Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 60131 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 301(@200wpm)___ 241(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60131 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 301(@200wpm)___ 241(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
“I’m here to see a pair of twins.” I showed him the wristbands. “A nurse gave these to me.”
“Okay.” He scanned them. “Please secure those onto your wrist and follow me.”
I obliged, and Jerry remained behind with Olivia.
After leading me past a set of double doors, the doctor led me through a brightly lit corridor and stopped in front of a wall of plated glass.
“Lucky you,” he said. “Those little ones are right here in the front row. I never read anything in the press about you expecting children. Are you excited?”
His question hung in the air unanswered while I stared at the sleeping babies in plastic cribs. Swaddled in complementing sky-and-rose-colored blankets, their eyes were tightly shut, and their pale mushy faces hid under soft knit caps.
They don’t look like me at all…
“Be sure to put on all the PPE gear at the door before going inside to see them.”
“I can see them fine from here.”
The baby boy’s eyes suddenly fluttered open, and he looked straight at me, before shutting them again.
“See?” I said. “No resemblance. He doesn’t hold a stare like I do.”
“Um, what?”
“How reliable are paternity tests, Doctor?” I asked.
“When they’re done properly, they have a ninety-nine to one hundred percent accuracy rate.”
“But if you have a patient who just assumes who the father is, how do you handle that without getting a test done first?”
“That’s not my department.” He smiled. “But between me and you, one of my colleagues recently had a patient who kept almost everything from her relationship with a ‘rich asshole ex’ and she was certain he would deny it, so she—” He stopped talking mid-sentence, and his eyes widened. “I uh…Have a good night, Mr. Dawson. Pleasure to meet you.”
He disappeared, and I continued to stare at the babies.
Without thinking, I walked to the “Parent Station” and washed my hands. I pulled a hospital gown over my suit and walked into the nursery.
Stepping in front of them, I slid a finger through the boy’s bassinet and stroked his cheek.
“Awwww!” A nurse stepped behind me. “Are you Daddy?”
“No, I’m just a visitor.”
“Okay, Visitor Daddy.” She put on a stethoscope. “Well, just so you know, these sweethearts are doing far better than they were weeks ago, but their doctor still wants us to run a few tests.”
“Do they have names?”
“Not yet, but here’s a book if you need some ideas.” She placed it on a chair. “Take your time, Dad.”
I gave up explaining myself.
“Waaaaa! Waaaaa!” The girl suddenly shrieked like she was in pain, stretching her mouth as wide as her little head. “Waaaaa!”
I gently let go of the boy and approached her bassinet.
“You’re allowed to pick her up,” the nurse said. “Go ahead.”
I obliged, and she continued wailing against my chest.
“See how her little fists are clenched?” the nurse whispered, holding out a small bottle. “She might be hungry.”
Sitting in a chair, I fed her the bottle, and the nurse showed me how to burp her and change the diaper.
The moment she finished those lessons, the boy cried and showed me his clenched fists.
I couldn’t walk away, so I vowed to stay through his diaper change.
Twenty more minutes. Tops.
The next time I looked at my watch, it was eleven o’clock in the morning.
‘Maybe Mine’ and ‘Not Sure Yet’ hadn’t left my sight in a week. On the off chance that the paternity results came for me, I’d never be able to live with myself if I abandoned them—even if they weren’t giving me a chance to sleep or handle any work.
Between feeding and changing sessions, rocking them against my chest, and watching the doctors run tests, I’d answered ten emails and taken two phone calls.
How the hell would my lifestyle work if they actually are mine?
Every time I asked myself that question, one of them cried. Or pooped…
“Mr. Dawson?” Detective Calvin shook my shoulder. “Are you awake?”
Barely. “Yes.”
“I have the DNA results.” He held out an envelope but didn’t give it to me. “Regardless of what these words say, you’re in your mid-forties.”
“I’m fully aware of that, Detective.”
“Don’t you think you’re in a position where you could take on a bit of charity?”
I was too exhausted for a conversation. I reached for the envelope, but he lifted it higher.
“I guess what I’m trying to say is,” he said, “wouldn’t it be fitting for you to adopt these children, like someone adopted you? You have enough money to give them a wonderful home.”
I gave him a withering look. “Hand over the envelope.”
“If you walk away from these beautiful children, the guilt will eat you alive,” he said. “The nurse said you’ve already highlighted names and contacted a few clothing designers.”
“If I have to ask you again, we’re going to have a problem…”
“Fine.” He tossed it into my lap.
Too impatient to worry about his presence, I ripped the flap and pulled out the papers. Flipping through them, I skimmed until I reached the last line.