Boys Don't Cry (3 page)

‘Dante, are you listening?’

‘Huh?’ I was still trying to wrap my head around the fact that Melanie was a mum.

Melanie took a deep breath, closely followed by another. ‘Dante, you’re the dad. Emma is our daughter.’

How much did this suck? I’d woken up with a splitting headache and my morning was rapidly going downhill from there. I made the mistake of not hiding how much my head was hurting when I came down for breakfast.

‘Adam, another headache?’ Dad frowned at me as I sat at the kitchen table.

I nodded. Thousands of wildebeest were stampeding through my head. Again.

‘Is it a bad one?’ asked Dad.

‘It’s not good.’ I rubbed my fingers back and forth across my temple. For the last couple of weeks, I’d been getting irregular but really bad headaches.

‘Why don’t you get over yourself and take some painkillers?’ my brother Dante grumbled.

‘Because my body is a temple,’ I informed him. ‘You know I don’t believe in popping pills.’

‘It’s hardly popping pills to take a couple of paracetamol when your head is hurting,’ Dante argued.

‘I’m not taking any tablets. OK?’ I snapped.

‘Suffer then,’ said Dante evenly.

‘Enough is enough, Adam,’ said Dad. ‘It’s time for you to go to the doctor.’

No way. I mean,
no way
. ‘It’s not that bad, Dad,’ I denied quickly.

‘Adam, you’ve been having far too many headaches recently.’

‘It’s the heat,’ I said, pushing away my bowl of cornflakes. Just the sight of them made me want to upchuck. ‘I just need to lie down for a while. It feels like the beginnings of a migraine.’

‘You’ve been having headaches since the match against Colliers Green School,’ said Dante thoughtfully. ‘Are you sure you’re . . . ?’

‘Don’t you start nagging too,’ I said.

Dante gave me a frosty look. ‘Well, excuse me for giving a damn.’

‘I don’t need you clucking round me like a mother hen,’ I told my brother. It was a bit unfair, I know. But the only word worse than ‘doctor’ in my vocabulary was ‘hospital’. Beads of sweat were already breaking out all over my body – and I hate sweating.

‘What match?’ asked Dad.

‘It was no big deal,’ I said. I really didn’t want to get into this now.

‘Apparently the ball hit Adam on the head,’ said Dante. ‘Luckily his head is totally empty, so no harm was done.’

‘Adam, you never told me that,’ frowned Dad.

‘There was nothing to tell,’ I replied. ‘I just headed the ball when I should’ve ducked.’

‘I’m surprised they picked you for the match,’ said
Dante. ‘Scraping the underside of the barrel there.’

‘Listen, Dante, why don’t you—?’ I was winding up for a full and frank.

‘Dante, that really isn’t helping,’ Dad interrupted.

‘I’ll shut up then,’ said Dante, focusing once again on his bowl of wheat flakes.

‘Dad, I don’t need to go to the doctor. It’s just a headache.’ Which both Dad and Dante were making worse. I just needed somewhere dark and quiet.

Dad shook his head. ‘Adam, what is it with you and anything medicinal?’

‘Not all things medicinal. I’m more than happy to wear medicated plasters.’

Dad stood up. ‘Nope. Not this time, Adam. Get your shoes on. I’m taking you to the doctor.’

No.
No
. NO.

‘But you have to go to work. If we go to the doctor’s now, we’ll have to wait at least an hour before we get seen,’ I said, desperation creeping into my voice.

‘Can’t be helped,’ said Dad stonily. ‘As you can’t be trusted to go on your own, I’ll just have to take you.’ He stood up. ‘I’ll phone work and tell them I’ll be late. Adam, go and get yourself ready.’

As Dad left the room, Dante raised his head and grinned at me.

‘Dante, you’ve got to get me out of this,’ I pleaded.

‘No can do, mate. Not this time. Sorry,’ grinned Dante, not sorry at all. ‘Look at it this way, at least you’re only going to the doctor’s, not the dreaded “H” word.’

‘Thanks a bunch,’ I scowled.

‘Any time, scab-face,’ said my brother. ‘Any time.’

So here I was sitting in our car on my way to the doctor’s, and for the life of me I couldn’t think of a single thing I could do to get out of it.

