Page 6 of All the Forbidden Things
Hopping back out through the bedroom, I carry on until I reach the nursery where Layla will eventually sleep once she’s a little older.
Hopefully.
I find some cotton wool and cover the wound. I then wrap two clean nappies’ around my foot, and use the sticky tapes to hold the makeshift dressing in place. Without putting any weight on the ball of my foot, I make my way back to my bedroom and pick up Layla. Her back arches and she headbutts my chin in temper as she cries and attempts to suckle on my whisker covered jaw at the same time.
“Daddy’s sorry, hungry bug. I’m so sorry. Let’s get you fed and changed.”
Layla’s babygro is soaked all the way up her back, and by the smell coming from her backside, I’ve also left her to lay in a shitty nappy.
Guilt hits me hard. I feel like a total fucking failure, and I have to take a moment to get my shit together.
Pulling the wet blankets from her crib, I make my way back downstairs, avoiding the glass, vomit, blood and vodka puddle as I go. I feel like a pig for leaving it there, but right now I have other priorities.
After dumping the damp crib sheets in the laundry, I get Layla out of her wet babygro and full nappy, only gagging roughly eight times as I wipe away the shit that has stuck to her skinny little arse.
“Daddy fuc—ussed up, hungry bug. I promise I’ll do better,” I tell her as she gazes wide-eyed back up at me. She needs a bath, but a wash with a wet wipe and a sprinkle of baby powder at least has her smelling better and will have to do for now. Getting her fed is my immediate priority, and I need to do that quickly, which means putting her down, something I know will piss her off.
I drag her bouncy chair from the family room to the kitchen, singing Ed Sheeran's “Perfect” to her as I move. As much as I hate to admit it, she quiets to an Ed song more often than she does one of mine. But she’s only four-weeks-old, I still have plenty of time to educate her about music.
At least I hope I do.
At least I think I hope I do.
I keep moving rather than dwell on those thoughts, limping around the kitchen like the king of multitasking, I wash my hands, reheat Layla’s milk while talking and singing to her.
Before picking Layla up from her chair, I knock back a glass of water with a couple of pain killers in the hope they’ll help ease the rave happening in my head, the throb in my foot, and the feeling of utter hopelessness sitting heavily in my chest.
Carrying her to the family room, I sit in the corner of the sofa, put my throbbing foot up on the coffee table, and finally feed her. She gulps down milk so fast that I worry she’s forgotten to breathe and pull the teat from her mouth. My daughter instantly wails loud enough to have the whole of London thinking I’ve pinched her.
“Slow down, hungry bug. You’re drinking too quickly, you’re gonna make yourself sick.”
After giving a loud burp, I put the teat back into her mouth, she sucks hungrily before passing out like a drunk. Milk on her chin, bottle hanging from between her lips, looking a lot cuter than when her dad pulled a similar pose last night and this morning.
A wave of guilt hits me again as I stare down at her perfect little face. I glance at the clock on the wall, I’m an hour and a half late with her bottle, all because I’d chosen to drink vodka over my baby girl’s needs.
My foot throbs, my head pounds, and my tattered heart shreds a little more as I wonder how the fuck I’m going to cope with a four-week-old baby on my own.
How the fuck will I cope if they take her away from me?
Layla’s wail drags me from my thoughts, and I realise she’s woken up, drained the bottle and has been sucking in air for fuck knows how long.
My phone rings from somewhere in the house.
Layla cries.
My head and heart continue to hurt.
I lift Layla up to her favourite spot on my shoulder, and she immediately brings up what appears to be the entire contents of the bottle she just drank except, now, the milk is nicely congealed, and it stinks. The sofa cushions and my back are covered in baby puke, and I’m not sure whether to laugh or cry.
I do both.
“What the ever-loving fuck has happened here?” Callum Wild, my bandmate and best friend, asks. Giving me the first clue someone other than Layla and myself are in my house.
“Shit. What the fuck. Max?” I hear Mel, his wife’s distinct New York accent ask, right before she and Cal enter the family room. Mel’s mouth drops open, and her eyes widen as she takes in the mess. Cal is slightly in front of her, his arm stretched out as if to hold her back or protect her from whatever’s going on in my home.
“Dude?” His eyes dart all around the room before landing back on me.
Mel shoves his arm away and swiftly moves towards me. Stepping around the pile of vomit in front of my sofa, she takes a screaming Layla from my arms as I sit, covered in baby sick, and cry.
