Where the Stars Still Shine(47)

“Fine. Come on.”

Leaving Joe in his high chair, Tucker and I go to the bedroom, where we swap the damp shirt for one with Batman wings across the chest. He scampers back to the kitchen and we finish our breakfast, accompanied by his nonstop narrative about how his oatmeal is an island, he’s a pirate, and his spoon is digging for buried treasure.

After I wash up the boys, I park them in front of an animated movie, do the dishes, and then sit down on the floor with them. Joe worms his way onto my lap and leans back against my chest. There’s an oat still stuck in his hair. As I pick it out, he makes a grunting noise and his face turns bright red.

“Uh-oh,” Tucker sing-songs. “Joe is pooping.”

“Poop,” Joe agrees.

Even through his diaper and little stretchy-waist jeans, I can feel the warmth against my thigh and the smell creeps up between us. I dread having to change him and consider pretending I didn’t notice he’d soiled himself until Phoebe gets home, but if he smells this bad now, it can only get worse with time.

I carry Joe into the bedroom and put him down on the changing table. Tucker follows, repeating the word “poop” and giggling every time.

“Okay, Joe.” I unsnap the inseams of his jeans, revealing his chubby little legs. The smell is even more intense now and my stomach roils. “We need to do this really fast, so hold still for Peach, okay?”

He grins and points at my face. “Peach.”

Tucker climbs onto his bed and starts bouncing, arms outstretched as he proclaims himself Batman, Defender of the Universe.

I tear open the Velcro tabs at Joe’s waist and peel back the diaper. A wave of stink curls up my nose and I feel bile rise into the back of my throat. How does Phoebe do this every day without throwing up? How do I get the diaper out from under him? I think about texting Kat, but I don’t have enough hands available and I need to clean up Joe before I puke. I lift him by the feet and whisk the dirty diaper into the trash pail.

“Mommy always makes it in a ball first,” Tucker says, as he bounces.

I ignore him, swabbing at Joe’s dirty bottom with a handful of baby wipes as Tucker informs me his mother doesn’t use that many wipes and that she always straps Joe down so he won’t roll off the table.

“Oh my God, Tucker, shut up!” I snap. “I’m not your mommy.”

He doesn’t stop bouncing, but his bottom lip pokes out and I feel bad for yelling at him as I manage to fasten the clean diaper around Joe—being careful not to put it on backward—and snap up Joe’s jeans.

“Okay, Tuck, let’s go back out and finish watching the movie, okay?” I smile at him, trying to show that I’m not mad at him anymore, but he looks at me with wary eyes.

He bounces once more and leaps off the bed, shouting that he’s flying through Gotham City. Tucker falls as he lands, hitting his head on the corner of a wooden toy box. At first he is silent and I think he must be okay, but then he lets out a howling cry. I put Joe down and kneel beside Tucker. There’s a spot on the edge of his forehead where he made impact—red in the center with an instant bruise around it. It’s not bleeding, but it has already started to swell.

“I want Mommy,” Tucker wails, his words punctuated by gasping breaths as he tries to push me away. “I don’t want you. I want Mommy.”

He won’t stop asking for Phoebe, and I don’t know what to do. It looks like an ordinary bump on the head, but what if he has a concussion? What if he’s bleeding internally? I don’t want to have to call his mother and tell her I messed up, and I don’t want to call 911 if it’s really just a bump, but how can I be sure?

“Oh, God,” I whisper. “What do I do?”

Greg comes into the bedroom—like the answer to some unsaid prayer—and my brother practically throws himself across the room. In his father’s arms, his sobs reduce to sniffles.

“What’s going on?” Greg asks, pushing aside Tucker’s hair to look at the spot. I focus on my bare feet, my face hot with shame. “What happened?”

Tucker sucks in a shuddering breath. “I bumped on the toy box.”

“What were you doing when you bumped on the toy box?” Greg holds Tucker’s face in his hand and looks first into his left eye, then the right, checking for signs of a concussion. I should have thought of that.

“Flying across Gotham City.”

“Were you jumping on the bed again?”

Tucker nods. “But Daddy—”

“Are you allowed to jump on the bed?”

“No.”

“I didn’t know,” I offer.

Greg puts Tucker down. “You’re okay, buddy. Go out to the freezer, get the bunny pack, and I’ll check on you in a couple of minutes.”

“Bunny pack!” Tucker shouts, his tears forgotten as he rushes out of the room. Joe toddles after him, leaving Greg and me alone.

“I’m so sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean—”

“It’s not your fault, Callie,” Greg cuts me off. “It’s just a bump.”

“Yeah, but I promised Phoebe I wouldn’t let her down.”

He pulls me into a hug and kisses my forehead. “You didn’t let her down. Tucker did. He’s not allowed to jump on the beds.”