Boys Don’t Cry

And it was getting worse. Stricken, I watched as Melanie undid the yellow, all-in-one baby-gro, gently extracting the baby’s legs from the outfit. She wasn’t seriously going to change the baby’s nappy on our carpet, was she? It looked like she was. Gross! I wanted to stop her but what could I say? I watched in horror as Melanie unfastened the disposable nappy.

Urgh!

It was filled to overflowing with poo. Sticky, nasty, ultra-smelly baby poo. I was amazed I managed to hold down my breakfast. But I backed up and backed off double fast. I couldn’t have moved faster if the nappy had suddenly sprouted legs and started chasing me round the room.

‘You should watch this,’ Melanie said. ‘You might learn something.’

Yeah, right!

I sat in the armchair opposite the buggy and watched the baby’s scrunched-up face, tears flowing like rivulets from its eyes and down its cheeks. It watched me just as I watched it. It struck me that at that moment, the baby and I were feeling exactly the same. And I mean exactly the same. The baby cried and cried and then cried some more. It was lucky. God knows I wanted to join in. But I couldn’t. Boys don’t cry—that’s what Dad had always told me and my brother. And besides, what good would it have done?

Dad’s voice was unnaturally quiet again. ‘Dante, I don’t know what to say to you. I am so disappointed in you. You’ve let me down, but far worse, you’ve let yourself down.’

Like I didn’t already know that.

Dad shook his head. ‘You just don’t get it, do you? I wanted you to aspire to something higher than having a kid at seventeen, for God’s sake. I thought I’d brought you up to be more than just a cliché.’

Is this really what Dad thought I wanted for myself? I wanted to do something with my life, be someone. I didn’t want any of this. Didn’t he understand that?

‘Maybe I could put it up for adoption or to be fostered?’

The words had barely left my mouth before I realized I’d made a mistake—by saying them out loud.

‘You’d give up your own flesh and blood because she’s...inconvenient?’ asked Dad. ‘And adoption means giving up your own daughter for good. Is that what you really want?’

Yes. I’m seventeen, for God’s sake.

Emma had smiled at him. And I’d never heard Adam say he loved anyone. But just like that, he loved the baby. How did that work? And why did it make me feel so...so empty?

‘I praise you when you’ve done something to deserve it.’

‘What? Four A-stars for my A levels wasn’t enough? Getting the grades to go to university wasn’t good enough?’

‘Of course it’s good enough. You did well,’ said Dad.

Oh my God! ‘Don’t strain yourself,’ I replied.

‘I mean it. You got good results and I’m happy for you.’

‘Yeah, and if I use the telescope at Jodrell Bank I just might be able to detect that. Nothing I do will ever be good enough for you, will it?’

‘Now you’re talking rubbish,’ Dad dismissed.

‘Am I? As far as you’re concerned, I always have been—and I always will be—a total waste of space.’

‘If I were you I’d make the most of Emma at this age. Before too long she’ll be looking at you like you’re a doddering old fart who knows absolutely nothing—if she even bothers to look at you at all.’

Dad’s words echoed around the room.

‘Is that how I treat you?’

‘Most of the time—yeah,’ said Dad. ‘But that’s what happens when your kids grow older. At least Adam still thinks there’s a tiny bit of life in the old dog yet!’

I thought back to the early hours of the morning, pacing up and down, up and down and trying to rock Emma to sleep. Not even my nights were my own any more. The funny thing was though, when she was awake, I couldn’t stop watching her, looking at her.

My daughter, Emma...

My daughter, Emma?

‘I just need to know the truth,’ I whispered into the silence in my room.

That’s all I wanted, the truth.’ So how come I still felt so guilty about doubting that Emma was mine?

I was doing my best, but if Emma stayed with me, every person I met would feel they could comment or condemn or criticize. And if Emma...went away, it would be the same deal.

No matter what I did, no matter how hard I tried, it would never be enough.

‘It’s not fair that you should have to give up on all your dreams for something that wasn’t planned or wanted,’ said Collette, anger lending an edge to her voice.

