Chapter 8: Arianna
“This is it,” I say to Dell as we approach a tall brownstone that has been converted to a medical office.
He holds the door open for me. I’m hit with the smell of antiseptic. A couple other mothers glance up at us. The waiting room is colorful and neat, cushioned chairs lining the walls.
We approach the front desk, where a bright-faced young woman looks at us expectantly. “And who is this?” she asks, standing to peer at the baby.
“Grace,” I say, then decide to shut up. I don’t know what to do about a last name. I’ll let Dell handle that.
“Hello, Grace,” the girl says, then sits again. “Date of birth?”
Dell and I exchange glances.
“This one is a … situation,” I say.
Her eyes get big, and I sense other mothers in the waiting area shifting in their seats.
I lean forward. “I believe my assistant spoke with your office manager about this.”
The girl pushes back in her chair. “Just a moment.”
I straighten and turn back to Dell. His face is an iron mask, his jaw clenched.
“You okay?” I ask.
He nods in a small tight gesture.
The girl comes back and drops into her chair. “Just fill out what you know,” she says, passing us a clipboard. “I assume this will be self-pay since she isn’t currently on insurance as far as you are aware?”
This is horrible. I glance around the room. The other mothers are pretending not to listen.
Dell leans in to her. “Is your office always such an illegal breach of privacy?” he hisses.
His powerful body, angry jaw, and low voice would scare the spots off a cheetah. This girl is definitely affected.
“I-I’m sorry,” she stammers. “Th-these are standard questions.”
“Ask them somewhere else,” he says. His anger is palpable. I can feel it in my belly.
He has a point. This girl has just outed our situation and piqued the curiosity of the room. But these are standard doctor questions. Dell just thought he’d be different here.
He takes the clipboard and covers the distance from the desk to a quiet corner of the waiting room in several long strides. I toss a sympathetic smile at the girl and follow him, patting the baby, more for my comfort than for hers.
Dell stares at the page, making occasional hard scratches of writing across its surface. I have no idea what to say. I do feel for him. He’s been thrust into this situation against his will. He could have just dumped the baby on CPS and been done with it.
I sit beside him. “Anything I can help with?” I ask.
He grunts, crossing off big swaths of the page and flipping it over.
Baby history. Birth history. Age. Place of birth. We know so very little.
He gets to the guarantor section. “Can’t I just pay cash and not put my name to this?”
“I think they have laws about privacy,” I say. “They can’t tell anyone.”
He jabs the pen in the direction of the front desk. The girl there carefully avoids looking our direction. “Oh, like the privacy we just experienced?”
“Probably fewer people care than you think,” I say. And that part is true. A man as arresting and handsome as Dell would draw attention no matter what he did. The fact that he seemed to be clueless about his own baby is just a bonus.
A door opens and one of the other children is called. Dell crosses through the last section of the paperwork and sits back. “I should have had my office manager come do this,” he mutters.
The baby stirs and yawns. I stroke the downy hair of her head.
“Will her hair change too?” Dell asks. “Like the eyes? Go from blond to something else?”
I shrug. “Lots of small children stay blond. My hair didn’t turn until my twenties.”
He examines my face and hair, and I feel a flush of warmth. “So you were blond as a child and a teen, then it got darker?” He lifts his hand and takes a few strands between his fingers.
“Yes,” I say, breathless now at his nearness. I feel completely out of my element. I’m used to holding randy married men at arm’s length. Not having a single one, and a killer specimen at that, touching my hair.
“Is it safe to say that her hair won’t ever be black?” he asks.
I’m still looking at his face, so it takes a moment to register his question. “Black?”
“Yes. It won’t turn from blond to black, right?”
He lets go and tugs his phone out of his breast pocket.
Right. His list of potential mothers.
The chill that follows the withdrawal of his attention makes me shiver. “I don’t think so. Her hair will stay fair and never go much darker than medium brown. If it were going to be black, it would have shown up that way by now.”
He nods, scrolling down his list. “Given that my hair is so dark, that should eliminate quite a few more.”
I’ve recovered from his touch now and sit up straight. “Not necessarily. Recessive genes can show up anytime. My parents both had dark hair and brown eyes.”
