The Brennan Baby

He could have told his sister. Kylie definitely would’ve provided sympathy, but she might have expected him to cry on her shoulder while she offered words of solace and advice. That was too ghastly to contemplate. He was the big brother, ever cool, ever confident, and he wasn’t about to relinquish his own image of himself.

So he’d opted for silence, answering the occasional question about Gillian Bailey with a nonchalant, “Haven’t seen her for a while.” Everybody who knew Devlin Brennan knew what that meant—he had moved on to another woman. Details weren’t requested or supplied.

“For every man who breaks hearts, there is a woman who is his match,” declared Holly Casale, his friend since their early med school days, who was currently completing her residency in psychiatry here at the hospital. Devlin did not appreciate her diagnosis or prophecy or whatever that cryptic observation of hers was supposed to be.

He didn’t consider himself a heartbreaker; he simply wasn’t ready to settle down, a point he made to any woman who tried to assume otherwise. He was honest and up-front about his commitment to staying uncommitted, which was hardly characteristic of those deceptive smoothies who deserved the title of heartbreaker.

As for Gillian breaking his heart, that premise was laughable. His heart hadn’t even been bruised by her rejection, Dev assured himself. He’d set out to prove that being dumped wasn’t the trauma all those sad songs and movies and books proclaimed it to be.

He forgot all about Gillian Bailey. He continued with his life, which was full and busy with his fourth-year residency in orthopedics, a specialty that continually fascinated him, with his many friends and with various women who provided him with sex whenever he wanted it

Funny how he hadn’t wanted it lately.

That was because he was taking a hiatus from sex, Devlin reminded himself. He’d seen some therapist-guru on a talk show who extolled periods of chastity as time to recharge energy and creativity. Dev didn’t run that particular theory by Holly, but decided that his body had chosen to be chaste for a while.

Didn’t he feel more energetic and creative?

Seated in front of his television set, Devlin proceeded to channel-surf through eighty-six channels, pointing his remote like a divining rod. Nothing caught his interest, and his thoughts drifted back to Gillian.

He allowed himself to admit that in spite of his busy, full life he hadn’t completely forgotten about her. He’d given her an occasional thought during the past twenty months When he had learned about Gillian’s marriage, only a couple weeks after their breakup, he had been stunned. It stood to reason that she must have been dating her future husband all the while she’d been with him. Or maybe her three-month fling with him had been a rebound romance for her, something to pass the time until the groom-elect came through with a wedding ring.

Either notion rankled.

Dev vaguely recalled getting drunk with some of his buddies around that time and referring to Gillian as a “two-timing slut.” The memory, dim as it was, now made him cringe because it implied that her quickie marriage bothered him, and of course, it had not. He’d had a good laugh when Holly Casale told him that he was “in denial” and ought to acknowledge his repressed feelings.

Repressed? Him? Devlin had found the “shrink jargon” hilarious and told Holly so. As a would-be Freudian, she’d shaken her head silently and tried to look inscrutable.

His thoughts circled back to Gillian. Who was now divorced. Obviously she’d shed her husband with the same hasty ease she had acquired him. And now she was a single mother with a baby girl.

The baby, little Ashley. He wasn’t the type to go ga-ga over babies, but she was very cute. Cade, his brother-in-law, had certainly been captivated by that baby. He’d mentioned her several times over their weekend visit and yesterday, too, when Kylie had called to get an old friend’s address.

Dev had kidded Kylie that Cade’s interest in the baby across the hall was indicative of his desire to become a daddy, that she was going to find herself pregnant sooner rather than later. Kylie countered that Cade’s interest in the neighbor child stemmed from his concern for his younger sister, currently in the middle of a bitter divorce and solely responsible for her baby. According to Kylie, Cade possessed a kind of global sense of elder brother responsibility for the children of struggling single mothers.

Devlin guessed it made sense, Cade being Cade and all.