It wasn’t that simple. The ‘something’ she was referring to was a ‘someone.’ A someone I was currently pushing in a swing. A someone who had kept me up most of the night, but a someone who only had to laugh once to make me smile. A real, living, breathing person—and that made all the difference.

‘There must be something we can do.’ Collette shook her head.

‘I don’t see what,’ I replied. ‘Emma doesn’t come with an on-off switch that I can use for the next three years while I get my degree.’

‘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.

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, 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...

Emma was a Bridgeman. I was ninety-nine per cent sure of that. But the remaining one per cent of doubt kept gnawing away at me. And now, as I stood in the kitchen, my heart pounding, sweat beading on my forehead, I realized I was afraid. But which result was I more afraid of—that Emma was my daughter or that she wasn’t? Dad raised the sheet of paper to read it properly. His lips started moving. Why couldn’t I hear what he was saying?

‘Pardon?’ I said.

‘Emma is your daughter,’ grinned Dad. ‘It’s confirmed. But I could’ve told you that. In fact, I believe I did!’

‘Nnggghh...’ Emma mewed.

I relaxed my grip around her. I didn’t need to hold onto her quite so tightly. I smiled at her, kissing her cheek.

‘You’re seventeen, Dante. You can’t be expected to have the patience or aptitude for this that an older parent would have.’

I wasn’t having that. ‘There are plenty of older parents who abuse their kids. There are plenty of older parents who don’t give a damn about their children and let them fend for themselves. I know I’m only seventeen. I can’t help that. But I’m eighteen in two weeks’ time and all my family, not just me, are determined to make this work.’

‘Look, d’you want me to come home?’

‘Why? Veronica has already left.’

‘I know. But I’ll come home if you need me.’

‘You would do that?’ I asked.

‘Of course I would,’ said Dad impatiently. ‘You’re my son, Dante. If you need me, I’m home in a heartbeat. Well, maybe two heartbeats depending on how the trains are running.’

‘No, that’s OK, Dad,’ I said, feeling a little less ruffled. ‘But thanks for the offer.’

‘And I was your biggest mistake...’ I tried to turn away but Dad placed his hands on my shoulders to stop me.

‘No, son, you weren’t,’ Dad insisted. ‘Sometimes the things you’re convinced you don’t want turn out to be the things you need the most in the world. You have Emma, so you know exactly what I mean. You and your mum and Adam are the only things in my life I’ve ever cared about. Yeah, I had plans before your mum got pregnant. I was going to finish university, I was going to work in films, maybe as an editor. It didn’t happen. But if I could go back and live my life all over again, I wouldn’t change a thing. Not one single thing. D’you understand?’

It was so strange to have her try and comfort me. I held onto her and once the tears started, they wouldn’t stop. And still Emma held onto me. She didn’t shy away from my face, not once. She didn’t look at me like I was some kind of freak either. Instead, she just kissed my cheek and hugged me some more.

And what made it hurt so much was that it was exactly like when Mum used to hold me.

‘I am so proud of you.’

‘For what? for losing my temper and almost hitting my daughter?’ I said with self-contempt. ‘For being no better than Melanie?’ My aunt had to be joking.

Aunt Jackie smiled. ‘But you didn’t hit her. Thinking it and doing it are poles apart, honey. You remember that. You hang onto that. You walked away and gave yourself a chance to calm down.’

‘But I nearly...’

[...] ‘And I’ll tell you why else I’m proud of you—you asked for help.’

At my puzzled look, Aunt Jackie smiled. ‘It’s a man thing, honey. You men can’t stand to ask for help. You consider it a sign of weakness, as if people will judge you or get the idea—God forbid—that you’re not coping.’

At that precise moment, I was happy. And, at that moment, it was a feeling shared by everyone around the table. Before Emma arrived, we’d occupied the same house and that was about it. But not any more. There were no questions answered, no blinding revelations, nothing had really been resolved. But we were a family and we were together.

And for now that was all that mattered.