They’re cleaning Leo up downstairs. She did really well, even the midwife said; Harper was born swimming in a portable pool, which is apparently good for her. I call bullshit, but it made Leo happy. You don’t fuck with laboring women—they can rip your hands off and go on none the wiser.
So while Leo catches her breath, I’ve brought Harper up to the office so she can survey her new territory. Get a feel for how things are going to be. She’s swaddled in purple blankets—the color of English royalty, because it turns out I’m a shameless cliché when it comes to this sort of crap—and has opened her eyes now. I like to think she’s actually looking at me, but let’s face it. She’s probably working out how to expel her first shit.
It’s unlikely Harper will ever discover I’m not her real father. She’s my half-sister. That link alone is enough. Looking down at her now, I don’t feel like a big brother…not that I ever have, I guess. The thing is, I never wanted to be a parent. Now I am, but I’m not. The logic in this is so delightfully unsettling, I try not to think of anything else.
Like warm guts slopping about the sensitive plain of my wrist.
Like an ocean frothing with fresh scarlet, the broken reflection of a bleeding sun cracked across its surface.
Like Tuija coming to distract me when Leo was screaming, and Harper…Harper was being conceived.
We’ll do the tests, of course. Swipe a cheek swab, send it off, just to check. There’s always the tiniest chance…but I won’t taunt myself with it. If I’m honest, sports fans, I kind of prefer her not being entirely mine. Makes it all the more virtuous. I need all the virtue I can get.
But I’ll be an excellent father. Better than mine, both of the sorry bastards, and far better than yours.
Harper whimpers, brushing her stubby little fingers toward her squished nose.
I give her a squeeze. I’ve been reading all the books, see, and I know just what to do here. Feed baby on demand. Put her skin next to yours so she can feel your heartbeat. Never leave her to cry, at least not until she’s three and pissed that she can’t have a lollipop, and above all: fuck the fucking routine.
“Aeron?” Ethan knocks against the office doors. “Ash is busting a gut out here. Can we come in?”
“Uhuh,” I call.
The door squeaks open, and Ash scuttles through, clutching a huge teddy bear with a red ribbon collar. “Have I got a sister yet?” he bellows.
“Yep. Come see.” I perch on the edge of my desk and lower Harper in my arms. “Here she is.”
“Oh em gee,” he purrs. “She’s tiny.”
Ethan puts his hands on Ash’s shoulders. He’s grown a full beard now; it’s fashionable here to be a metrosexual ‘wanker.’ “Harper, right?”
“Harper,” I agree.
He shoots me a half-smile. “There was nothing wrong with Khaleesi.”
“One day, when you spawn kids of your own, you can call them all the batshit ridiculous names you like. I will disown you, but it’s a free country. You can have kids called Persephone Bollocks Face and Lost Sock for all I care.”
Ash titters to himself, kneading the teddy’s fur in his tight fist. He’s grown a good inch or so since we got to England—the cooler weather agrees with him. It’s less of a reminder of a hot beach and spattered pink sky.
“Lost Sock has a ring to it.” Ethan regards Harper with soft, wet eyes. Then he clears his throat. “I’ll give you guys some privacy. Ash—see you in ten, okay?”
“Okay.”
Ethan stomps out of the office and back down the corridor, presumably to add a bunch of Star Wars crap to his Future Baby Names list.
“Is Leo okay?” Ash asks, his voice wobbling in concern. “Only, there were noises—”
“She’s fine, buddy. The noises were terrible—trust me, I got them in stereo—but they were normal. Pushing babies out is real hard.”
He jerks up, horrified. “She pushed her out of where?”
Yeah. Now is really not the time. “Point is, it’s ouchy. But Leo’s doing great, okay? We’ll go see her in a little while…Harper will probably be hungry.”
“We can’t feed her?”
“Not unless that teddy bear’s got udders, no.”
He cringes. “Dad. Don’t be so embarrassing.”