Captured(81)

Only issue is, I’ve only got some half-formed ideas as to where we’re going and what we’ll do. But I won’t let her down. I promised.

But there’s one more step to my plan before we go anywhere.





*





Hunter and Rania arrive, and it’s so damned good to see them. They brought their little kids—two daughters aged five years and four months. Rania and Reagan bond instantly, like freaking Krazy Glue. They take off together and leave the kids with Hunter and me, which is really, really f*cking weird. Hunter and I, two f*cked-up ex-Marines, bouncing babies and playing dolls and trucks. We’re sitting on the floor, my fake-leg prosthetic extended out to one side, Hunter and Rania’s little baby, Emma, sitting beside it, slobbering on the flesh-colored plastic. The women have been gone for an hour; Reagan’s showing Rania the horses. Hunter finally pulls Emma off my leg and shows her the blocks.

“So, what’s up, D? Why’d you bring me down here?”

“What? Just visiting my ass isn’t reason enough?” I joke.

“Watch your language around the kids, dude. Their age, they repeat everything.” He glances at me. “And you know what I meant. You wouldn’t come right out and ask for help unless it was legit.”

I breathe out. “All right, fine. Look. I want to propose to Reagan. But I got no idea how. So I need a ring, and an idea.” I stack the wooden blocks, not looking at Hunter.

“Damn, dude. You’re serious?” Hunter rolls Emma to her stomach, and she lifts her head up off the floor, grinning proudly at her accomplishment. “Shoot. Okay, well, let’s make a plan.”

The women come back eventually, laughing, Rania’s hand through Reagan’s arm. We barbecue. Hot dogs and hamburgers and beer, Tommy and Maida—Hunter’s and Rania’s five-year-old daughter—running wild through the front yard, screaming, laughing, chasing Hank’s old blue Heeler, Baker, who somehow got out and came to play. I’m at the grill turning the hot dogs and holding Emma on my hip. It feels weird, but not in a bad way. Never thought I’d hold a kid this way, on my hip like I’ve done it a million times. She’s got Cubby, who stays in my pocket all the time now, and she’s gnawing on his head, looking up at me, head wobbling on her neck. She just had a bottle of milk, or formula, I guess they call it, made from water and some powder. She’s got it on her chin, along with slobber.

“Babababa—BABABA.” She hits me on the chest with Cubby.

“Baba, huh?” I glance at her. “You think so?”

“Bababa. Ba.” And then her eyes go vacant, her mouth falls open, and she grunts.

A wet, ripping sound fills the air, along with a stench worse than death.

“Oh.” I feel my stomach revolt. “Oh my god. Holy shit, Emma.” I toss the tongs on the table and bring Emma to Rania, who is barely restraining her laughter.

“No. I think you do this.” She lifts her beer. “I am busy. See?”

I turn to Hunter, who leaps up from his seat on the porch steps. “The dogs are burning. Better turn ’em.” He grabs the tongs and starts rolling the hot dogs, unnecessarily. “That one is all you, bro.”

Last resort. “Reagan. Here, babe,” I say, trying to hand Emma over.

She just shakes her head and stands up. I feel relief soar through me. Combat? Bring it on. Shitty diapers? Hell no. But instead of taking Emma from me, she walks past me to Hunter and Rania’s car, grabs a satchel of some kind out of the back seat.

She hands it to me. “Go get ’em, soldier.”

“Marine,” I correct her in a mutter. The bag dangles from my hand, and I balance Emma on my hip, probably smearing shit all over me. “What am I supposed to do?”

Hunter chokes on his laughter. “Change her, man. It’s not hard. Gross, but not hard.”

“My god, you men.” Rania sounds disgusted. Fakes a deep voice, thick with sarcasm. “‘It’s so groooooss, Rania. I am going to puke, Rania. You do it, Rania.’ Or, no, my favorite one. ‘How can such a little baby make such big messes, Rania?’” She laughs. “It is only poop. You think, with all you big tough men have done in your lives, that a little bit of shit would not bother you. But you act so silly about it.”

Affronted, I toss the bag to the grass. I get down and lay Emma on her back in front of me. “Fine. Jesus. It can’t be THAT bad, right, baby girl?”

Emma coos and babbles, kicks her feet. I find the snaps of her little one-piece shirt thing and undo them. Rolling the garment up lets the smell waft up to me.

“You cannot change her on the grass!” Rania says, indignant. “There are bugs! Use the pad under her.”

So I find the change pad. Unfold it, slide it beneath the baby. Try to breathe through my mouth rather than my nose. I unfasten the tape holding the diaper closed and pull it away.

“Oh god. I’m gonna be sick.” I’ve never in my life seen anything like it. A sea of tan goo, speckled liberally with what looks like seeds of some kind. What the hell? How does this substance even come out of a human? “Is this normal? Is she, like, sick or something?”

Rania, Hunter, and Reagan all just laugh. So now I’ve got an open diaper, shit from Satan’s own * assaulting my nostrils, and…no clue what to do next.