Chapter 15: Dell
Five o’clock comes and goes and no nanny.
The baby swing has worked amazingly well, and Grace has either slept or stayed mesmerized by the light-up toys ever since Arianna left. Best purchase I made today, despite that woman trying to talk me out of it.
I’m not sure what to do. Night is coming and I’m Googling “How to take care of a baby” to make sure I know all the salient points. Bernard has contacted a few nanny agencies himself, but no one is sending out anyone for interviews before tomorrow.
“Late night baby care” got us no hits other than hospitals.
I can only sit in the chair near her and wait for her to wake up. Then figure out what’s wrong. Then how to fix it. I pass the time reading the Wiki on “How to change a diaper.”
It’s oddly specific.
The house is quiet. Bernard does whatever Bernard does while not assisting me. Maximillion is probably napping. It’s his retirement.
Is this parenting? Hours of boredom punctuated by fifteen minutes of being frantic?
The housekeeper arrives with stacks of clean, perfectly folded baby clothes. I’ve never been more relieved to see a woman in my life. She’s perfect, a grandmotherly sort, stout, friendly faced, dressed comfortably. Her hands are strong. She obviously doesn’t fear messes.
I stand up, putting on my most charming smile. We’ve never spoken more than five words before today, but I need her more than I’ve ever needed anyone.
“Chenille?” I say.
“Shannon,” she corrects patiently.
“You have been amazing,” I say. “Just amazing today. What I need, and I really mean need, is for someone to stay the night here tonight and help with the baby.”
When her forehead crumples, I plead harder. “I thought I would have a nanny. But I don’t. And I’ve never even been around a baby. I have no idea what to do.”
She holds out her plump hands. “Mr. Brant, I would love to watch the sweet bairn, but my husband needs me. He can’t get around the house. I have to feed him dinner, help him to bed.”
“I see,” I say. I can’t exactly ask a woman with an infirm husband to abandon him. “I just don’t know the least thing about feeding or cleaning an infant.”
“Oh, it’s not so hard,” she says. “Just give them the bottle and burp ’em real good. If they dirty the diaper, wipe ’em down with a soft cloth and fasten on a new one.” She glances around the room. “You’ve got everything you need.”
Then she frowns. “’Cept a rocking chair. You really could use one of those. Isn’t anything that’ll settle a crying baby better’n a good rock in a pair of loving arms.”
Right. Rocking chair. We should have picked one up at that store. They had that set that Arianna loved so much.
Arianna. Her spa. That baby room had rocking chairs. Maybe I can borrow one for the night. Then buy one tomorrow.
“Thank you, Chenille — sorry, Shannon. I’ll try to pick one up.”
She pats me on the arm. “You’ll do fine. A father’s instincts kick in just like a mother’s.”
Shannon turns and heads out, and I’m alone again.
I head for the door. I can tell myself that it’s just the chair I want, but if that were true, I’d send Bernard after it. Or call one of the doormen to fetch it.
I know better. It’s Arianna herself that I need. I’ve screwed up. I’ll own it. I’ll make it right.
I’m all the way to the elevator when Bernard calls out.
“Sir?”
I punch the button with aggravation. “What is it, Bernard?”
“You’ve forgotten something again.”
Shit. The baby must be awake. Is she going to cry every single time I leave the room?
I hurry back inside the penthouse and down the hall.
She’s still in the space pod swing, her face red. She gives out two or three good cries, then pauses to take in a breath before starting another set.
I unbuckle the belt and lift her out. “What is it, Grace?” I do the up-and-down bob thing again, but it doesn’t work this time.
I cradle her in my elbow, turned in at the proper angle, and move her fist to her mouth.
This does nothing.
“Bernard!” I call. “Can you bring a bottle?”
My butler is as slow as he’s ever been in the history of my employ. After long excruciating minutes of blood-curdling cries, he appears with the formula. I snatch it from him.
The nipple slides into her mouth, and for a moment, there is blessed silence.
I sigh in relief. That’s all it was.
But within seconds, she’s pushed the bottle out of her mouth, milk dribbling down her chin. It soaks the lacy collar of her dress. I forgot the bib.
I try to put the nipple back in, but she won’t let me, shifting her head from side to side. The cries begin again, working their way back up to an ear-splitting howl.
I set the bottle down and put her on my shoulder. Arianna said she was gassy. I’ll have to burp her. I remember the moment at the store and snatch up one of the newly laundered cloths. Yes, I have it. I’m on this. I can do it.
The cloth slides over my shoulder and I bring Grace up. I pat her back.
