ILLEGITIMATE

Chapter 10

Genetic Breaks

His eyes shoot open and he reaches for his alarm clock. Every morning he tries to be spry in slapping the 'off' button and every morning she wakes anyway. He doesn't think she even sleeps anymore. His hand hits the clock, and it's silent, but for the wrong reason. It's 3:23am; he should still have a good two hours of sleep. Eyes squint and adjust to the blurring of the glowing numbers. He wonders if they're truthful and he grabs the clock to interrogate it.

"I got her." Jules response is recorded from an answering machine. Programmed like her movements through the predawn darkened room. Her footsteps are light and lithe; he doesn't even hear her leave the room.

From down the hallway Charlotte cries, which must be the trigger to his early awakening. She's three months old and he hasn't done a single sleep-deprived feeding. Not from his protests because he's the one who has the physically demanding, early waking job. Not because he can't supply her with the food the same way Jules does, she pumps milk but Charlotte really dislikes bottles, he can't really blame her. Not because he's resenting the fact he's a fraction related to her. That issue died in a hospital hallway. It's because Jules won't let him.

He's offered. Countless times. Maybe not every time because some of them, he's ashamed to admit, he's slept right through. All the cries he's awake for he's offered to feed her. If not feed her, then burp her. Soothe her. Read to her from giant cardboard and cloth book made for senior citizens who can't see an inch in front of their faces. Rock her to sleep in the chair. Sway with her in his arms like he did to get her to sleep the first week they were home. Jules refuses.

Despite them being a couple. Despite them all being a family, nighttime care of Charlotte is purely Jules' reign. It's not such a bad thing except she also has full reign of Charlotte in the daytime while he's out putting bullets into people's brains. This leaves him a brief window of three, sometimes four hours in which to hold, play with, and cuddle Charlotte when he gets home.

Sometimes he plays with her bright, easily accessible toys on the ground with her, though she's still completely stationary. Talks to her while she punches from under hanging stars and moons. Sometimes they read those big sketch comedy books with a maximum of five words on each page. Her pale green eyes set on the page and her hand shoved completely into her mouth. Long lashes fanned, eyes intensely watching as he points out objects and explains what they are. Other times the game is on and he dresses her in a little Canucks jersey the Team got him as a gag gift. He didn't laugh, he loves it. He explains the plays to her as she starts to fall asleep in the crook of his arm. Same hand wrapped around the same finger. Sometimes he swears at a lousy ref call and Jules gives him shit.

Charlotte is starting to sleep through the night which is a relief to him. Not because he did anything at all, but because Jules looks worse than she ever did during the pregnancy. From lack of sleep, from lack of a solid meal, from lack of relaxation. When he does get to give her a break she cleans the house. When he tells her to go lie down or to take a hot bath, or go for a walk she gives him shit.

The crying trickles to a stop and a few minutes later Jules ghosts over the floor and back under the covers beside him.

"I don't mind getting her." His voice is gravelly, devoid of liquid, parched by sleep, by embrace. He realizes that although they've been a family for the last three months, there's an extreme lack of contact. A lack of gentleness. A lack of caressing affection and affirmation. At least between him and Jules.

She turns her back away from him in the bed. Boney shoulder blades protruding through her nightshirt. "I know."

"Jules." He sighs. Watches the gloom swirling around on the ceiling, the waning moon, weak streetlights and traffic don't add much illumination. He's left in the dark. "You need to let me start helping you more."

"I'm fine." She rotates towards him as if to prove the point. Hands curling underneath her chin, leaded eyelids ashen and almost sealed shut. Acting her way through the problem. "Where is this coming from?"

He tucks a few strands of hair behind her ear. The touch of her skin is cold and it shocks him, but he rests his hand on her cheek. They haven't been this close in three months. It hasn't been all laughing and getting the video camera to record every movement Charlotte makes. It hasn't been cuddling together on the couch to watch her sleep. It's been rough and hard as hell, especially for Jules. Maybe she's scared because so many things have physically tried to remove Charlotte from her before she was even born. Maybe it's the need to ensure Charlotte bonds with her, the need to overcompensate for her own mother. "You're going to burn yourself out."