Melanie’s words hit me like a bullet between the eyes. I stared, searching her expression for a sign, some sign, any sign that this was some kind of joke. But Melanie’s expression didn’t change. I leaped out of the armchair ready to fling her words back at her, only my legs started to dissolve so I collapsed back down. My gaze never left Melanie’s face. I didn’t speak. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think, certainly not over the sound of my heart pounding like a heavyweight boxer’s blows.

I sat waiting, willing, wishing for Melanie to take back her words.

Ha! Not really
.

Just kidding
.

April fool
.

Had you going though
.

But she didn’t say any of those things.

It wasn’t true.

How could it be true?

My stomach was heaving. Dry heaving. My body started to shake, starting deep inside and working outwards like ripples on the surface of a pond. My heart wasn’t the only
thing that was pounding. My head was beginning to hurt.

I started to remember things I didn’t want to.

The night of my friend Rick’s party. The day after Boxing Day, almost two years ago now. Nineteen, no, twenty months ago to be exact. Rick’s parents were away on holiday, leaving Rick and his older sister home alone. Except Rick’s sister had decided to spend a few days with her boyfriend. Leaving Rick all alone, to party. I’d drunk far too much that night. But then so had Melanie. So had everyone.

I remember that night like viewing a series of snapshots. And as the night got later, the snapshots get blurrier. Melanie and I had only been going out a couple of months. And I’d had a great Christmas. I’d got the electric guitar I’d been pestering Dad for, even though I knew he couldn’t really afford it. Melanie bought me a watch. I bought her a necklace. On the way to the party, I warned her that the necklace would probably turn her neck green.

‘That’s OK,’ she smiled. ‘You’ll need a tetanus shot before you wear the watch. Just thought I’d warn you.’

We both laughed and started exchanging kisses, which by the time we got to Rick’s house had grown into one long, long kiss, before Rick flung open his front door and dragged us both inside.

We danced.

And drank.

And snogged.

We danced some more.

We drank some more.

We snogged some more.

Someone called out that we should get a room. So a few minutes later, for a laugh, we snuck off and did just that. I remember Melanie giggling as we went up the stairs. We were holding hands, I think, but I’m not really sure. And I had a bottle in my other hand. Something alcoholic but I can’t remember what. We went into the first room we came to and shut the door. And I took another swig of my drink. And Melanie giggled. And we started kissing.

More snapshots.

It’d been the first time – for both of us.

The one and only time.

And the whole thing . . . well, it was over before it’d barely begun. It had been a blink-and-you’d-miss-it sprint, not a practised and polished marathon. To tell the truth, it’d kind of put me off. I remember thinking,
Is that it then? All there is to it?
So how could
one
encounter that lasted . . . No, that was the wrong word. It hadn’t
lasted
. It wasn’t meant to last. And certainly not in the shape of a . . . of a . . .

‘Oh my God . . .’

My gaze fell away from Melanie to the still-sleeping contents of the buggy.

A baby.

A child.

My child?

‘I don’t believe you.’ I was on my feet again. ‘My name’s not even on the birth certificate. How can you be sure it’s mine?’

‘Dad, I really don’t need to be here.’ The desperation in my voice was very evident but I couldn’t help it.

‘Adam, you really need to get over this phobia you have of doctors.’ Dad frowned. ‘We’ll see Doctor Planter and then leave. OK?’

No, it wasn’t OK.

If I jumped up and ran, how long before Dad would catch up with me?

I gave the answer some serious thought, but finally decided against it. I had speed but Dad had endurance. He’d just wait me out and then he’d drag me back here. And on top of that, he’d be pissed at me.

Hang in there, Adam. In less than ten minutes, it’ll all be over
. The doctor will tell me to take some painkillers and throw us out and that’ll be that. And then at least Dad will be off my back.

I looked around the doctor’s waiting room, which contained six rows of five chairs, and health posters covering up as much of the disastrous lime-green painted walls as possible. The waiting room was half-full, mostly with mums and their kids or old gimmers of forty plus. And half
the people in the room were coughing. I mean, what’s up with that? It’s August, for God’s sake. Who gets a cold in August? God only knew what germs I was breathing in.

What were we even doing here? I had a headache, plain and simple. Since when did anyone need to see a doctor about a headache? I’d tried to tell Dad that throughout the ten-minute car journey to get here, but he wouldn’t listen. Once he gets a bee in his boxers about anything, that’s it. Case closed. End of story. Dante is just the same.

‘Adam Bridgeman to room five, please. Adam Bridgeman to room five, please.’