Nothing happens. No sailor burp.
I increase the pressure a bit more.
She continues crying, now at a headache-inducing decibel so close to my head.
I can’t pound the child. Didn’t Arianna say we’d need something to help her? Some sort of drops?
I head into the bathroom and sort through drawers, scattering pacifiers, baby wash, baby powder, baby lotion, baby shampoo. Did everything come in baby form? Seriously?
But no drops. I guess we forgot to get them.
Meanwhile, Grace continues her cries, now jagged and punctuated by gagging coughs.
She’s sick. I knew it. I’ll sue that doctor for incompetence. She has pneumonia. Or whooping cough. Or consumption.
She’ll die right here. It will be a scandal. The mother will show up with a lawsuit. They’ll arrest me. Maybe that was their plot all along.
I hold Grace up in the air to look at her. As soon as she goes up, she stops crying. I bring her down, then back up, like Arianna did at the store in that magic happy moment.
And she giggles.
I do it again, down and up. Grace laughs again, her arms waving.
Okay, so she’s not dying.
I bring her back down in my arms, and within seconds, she’s back at it. Her cries echo off the tiled walls. Oh my God. What will make it stop? I run through the list. Hunger. Gas. Wetness.
Is it the diaper?
There’s a curved pad on the counter with a soft cover. I’m guessing that’s where I’m supposed to set her down.
When I place her there, it’s like she’s been put on the rack to be drawn and quartered. The wails intensify. I can barely stand it.
I soldier through and pluck at the elastic edges of the little undergarments she has on under her dress. Do I take it all off? Can I get it back on again if I do?
Instead, I stretch the elastic to the limit. Beneath is another layer of plastic. The diaper.
It doesn’t stretch as easily, so I hold up her leg to get a look.
I’ve only moved it a small amount when a strange mustard-yellow substance leaks out.
God. What is that? She really is sick.
That’s it. I can’t take another moment.
I scoop her in my arms and rush out to the hall.
I don’t stop to tell Bernard what I’m doing. I dash straight for the elevator.
I’m not sure where I’m going. The ER, maybe. Is there a children’s hospital in Manhattan? The taxi driver will know.
Or maybe not.
The elevator is blessedly close to the top.
We only go down a few floors before we stop. Then again. And again. It seems everyone is headed out for the evening.
It’s crowded and everyone stares at me and my wailing, dying child with her mustard-yellow privates.
Jesus, it’s my building. I am seriously going to install a goddamn private elevator for the penthouse.
When we finally get to the foyer, I realize I haven’t called my driver. No telling where he is. I’ll have to just hail a taxi.
But I don’t have the car seat. It’s still upstairs.
Grace has unexpectedly quieted, her interest caught by all the new people and sights. But that doesn’t change what’s happened to her bowels. I knew that mother abandoned her for a reason.
I rush out onto the sidewalk, looking right and left. Traffic is bumper to bumper, and none of the taxis have their lights on.
I’m contemplating paying someone to abandon theirs, if I can get them to open their window, when I hear a soft voice.
“Mr. Brant?”
I turn. It’s Taylor, from Arianna’s child spa. I’m standing in front of the windows.
“Is there a children’s hospital in Manhattan?” I ask her.
Her jaw drops. “Is the baby sick?” Then she motions me inside. “Come in here.”
“You’re still open?” I ask. The interior is dim.
“The teachers just left,” she says. “I was about to lock up. What’s wrong?”
“The baby. I checked her diaper. It’s awful. I think she’s sick.”
Taylor bites her lip to hide a smile, and that’s the first indication I have that maybe I’m wrong about this. She sets her purse on her desk.
“What makes you think something is wrong with her diaper?” she asks.
“It’s — it’s not normal.”
“Is there blood?” she asks. She tries to be subtle, but I see her push a button on the edge of her desk.
“No,” I say. “It’s just…it’s just not normal stuff.”
The door to the back opens and Arianna comes out. “Is everything okay?”
She stops short when she sees me.
“Mr. Brant,” she says. She glances at Grace, who looks around at the colorful walls.
“He thinks Grace is sick,” Taylor says.
“Oh?” She’s not the least bit concerned. “What are her symptoms?”
Now I’m starting to realize I’m wrong. But I’ve got Arianna back now, and there’s no way I’m letting her go again.
“He says it’s her poop,” Taylor says.
Now Arianna takes a turn biting back a smile. “Her poop,” she repeats.
“There’s no blood in it,” Taylor says.
“It’s yellow,” I say, less frantic now.
