The bottle isn’t warmed up yet, but after a couple desperate minutes of rocking and humming while we wait, it’s finally warm enough—I think. Popping the bottle in her mouth seems to work for five hopeful seconds, then she turns her head and rejects my offering.
“Skylar, I don’t know what you want. I don’t know what to do here.”
Letting her scream can’t be the answer. I put the bottle back down and trail back into the living room, but much more hopelessly than I was a minute ago. This is going to be a long few hours if this is what she’s going to do, and why is this happening? Am I horrible with babies? Is my own baby going to come out, take one look at my ineptitude, and cry for the rest of its life?
That’s all I can think about, then Skylar distracts me, burping and then throwing up all over me. I go rigid, looking down at the white baby vomit now covering both of us.
Oh, my God.
Now big, wet tears make their way out of the corners of her eyes as she screams.
“Does your little tummy hurt?” I ask uselessly, watching a white trail drip off me and onto the floor. “Oh, God, this is so gross.”
I need help.
Juanita left for the evening though, so I’m on my own.
“Okay, we need to get you undressed,” I tell her. Only I don’t know where to put her down. I don’t want to get her mat dirty, I have a hunch Rafe will murder me if I put a vomit-covered baby down on his couch, and I don’t want to get her baby carrier or bassinet thing dirty, either. Digging in the diaper bag, I look for an extra receiving blanket. Once I find the only extra Lydia packed, I spread it out on the floor and put Skylar down on it.
The baby shrieks louder, her little body rigid with anger or discomfort, I’m not sure. “I don’t know what to do for you,” I tell her, desperately, as I pull the little polka dot pants off her legs. God, it’s everywhere, even on her socks. I pull those off, too, but before I can start on the onesie, more of the baby puke starts spewing out of her mouth.
“Oh, crap! I’m sorry,” I tell her, picking her up, not wanting her to choke on it. I cradle her against my chest, grimacing that she’s resting against the last batch of vomit.
I feel badly that she’s crying, but I want to cry, too. This is horrible. I feel so helpless and I have no idea what to do. Reaching for my phone on the table, I text Lydia and tell her the baby has thrown up everywhere and I’m not sure what to do. I wait two minutes, and no response. I move on to the next person—Rafe.
“Can you come home? Skylar is flipping her shit and I don’t know what’s wrong with her.”
I put the phone down and grimace at Skylar, digging in her diaper bag for a burp cloth. Optimistically, her mother only packed one, and now I have to use it to clean baby vomit off her chin.
My phone buzzes. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t be much help there, kitten.”
Glaring at the phone, I say, “Are you freaking kidding me?” I want to tell him to get his ass here right now, but then I envision that happening, and it only ends up making things worse. If he doesn’t help me and just stands there, I’ll murder him. Then Sin will have to help cover up that I murdered the Vegas boss, and it’ll be a whole thing.
Sin.
That’s a crazy thought, but I don’t have anyone else to call. I don’t know anyone in Vegas. Sin murders people, so he has to have a strong enough stomach to face down some baby vomit.
The situation is so dire that instead of texting him, I make a phone call.
I can barely hear his low, “Yeah?” over Skylar’s screams.
“Are you doing anything important right now?” I ask him.
Hearing the shrieks, now he sounds more alert, but confused. “Not really. What’s going on? Is that a baby?”
“Gio and Lydia needed me to babysit, but the baby is so mad and I don’t know why, and she threw up all over the place, and when I was trying to clean her
up, she threw up again, and now there’s baby vomit everywhere and all over both of us. I don’t know what to do and Lydia won’t text me back, and I’m not good at this, and I don’t know what to do,” I wail.
“Okay, calm down,” he says, his tone level, like this is not the crisis it feels like. “Are you at the house?”
“Yes, I’m all by myself, Juanita isn’t even here, and I need help.”
“Give me five minutes,” he says.
22
Laurel