The announcement came over the PA system and the scrolling electronic messaging system on the wall at the front of the waiting room said the same thing. Dad was already on his feet.

‘You can wait here if you like, Dad. I’ll go in by myself.’

Dad raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s OK, son. I’ll go in with you.’

I sighed and got to my feet. That was exactly what I was afraid of. This was turning out to be a really crappy day – and it wasn’t even noon yet.

Melanie’s lips tightened; her brown eyes turned obsidian dark. Her expression hardened like she’d been turned to stone.

‘I don’t sleep around, Dante. Plus I’ve never been with anyone but you,’ she stated icily. ‘And if you say that again, I’ll slap your face. For your information, I couldn’t put your name down on the birth certificate because you weren’t there with me when I went to register Emma’s birth. I was told I could only put your name down as the dad if we were married or if you were present.’

She glared at me. I stared at her, finding it harder and harder to breathe. Then Melanie sighed. ‘Look, I . . . I didn’t come here to argue with you. That wasn’t my intention.’

‘Then why did you come?’

Melanie fished in her pocket for her cigarettes. She took one out and it was almost at her lips when she unexpectedly snapped it in two. Tobacco drizzled onto the carpet. Mel dropped the two ends into her pocket before running a shaky hand through her hair.

‘Dante, I need to talk to you but I’m running out of time.’

‘I don’t understand.’

I didn’t understand a lot of things. Melanie had turned up at my house and thrown a bomb into my whole life. A bomb that was still sleeping peacefully in its buggy.

‘How . . . how come you didn’t have an abortion?’

Melanie regarded me, then shrugged. A shrug which was meant to mean very little but, combined with her sombre expression, showed just the opposite. ‘Dante, I did think about it. I thought of nothing else for days and weeks. I even went to my doctor so he could send me to my local hospital to have it done. But in the end I didn’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because from the time I found out I was pregnant, Emma never felt anything less than real to me. So how could I go through with it? I just couldn’t do it.’

‘Did you . . . did you think about giving her up for adoption when she was born?’

Melanie studied me, her face a mask. ‘You blame me,’ she said quietly.

‘No. No, I don’t. I just . . . I’m trying to wrap my head around all this.’ Trying. And failing.

‘I took one look at Emma and I couldn’t do that either. My aunt did her best to persuade me to give her up but I just couldn’t. My mum had already chucked me out for getting pregnant and my aunt only agreed to let me stay because I said I’d have the baby adopted once it was born.’ Melanie’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears. ‘But the first time I looked at Emma, she felt like the only thing I had left in the whole world. If I lost her, I’d have nothing . . .’

‘Your mum kicked you out?’ I didn’t know what to say,
how to react to that. How could ten forgettable minutes of not much turn both our lives inside out and upside down like this? ‘Why didn’t you let me know?’

The faintest of smiles. ‘What would you have done, Dante?’

‘I . . . I . . . I have no idea. But to go through all that alone . . .’

‘Dante, you had trouble holding a bag containing a pooey nappy. You held Emma like she was a ticking bomb. So what is it that you think you could’ve done?’

My blank look was answer enough, I guess.

‘Exactly,’ said Melanie. ‘That’s why I didn’t even give your name to the child support people when they asked about the father.’

‘But your aunt let you stay after the baby was born?’

‘Yeah. Only temporarily though,’ said Mel. ‘But I’ve found somewhere else to live now.’

‘Is that why you and the baby are heading north? Because of your aunt?’ I asked.

Melanie nodded. She glanced down at her watch. ‘Dante, could you do me a favour?’

‘What?’

‘Could you look after Emma for a while? I need to pop to the shops and buy more nappies and some other stuff.’

Hell, no! ‘Why can’t you take it with you?’

‘Stop calling her “it”. And Emma doesn’t like to be moved so soon after falling asleep. She’ll wake up and cry and get really miserable.’

How exactly was that my problem?

Except that the baby was supposed to be . . . my . . .
my . . . mine. I started to turn to look at it, but I couldn’t. If I didn’t look, didn’t . . . acknowledge it, then it wouldn’t be real. None of this would be real. How I wished there was someone standing in front of me to tell me what to think and how to feel. Because I didn’t have a clue. All I felt was . . . scared. Scratch that – terrified. Heart-thumping, cold-sweating, sick-to-my-stomach, mind-numbingly terrified. What did Melanie want from me?