“It was that way earlier,” Arianna says. “Probably the formula. It’s not uncommon.”
I fumble with my words. “But poop is,” I can’t believe I’m saying this, “brown.”
Now both the women are biting their lips.
Yeah, I get it. I’m stupid.
“Bring her back,” Arianna says. “Let’s change her.” She glances over at Taylor. “You can go on home.”
Taylor picks up her purse. “Bye, Mr. Brant,” she calls.
I follow Arianna to the quiet halls of her child spa. She flips on the light of the bright white diaper room.
“What happened to the nanny?” she asks.
“She left,” I say.
“She couldn’t stay right away?” Arianna pulls a diaper from a closet.
“No, she didn’t take the job. Apparently our argument gave her a ‘bad vibe.’”
Arianna turns around. “So you don’t have anyone?”
“The second one didn’t show.”
Her eyes flit downward at that. “Set Grace here,” she says.
I lay her down on a curved pad like the one upstairs.
Arianna lifts the dress out of the way, and peels down the frilly underpants.
“How is Grace?” she asks in a gentle voice, her face down low. Grace reaches up for her and touches her cheeks. “Have you been a good baby?”
She unsticks one tab on the diaper, then the other. When she peels it down, I take a step back.
“See?”
Arianna holds both of Grace’s ankles with one hand and reaches up with the other to tug a wipe from a dispenser on the wall. She makes this look effortless.
“This looks perfectly fine.” She cleans up most of it with one wipe, then pulls the diaper away. She sets the wipe on the diaper, cleans Grace more carefully with a second wipe, then brings the clean diaper beneath Grace.
I study this like it’s a law exam. Tab. Tab. Peel. Lift. Wipe. Move. Second wipe. New diaper.
Within seconds, the fresh diaper is on and the undergarment back in place. Arianna rolls the old diaper into a perfect ball around the soiled wipes and drops it into a sealed container. “There you go,” she says, moving to a sink to wash her hands.
Grace lies on her back, happily kicking her legs. Her face is all normal colored now. She smiles up at the ceiling.
Great. All that fuss for nothing.
Arianna dries her hands and watches me. “Seems like my kiddie spa has saved you twice today.”
“I’m sorry about what I said,” I tell her. “I was an ass. I’m lost here. Completely and utterly lost.”
I pick up Grace and prop her against my shoulder. “I’m stuck. I need you. I’m an idiot. You are the genius. Can you please have pity on a pathetic stupid man and help me tonight?”
She tosses the paper towel in a trash can. “You assume I’m free tonight to do that.”
“I don’t. I’m sure you are canceling epic plans with amazing people. But it’s for a good cause.” I turn Grace around so she faces out and hold up her hand for a floppy wave.
Arianna makes that scrunchy expression I’m already getting used to. “All right. But I have to get a few things. I can’t wear this one more hour.” She gestures at her silk blouse and mauve skirt.
“Are you far from here?” I ask. “We could grab the car seat and go for a drive.” I hastily add, “I have a limo.”
She laughs. “Limos don’t impress me. And actually, I live in the building.”
This is news.
“Really? So I’m like your landlord?”
She laughs again and pushes a combination on a keypad to pop open a cabinet. She extracts her purse. “You going to beat on my door demanding rent? Because I have it automatically drafted from my bank account.”
“Ah, so I have no excuse to try and arrange some other form of payment?” Only after I’ve said it do I realize what has just slipped out.
She looks away and closes the cabinet with deliberate slowness. Then, quietly, “Do you do that?”
“No!” I say. “No. Sorry. That just. Came.”
She lifts an eyebrow.
“Out! It came out!” God, I’m like a high school freshman today. Gone is the Dell Brant who got up this morning. I’m a sniveling, spit-up-covered, frantic mess.
She relents. “Let me stop by my place and I’ll be up. Is there any way I can go straight to your penthouse without having to come all the way to the ground for Harry’s approval?”
“Sure,” I say, shifting Grace so I can reach for my pockets. I’m not used to jeans. Normally I keep everything tucked inside a suit jacket. It’s a much more elegant way to extract necessities.
I pull a card key out. “There’s an invisible sensor above the button panel. Wave this and the 40th floor will light up. Only the far-right one goes to the top.”
“Wow,” she says. “I feel privileged.”
I’ve got my bearings back now. “No, I do,” I tell her.
There is no way I’m going to screw this up again. Whatever I thought was important at 7:15 this morning has been completely upended.
She is what matters. She’s getting me through this day from hell.