Thin fingers wrap limply around his wrist as she closes her eyes fully at his touch. "I'm fine Sam."

He knows what he's really worried about. Knows that she must be worried about it in some faction. She's overworking herself. Overstressing herself. Not sleeping, or eating properly. He thinks the contributing cause is her lack of maternal guidance and what stole her mother from her. He has to say something. If it was just him and Jules, he would keep his mouth shut to avoid the impending rage. But it's not just them. He's doing this for Charlotte. "I'm worried."

"What are you worried about?" Her voice is disengaging, disappearing from the conversation as she falls asleep. Her thumb drags over his knuckles in slow, lulling sweeps growing wider in occurrence.

"I'm worried that if you keep acting like this, like nothing's wrong, something worse is going to happen." Her eyes are still closed and her finger has stopped its pendulum effect. He exhales and decides to expose his fear because if he doesn't now, he never will. "I'm worried you're going to get depressed."

She opens her eyes slowly, naturally, cautiously. Then detangles from his hand and sits up in the bed. The comforter laps around her waist. Consumes her. There's a good foot between them when she questions, "What did you just say?"

"Jules, you know I don't mean anything personal. It's not a sign of weakness or—"

"What the fuck Sam?" Her voice is still eerily composed, depicting just how much he's hurt her. Her eyes jitter with unbridled fury, but her lower lip trembles when she's not speaking revealing the extent of her turmoil.

"I didn't mean it like—" He exhales harshly, contemplates reaching out to her and wonders if he did, if his arm would even return with a hand. "I didn't mean it like that."

"Really? How did you mean it then?"

"I just meant—" There is no good way to explain it to her. No way to tell her what he was thinking, how he thinks it will affect her, and how he only wants the best for their family. "I just meant that because you're so overworked now you're more susceptible to postpartum depression. And depression is—" He pauses contemplating finishing the sentence at all. But when she doesn't respond he continues, "hereditary."

"Great." She flings the covers off her legs. "Thanks Sam."

"Come on. I know it's a lot. I just want to help."

"No Sam. Right now you're exactly like all those people who wanted to take her away from me. Why don't you go give them this information?"

"Jules—"

"I would never hurt her Sam. Never. In any way. Including doing anything to remove myself from her because I know how much growing up without a mom hurts. So fuck you."

Still tender footed she leaves the bedroom. There's no slamming doors. He figures she went into the guest bedroom, but in an hour when he gets up because he can't sleep; he finds her lumped in the rocking chair with Charlotte nestled against her chest. A blanket is sprawled across both of them.

For two days she doesn't say a word to him, not a single word and for two days he feels like a dick. Sure he has the right to worry; these are logically proven medical facts. But he keeps berating himself because there had to have been a more reasonable solution, a more practical way of bringing it up to her. She's solely taking care of the household. Every day when he comes home it's clean even though there's a new first baby. She does the laundry, his clothes, his uniform. Sometimes there are even little notes in the pocket from her telling how much she loves him. She feeds the household, always has supper ready within the hour when he gets home. He's never asked her to do any of this. She just does.

He just wants her to relax and she can't do that with a baby and him. So after two days of not even receiving a grunt or gesture from her, he takes drastic actions. On Sunday, his day off, he sets his alarm and gets up at regular time. He's been sleeping in the guest room so the sound doesn't rouse anyone but himself. It's the only positive to come out of the whole mess.

Quickly, he showers, dresses and grabs Charlotte's bag which he packed with all the essentials the night before. She's still sleeping when he creeps into her nursery. Four fingers ringing on her bottom lip and dressed in her counting sheep onesie Sarge bought. Their boss has an affinity for buying baby clothes now.

There's an unspoken rule that sleeping babies should never be woken. Never. So when he lifts Charlotte and she starts to grumble he isn't surprised.