Truth to tell, it was something of a relief to know that his brother-in-law was hyperresponsible. That was exactly the kind of husband every brother wanted for his kid sister. If Kylie were pregnant, there was no question that Cade would take care of her, would stick with her and their child. Unlike Gillian’s husband, who’d been quick to split after the baby was born.

Undoubtedly that creep hadn’t been much help during her pregnancy, either, Devlin concluded, and remembered the one and only time he had seen Gillian pregnant.

He’d spotted her during a rare chance encounter in the hospital cafeteria. It had been late in her pregnancy and her tiny frame seemed ready to topple forward from the bulk of her swollen abdomen. Dev had cracked to the gang at his lunch table that she looked like an overinflated balloon and probably would’ve made another witticism or two except he caught Holly Casale observing him with her most annoying psychoanalytic stare. So he’d lapsed into silence and purposefully directed his gaze away from the very pregnant Gillian.

Had it been Holly or someone else who’d informed him when Gillian had given birth? He had merely shrugged his indifference. What was he supposed to do, go visit her on the maternity floor with a bunch of mylar balloons? He hadn’t, of course. She was married and a mother and lived her life in another universe from his.

And now it seemed their separate worlds had intersected, thanks to the random assignments made by the housing department. It was weird but entirely coincidental, a bit of computer-generated idiocy. He and Gillian could‘ve—should’ve—shared a laugh about it except she had been inexplicably hostile upon learning they were neighbors.

And they hadn’t seen each other since that day. Out of sight, out of mind, Dev reminded himself. It was more than a cliché, it was downright good advice.

He turned his attention back to the TV set, bypassing all the current reality based dramas and sitcoms for a black and white rerun from the early sixties. “The Dick Van Dyke Show.” Relaxing, he settled back to enjoy a half hour of vicarious living in a far more simple era.

In the apartment across the hall from him, Ashley Joy Morrow wouldn’t stop crying. Gillian knew the baby was teething, and she had done everything recommended in the infant and child care manual to soothe her. But nothing had worked and finally, m desperation, she called her foster mother, Dolly Sinsel, in Detroit.

“Do you think there could be something really wrong with her, Mom?” Gillian asked anxiously. “Should I take her to the emergency room?”

“She’s not hot, not cold, not wet, not pulling at her ear, not throwing up, her nose isn’t stuffy, her stomach isn’t hard, her muscles aren’t rigid,” Dolly Sinsel recited the lack of non-symptoms that Gillian had relayed to her. “That baby isn’t sick, Gillian. Sounds to me like she’s just overexcited or overtired. Put her in her crib with a bottle of juice, close the bedroom door, and then you sit down and turn on some music or the TV.”

“You mean, just ignore her? Keep her in there alone and crying?” Gillian shivered, remembering how it felt to be small and scared and all alone. “Ashley has never cried much and never like this. She—”

“She is exerting her independence. Babies need to cry to exercise their lungs,” Dolly said calmly. “Now put Ashley in the crib and make yourself a nice cup of tea, honey. You two need to unwind away from each.”

Gillian attempted to follow the advice. After all, who knew kids better than Dolly Sinsel, who’d raised four children of her own and taken in hundreds of foster children down through the years? Gillian had lived with the Sinsels from the age of twelve until her graduation from high school and had never seen her foster parents fazed by anything. Or anyone Not even the most hardcore adolescent veterans of the foster care system.

Gillian still marveled at Mom and Dad Sinsel’s unshakable aplomb as they dealt again and again with the young fire-setters, the kid thieves and liars, the screamers and marauders who’d been placed under their roof by the State of Michigan. The Sinsels were impervious to upset and insult, and while Gillian was able to emulate their attitude in her career as a medical social worker, she couldn’t muster such calm in dealing with Ashley. When Ashley was upset, so was her mother; when Ashley was happy or excited or fearful, her mommy was, too.

“Grandma Dolly says you’d rather be alone,” Gillian told Ashley as she carried the howling baby into the small bedroom filled with toys and baby furniture and bright posters of cartoon figures on the wall.

