He swept his eyes shut and did the calculations. Three years ago when he’d been in London finalising the purchase of a chain of boutique European hotels he’d spent one night with Elodie, this boy’s mother.
If this was indeed his son, it would make this boy around two years and three months. He swept his eyes over him, and anger and grief, the rich sense of bodily disbelief, shifted a little, making space for pride.
Fiero couldn’t explain the certainty that gripped him to another soul. While the little boy looked like him, that wasn’t conclusive proof. No, there was so much more – he felt a connection to the boy. On some deep level, he knew Jack Gardiner was his child, his flesh and blood.
“Sir? You’re here to pick up?”
“That is my son.” The words were deep and rumbling. He fired a look at the hospital staffer and then pushed past him, into the nursery.
“Ah, sir, there’s some paperwork I’ll need you to –,”
“Later.” He didn’t stop until he reached the child, and then he crouched down in front of him, his breath still burning in his lungs, breathing as difficult now as it had been when he was a boy sprawled amongst the olive trees.
The child lifted his head, fixing a steady gaze on Fiero, and it was like looking in a mirror. A whoosh of air escaped him as he catalogued all the features of his son’s face, features that were so familiar to him. Their eyes were identical, their noses too. His lips were shaped like Elodie’s, but otherwise, the boy was pure Montebello.
And he hadn’t even known about him. Memory cut through him – he was in another hospital, in a different country, many years ago, but the strength of the memory made him feel as though it were all happening again.
“One last push, Alison.”
Fiero watched as his wife screamed, her body rent with pain. He stood by her side, his hand in hers, her nails drawing blood from his flesh. He didn’t care. He stared at her, the woman who had been one of his best friends for many years, who was about to give him the greatest gift he could imagine. He looked at the doctors expectantly. The obstetrician pulled a baby from her and Fiero laughed, tilting his head back, disbelief filling him. How could he be this blessed? How could life be so kind to him?
“Well?” His voice was thick with emotion. “Is it a boy or a girl?”
The doctor didn’t answer. A nurse at his side moved closer and then there was a sound – discernible because apart from Alison’s breathing, the room was completely silent – the sound of wheels being rolled quickly across the room. He looked around to see a metallic trolley being pushed towards Alison’s legs.
The doctor hit the baby on the back; Fiero saw that it was a boy and fierce pride resounded through him – the same pride he undoubtedly would have felt had his child been a girl. All he cared about, really, was that their baby was healthy.
“What is it?” Alison pushed up onto her elbows. Fiero squeezed her hand.
“Our baby.”
“Doctor?” He voice was like a scream, wild and primal. “What’s wrong with him?”
The doctor didn’t answer. Fear curdled inside Fiero. “Nothing. Everything’s fine.”
But it wasn’t fine. The doctor lay their son, so perfect, so beautiful, on the cold stainless steel trolley and Fiero stayed where he was, gripping Alison’s hand as she gripped his right back, and they watched a team of doctors and nurses work on him. CPR on a child was a distressing sight, but nothing more terrifying than the lack of screaming, the lack of breathing.
“Christo,” he muttered under his breath, but the little boy heard, and winced at the harshness of Fiero’s tone. The look was enough to drag him back to the present, to this boy who was very much alive.
What had the nurse said his name was? “Jack?”
The little boy’s eyes narrowed and Fiero’s stomach twisted with another burst of pride. He appeared to be both cautious and thoughtful – qualities Fiero greatly approved of.
“Who’re you?”
And despite the situation, Fiero found himself biting back a smile. “You can call me Fiero, if you’d like.” He instinctively shied away from pushing too much information on the child too soon, even when he wanted to beat his chest and proclaim his fatherhood to all and sundry. Elodie’s current condition meant there was already enough tumult in Jack’s life, and more to come.
“Where’s mama?”
Fiero’s eyes swept shut for a moment, disgust overtaking every other emotion. He pictured Elodie upstairs in the hospital bed, and wished he could express his rage to her, wished he could make her know exactly what he thought of her choices.
“Asleep.” He was surprised by how calm his voice sounded.
“She hurt.”
The little boy’s lower lip trembled, but he didn’t cry. Instead, he dipped his head forward, and whispered, “S’my fault.”
Curiosity plucked Fiero’s brow. “Oh?”