"Hey Sweetie." He coos to her, raising her head of soft dark brown hair to rest against his shoulder. A fist thumps against his arm and he remembers when she kicked at him from within Jules. He smiles and kisses her plump cheek in quick loud burst. "Good morning Charlotte."

She recognizes his voice and stops before her sniffles become full blown wails. Instead she greets him with an amused, toothless, gummy grin. He usually doesn't get to see her that often in the morning, or spend much time with her. She must understand the fault in the routine and apparently approves of it.

"You're going to spend the day with me." He avoids using the term Dad or Daddy around her. He and Jules, because of their newfound awkwardness and responsibilities, haven't decided on what Charlotte should consider him yet, despite his name being on her birth certificate. Sometimes when he's alone and he can't help it, the 'D' word slips out.

Because he rarely sees her in the mornings, he never gets to pick what she wears for the day. Jules is dedicated to her not being restricted to dresses every day. Despite the influx of dresses received from the Team and the few he purchased, the only time she wears dresses is on special occasions like the SRU Christmas party or her baptism. So he puts her in a little brown dress with ruffles and a pink sweater.

Amazingly he manages to get Charlotte into her tiny coat, knitted sheep-ear hat and car seat without her making a sound. She analyzes every movement he makes as he carries her down the stairs and out the door to his SUV loaded with her stroller, her diaper bag and pumped bottles of milk. In her crib he leaves a solitary note explaining to Jules that Charlotte is safe with him and to take the day to relax. He expects her call any minute. Actually expects her to call Sarge up and have the SRU track down his SUV.

The day is preplanned. They leave the house a little after seven and since he changed Charlotte, she didn't cry to wake Jules. First is a brisk morning walk through the park. A thick layer of February ice incasing the tree branches and leaves. It starts to snow and Charlotte coos at the thick moving flakes before her eyes.

Then he grabs a coffee and a cup half-filled with boiling water to heat up Jules' breast milk. He shakes the bottle, tests it on his wrists and then spends a few minutes feeding Charlotte. It's only the third time he's ever gotten to feed her. Big green eyes open wide and staring up at him as she reluctantly takes the bottle. Same hand finds his same finger and he talks to her while her lips smack away. While burping her, he reads the comics from the paper aloud, then shows her the pictures. He changes her before they leave.

The next stop is his apartment. It's the first and last time Charlotte will ever see the place. He has to be there to sign the closing papers for his realtor and wait for the new owner to do the same. Jules has no idea he sold his place, or that it's been empty for almost three months. About a week after Charlotte was born, he put it up for sale and made classified ads for most of the furniture. Whatever they could use he moved into the house or stored in the basement. He didn't want to tell her because he has plans for the income. A little for Charlotte's university fund, a little for another occasion, and the rest in a special savings fund.

"I see why you kept cancelling our appointments." His realtor, a professional woman in her mid-fifties observes with a grin as he opens the door to his echoing, gutted apartment. Over one arm he has Charlotte's diaper bag which is in no sense of the word masculine, and in the other he hand he holds the arm of her car seat. He hates carrying her in the car seat. So does Jules. But when they have to go anywhere they might be awhile they bring it along.

"I told you I had a good excuse." He grunts and shuts the door behind him. Almost goes to throw his keys on the side table which no longer exists.

"What's the little angel's name?"

"Charlotte."

The realtor fusses over Charlotte in her car seat on the kitchen counter, while he signs the closing papers. Charlotte is not as easily amused and keeps a straight lipped response to the woman's baby talking and poking fingers.

"She is absolutely gorgeous. She doesn't look like you at all though."

"No." Shakes his head, and clicks the pen. The realtor is tickling at Charlotte's toes, oblivious to the stitches she's ripped open. He clears his throat and sets the pen on the counter sliding it over with the paper. "She looks like her mom."

Finally, sharing his exact sentiments, Charlotte grimaces and wrenches to the side a faulty attempt to get away from French manicured prodding nails.

"Oh, someone is fussy."