She put Ashley into her crib with its cheery Winnie the Pooh sheets and handed her a bottle of apple juice. Shrieking her displeasure, Ashley pulled herself to her feet and threw the bottle out of the crib. Distressed, Gillian put it back in, then quickly left the room, closing the door behind her.

While Ashley’s roars of infantile fury echoed in her head, Gillian turned on her TV set. Nothing claimed her interest, not even the hurricane currently being tracked in the Caribbean by the Weather Channel. She decided to forego the suggested cup of tea. Her stomach was in knots and her throat felt too tight to swallow. The baby’s cries continued unabated, sounding less angry and more and more piteous.

Gillian looked bleakly at her watch. Only six and a half minutes had elasped but it felt like an eternity. Poor little Ashley, exiled to her crib. Gillian wondered if she felt unwanted, alone in the dark world without anyone who cared.

It was a horrible feeling that Gillian knew all too well. To imagine Ashley having to experience such despair was unbearable. She rose to her feet and fairly flew into the nursery. With all due respect to Dolly Sinsel, isolating the baby felt all wrong.

After all, it wasn’t as if Ashley had tried to burn down the house or stone a neighbor’s dog; she didn’t need a stint in solitary confinement as punishment. Ashley was cutting a tooth and she was uncomfortable. Why shouldn’t she cry?

Gillian arrived at the cribside just as Ashley succeeded in pulling the rubber nipple off the top of her bottle and turning it upside down, emptying the juice The baby was so shocked by her sudden soaking, she stopped crying and looked up at her mother with astonished blue eyes.

“Oh, Ashley, you’re all wet and so is the bed!” Gillian was dismayed.

Ashley was furious that she’d been doused. She began to howl again.

“It’s all right, sweetheart.” Gillian picked her up and cuddled her. “I’ll put you in nice dry jammies and then I’ll change the sheet.”

She sponged the sticky juice from the baby, then dried and dressed her in fresh, aqua cotton footed pajamas. And discovered that there were no more clean crib sheets. The other six were in the laundry basket waiting to be taken to the washer and dryer in the basement of the building.

“I’m sorry, Ash. I didn’t realize how low we were on crib sheets and we’ve been so busy after work, I haven’t gotten around to doing the laundry,” Gillian lamented aloud.

Ashley babbled a few syllables in response. Gillian was so relieved that the baby had stopped crying, she felt almost giddy. “We’ll go next door and ask Shelly or Heather if they’ll stay with you while I go downstairs to do a load of laundry now, okay? You like Shelly and Heather, they’re operating room nurses at the hospital, and they gave you some ice cream the other day, remember?”

She carried Ashley into the hall and walked to the apartment on their left, talking to her daughter all the while. Gillian knocked long and loud before she conceded that neither Shelly nor Heather was there.

Gillian sighed. She’d hoped to avoid having to tote Ashley and the laundry basket down to the basement laundry room but with no one to watch the baby, she had no other choice. She wasn’t about to leave Ashley alone in the apartment and she hadn’t met any other neighbors yet... Her eyes flicked to the apartment door across the hall from her own, Devlin Brennan’s door. Assistance from that quarter was not an option. She would never ask him to watch her baby, not even for a moment.

And then the door opened and Devlin stepped into the hall.

Gillian froze. It was as if her thoughts had conjured him up! She stood stock-still, clutching Ashley, and staring at him. He was wearing a faded Detroit Lions T-shirt and jeans, simple and common enough clothes but the way they showcased his male attributes—his muscular arms and broad chest, his long lean thighs and flat belly—evoked a reaction within Gillian that was neither simple nor common. His face was darkened by the shadow of a beard, reminding Gillian of how sexy he looked in the morning when he awakened, unshaven and aroused.

She scowled at the renegade memory. This was no time to recall anything about her three-month lapse of sanity that had characterized her affair with Devlin Brennan.