He looks at me again, this time focused on my eyes. “They are almost green. Are you sure you aren’t adopted?”
Anger flushes through me. “You don’t say things like that!” I whisper harshly. “I got my hair and eyes from my grandmother!”
He holds up a hand. “Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean to offend your tender sensibilities.” He laughs. “Growing up, I was desperately hoping I would turn out to be adopted.”
As soon as those words are out, his face darkens, as if he is angry he said it. “Never mind. I’m sure a simple test will clear me of all this.”
But I’m too angry now to let any of this go. “Maybe if you didn’t sleep with every woman that came within striking distance of your snakebite, you wouldn’t be in this predicament at all!”
He drops the phone back in his pocket. He’s comfortable now, as if my disdain is what he expected and he’s back in his element. “Careful, now, or I’ll bite you next.”
“As if!” I groan as soon as I’ve said it. I sound like a teenager.
Thankfully, a woman in pink scrubs comes out and calls for Grace. I stand up in a huff, then get hold of my composure and smooth my skirt, one hand still on the baby’s back.
Inside the hall, we turn to a scale on a small table. “Place the baby here,” the nurse instructs. She’s mid-fifties and rather no-nonsense.
I tug Grace from the wrap and place her gently in the curve of the scale.
“Fourteen pounds, two ounces,” the woman announces. She picks Grace up and stretches her out on a small counter next to a measuring tape. “And twenty-two inches. All good.”
She slides the tape around Grace’s head and marks down the measurement. “Perfect.”
We move on to a room and I rewrap the baby. Dell hands the mostly empty clipboard to the nurse and settles in a chair near the exam table.
The woman closes the door and frowns at the paper. “So what are we here for?” she asks.
“To assess the infant’s overall health and do a DNA test,” Dell says. “We need to establish paternity.”
The nurse snaps to me. Great, now she thinks I’m the mother that Dell is questioning. “I’m just here to help,” I say. “The mother is unknown.”
“So no vaccine records, birth information, nothing?” the woman asks.
“Not a clue,” Dell says. “The heartless beast left the baby at my door.”
The nurse bites her lower lip. “I may have to call social services on this,” she says.
Now Dell stands up, towering over the woman. “I’ll call social services myself once we’ve concluded the test. This isn’t the time or the place to involve outsiders.”
The nurse takes a step back. “I’ll bring in the doctor.”
“Thank you,” Dell says curtly. He settles back in the chair.
When the door is closed, he glances over at me. “What are you so smug about?”
“Being friendly is going to get you a lot further than being Dell Brant,” I say. Grace has fallen back asleep in my arms. “If she thinks this child is in any danger, she’s obligated to call the hotline.”
Dell leans his head against the wall. It’s an amusing pose due to a school of silly painted fish behind him. I have to stifle a giggle.
“Are you obligated to call?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say. “Anyone in contact with children like we are is supposed to report anything suspicious.”
“Have you already done so?” His voice is hard-edged.
“No,” I say. “I’m curious to see if the baby is yours.”
Now he frowns. “Is that the reason you’ve stayed? Morbid curiosity?”
I sense the subtle power shift. “There is that, certainly. But mainly I’m here because you asked for my help.”
This mollifies him. We sit in silence, listening to the sounds in the hall. Handwashing. Murmured greetings. At one point, a child’s lusty scream pierces the quiet.
Dell’s eyebrows lift.
“A shot,” I say, and he nods, relaxing.
When the doctor steps in, Dell’s entire demeanor changes. He stands to shake the woman’s hand. “Thank you so much for helping us today,” he says to her. “I’m so anxious to confirm that this child is my daughter.”
This is an entirely different Dell. I guess he took my lecture to heart.
“Let’s see this little darling,” the doctor says. She turns to me. “I’m Lilluth.”
Lilluth is in her sixties with a cotton-candy head of gray hair, and a grandmotherly expression usually only seen in children’s books. I adore her instantly.
“Arianna,” I say, sliding the wrap around to release the baby. “I run the Del Gato Child Spa down the street.”
“Ah, yes, I see many of your wee clients,” she says. “I hear lovely things about your business.”