Before the realtor can twitch another finger, he intercepts and clicks Charlotte free of her car seat prison. The blanket covering her plump legs falls back into the carrier and he holds her against him. "She probably just misses her mom."

Then he considers his statement. Maybe Charlotte does miss Jules. She's never been away from her mother. Sure he wanted to give Jules some time off, but he didn't think to how Charlotte would react to the absence of her mother. He wonders if she misses Steve. If it's possible for her to miss Steve. But she's stopped crying. Is staring at him again. Same hand around the same finger as he holds her.

After the deal goes through and Charlotte puts up with a few more empty nest syndrome manifested pokes, he secures the seat back into his car. It's something he's good at, maybe better than Jules at, because he does it so often. It's one of the only things she's delegated to him.

Charlotte grins at him. The same one from a few hours ago, wide and bright without a single tooth. Little eyes curling. He wants to buy her something. Not sure what. Everything. But he doesn't want to spoil her. She doesn't have many stuffed animals, or dolls, or many girl things at all.

But it's a little before eleven and his cell phone rings as he sits in the front seat. She's later than he expected.

"Hello?"

"What the fuck Sam?" The calmness from three days ago has dissipated. With no baby in the house to stay composed for, her rage is channeling swiftly into expletives he hasn't heard since they dated three years ago.

"Jules, she's fine she—"

"You took my fucking baby."

"She's our baby and you needed to relax."

"And your way of making me relax was to kidnap my daughter."

"I didn't kidnap her I just wanted to—"

"You want me to relax Sam? Bring her home now."

So he does. Because he loves them both. Because he wants them both to be happy. Because him bonding with his daughter is trumped by Jules intuition as a biological mother. He parks his SUV and releases Charlotte from the car seat again, preferring to share the last few seconds with her in his arms, blanket wrapped around her legs because it's snowing large wet flakes. One hits her nose and her face scrunches.

He crosses the threshold with the diaper bag inside the carrier in one hand and Charlotte in his other arm. Jules, in her blue plaid pajama pants and an oversized gray wool sweater is pacing a trench into the hardwood floors which are glowing from her activity.

"Hi Baby." Her outstretched hands fall short of the sweater's cuffed material held in her palm. Charlotte notices her, immediately perking up in his arm, dangling feet kicking in excitement and the gummy grin on her face.

He sets the car seat on the floor and relinquishes Charlotte into Jules' arms. She lifts their daughter into the air and presses their noses together. Jules speaks softly about how much she missed her and Charlotte coos with delight, her hand curling against the collar of the sweater. It's a warming scene that makes their home feel like a home.

And then he wrecks it.

"Jules?"

Calm voice returning and holding their grinning, gurgling daughter she states softly, "I should punch you in the face."

"I just wanted to give you a break."

"Did I ask for one Sam?"

"I'm sorry. I should have—"

"I'm asking for one now." There's a pause, a hesitancy in her voice like she's doing this to teach him a lesson.

"Jules come on."

"Do you know what it did to me to wake up and find her not here? You both not here?" She clasps Charlotte tighter to her, resting the side of her cheek against their daughter's full head of hair. "You're afraid of me having some sort of breakdown and everything you do pushes me towards it. I'm so furious with you right now, but I don't want to upset her. So maybe you should just leave for awhile."

So he brings in the stroller and leaves. Doesn't even get to be with his family on his day off. Tries not to feel excluded. He's new to this whole parenting thing, just like Jules is, but for some odd reason he isn't catching on as quick. He doesn't understand Charlotte's different cries and what they mean. Jules can hear her squeak and know exactly what the problem is by one note in one octave. He usually understands what she wants by process of elimination or by Jules telling him.

He is a parent. He's Charlotte's dad, or father figure. However close to being a dad without actually being the full definition of a dad. A few matching chromosomes short of being a fully fledged father. But that's everyone else's opinion. Everyone who doesn't understand their situation, their family. Maybe even Jules, who is striving to take care of Charlotte's every need so he won't get angry or bored with her and leave them. People have a habit of leaving Jules. But her fussing over their daughter only roots his fears that she'll never fully be his daughter. Something people outside of their small family are constantly reminding him of.

