to be in pain.