“Thank you for getting her in so quickly,” I say carefully. I want to place a little distance between myself and the situation since she knows me. “Mr. Brant came in quite concerned about the proper steps to take once the child was left in his care.”
“You are good to help,” Lilluth says. She takes the baby from me and holds her in the crook of her arms. “Nice weight. Good skin tone. Let’s wake you up now,” she says. “I want to hear that healthy cry!”
She lays the baby on the exam table. “Wake up!” she says, then asks, “Is Grace her name?”
“It’s what we’re calling her,” Dell says. “For my grandmother. We weren’t given any paperwork.”
“So we don’t know if she has her immunizations or a confirmation of her age,” Lilluth says. “Let’s take a look.”
Grace opens her eyes sleepily, then closes them again. Lilluth pulls on her legs, opening her knees and checking her hips and ankles. Then she slips the disc of her stethoscope inside the frilly outfit to listen to her heart and lungs.
“All seems well,” Lilluth says. She plucks gently at Grace’s cheeks until Grace is more fully awake. “Let’s look at those gums!” she says.
The baby finally gives a hearty cry and Lilluth examines her mouth. “Three to four months for sure,” she says.
I nod. I thought so too.
“She’s right in the center of the growth chart for three months, which we would expect with no sign of teeth erupting.” Lilluth straightens. “I’m tempted to inoculate her since she’d be due for a second set anyway.” She glances at Dell. “Are you on board with that?”
“If your professional opinion says it is in her best interest, then yes,” Dell says.
Lilluth picks up the baby and places her on her shoulder. “So let’s talk about the DNA test.”
“How quickly can we get results?” Dell asks.
“Three days,” Lilluth says. “But since today is Wednesday already, you’re looking at Monday before we’ll get back to you.”
“There is no way to speed the process up?” Dell asks.
“I think there are one-day clinics around, and some of the home kits will get you results the next day,” Lilluth says. “But you want a court-admissible test. Ours will be one you can take to a judge to establish custody.”
“But if I could know in a day, I can call the child agency if she isn’t mine,” Dell says.
Lilluth pats Grace on the rump. She’s asleep again. “I don’t think I would rush this process if I were you,” she says kindly. “Once the baby is in the system, it’s a lot harder to get her back.”
Dell stares at the ceiling a moment, then says, “Let’s go ahead and do yours. I can decide about the other later.”
Lilluth nods. “Here you go,” she says, passing the baby to Dell. I can see in her sly smile that this is on purpose.
Dell handles her well, holding her gently and angled toward him. She doesn’t wake.
Lilluth smiles with satisfaction. “She looks good on you.” She pushes up from the stool. “I’ll send the nurse in with the vaccinations and the DNA swabs.” She pats Dell’s arm. “Good luck to you.” Then to the baby, “I hope to see your pretty face again soon.”
When she’s gone, Dell says, “I like her.”
“She doesn’t take many new patients,” I say. “But she had a cancellation. Lucky for us.”
The stern nurse re-enters the room and Dell instantly tenses up again. I’m not fond of the woman either.
“Sounds like we have a few items to take care of,” she says cheerfully.
“Are you going to be the one giving her the shots?” Dell asks.
“I am. Now if you’ll just lay her down here.”
Dell hesitates, but steps forward to set Grace on the exam table. She looks so small and vulnerable, spread out on the flat gray cushion covered in wrinkled paper.
His eyes meet mine. I try to convey calmness in my expression.
The nurse opens a round Band-Aid and sticks it on one finger as she pulls out a syringe. As soon as Dell sees it, his face loses color.
I stand up, alarmed at how quickly he changes. “You okay, Dell?”
He nods curtly.
“Hold the baby in place,” the nurse says. “She’ll take the first one fine, but the second one won’t be as easy.”
Dell and I glance at each other again. He presses a palm on the baby’s chest. I fold in close in case I can help.
I may have run a day care for several years and dealt with all manner of child situations. But I’ve never been a parent, and I’ve never watched a baby get stuck with a needle.
When the syringe goes in and Grace snaps awake with a blood-curdling cry, Dell and I reach for each other’s hands at the same time.