Even his parents don't understand the situation. He phoned his mom a few days after Charlotte was born and explained she and The General were sort of grandparents, elaborating his situation with Jules to an answering machine. His mom returned his call and hesitantly raised the idea that since none of Charlotte's genes matched his own, she was not their 'real' granddaughter. They haven't spoken since. It upsets him because he fully expected it from The General, but not his Mom.

He keeps the day's schedule despite not having a daughter to care for. He goes to a bookstore and picks up a novel Jules has been dropping hints about for the past week or so. He also grabs two more large cardboard books with plots as loose as undone shoelaces. The next stop is a toy store where he grabs a soft pink dog for Charlotte. She has no dogs. She has barely anything pink. It works. Lastly he goes to the grocery store and grabs some of the necessities, plus the food he knows is on the list. The only place he doesn't visit is the jewelry store. He was going to go, was actually intent and excited on going, but the idea is pocketed.

It's a little after five and the sky is a mute white with the foreshadowing of a February snowstorm. He's driving home because he doesn't want the food to go bad, and because as of today he doesn't have any other place to go. Probably should have told Jules prior to her kicking him out that he sold his apartment, but he wants to surprise her with the money. Wants to save it for future planning and a store he didn't visit.

The house is silent when he opens the front door and settles a group of plastic bags on the floor. Contemplates calling for her, but argues against it in his mind. What if she's asleep or Charlotte? But then what if something is wrong? His fingers twitch in the lapse of bag handles and suddenly she appears from the top of the stairs. Charlotte probably went down late for her nap because of him, which will only incur more fury.

He really doesn't think his confidence can take anymore beatings and he turns to leave before she says a word to him, or God forbid, with childless arms, make good on her threat from earlier. She stops him on the front porch. He hears her bounding down the stairs, light feet suddenly leaden, but she doesn't obstruct him from wanting to get the rest of the groceries and leaving again for an infinite amount of time like she told him he should.

But she runs at him so fast he barely has any time to react. Just her body ramming into his at such a force he almost topples down the icy front porch steps.

"I thought you weren't coming back." She mutters into the front of his winter coat. Thick clouds of steam bursting from her mouth with each word. "I was so angry at you and then as soon as you left I missed you so much. Why would you come back?"

Hugging her tight, he watches the warm porch light from inside the frosted glass. "Because this is my home? Because I love you? Because I love her? Why wouldn't I want to come back?"

She half laughs, half sobs in his arms. His hand rests on her back hidden underneath waves of wool. She lost the weight she gained with Charlotte and then some in these last three months. From sleep deprivation. From odd meals. From taking care of everyone and everything except herself. From carrying a constant concern. "Go back inside; I'll get the rest of the groceries."

Not hearing him, she kisses him on the lips. Cold, shaking palms planted on his cheeks. Kissing him like he's going back to Afghanistan and not to get groceries from a trunk she can see from the porch. "I love you Sam. I do. I know that I don't always—"

"You always do." Her frozen fingers end up in his. His eyes drop to her bare feet on the snow spotted porch and he immediately shuffles her backwards towards the house. She snorts at the action as he half carries her into the threshold. "Dress for the weather."

She kisses him again, less sentimental, more suggestive and he can feel the warmth of her and the house already. One of her hands worms up inside the sleeve of his coat to rest directly on his arm and he can't think of a better feeling. "I missed you Sam. Too much. If you want to be with Charlotte more, who am I to say no. You're her father."

His hand stops playing with her ponytail and for a minute the only sound is the wind from the open door rustling the plastic bags. "What did you say?"

"That you're her dad. I mean—you are, aren't you?"

"Yeah." He nods with the biggest exhalation of air he didn't know his lungs were hoarding. His fingers return to weaving through her hair. "No one else seems to get that."


Next Chapter - One of my other favorite chapters, so you know it's gonna be tragic. That's right, not even babies are safe from my keyboard.

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