Two: Pierce

TWO

PIERCE

Two Hours Later

“ I t smells weird in here, Uncle Brooks,” Olivia whispered as we walked through the halls of Grace Medical. “Are you sure you don’t want me to stay at home while you’re here?”

I gave her a blank stare, and my lead assistant Jerry laughed under his breath.

“We don’t need to keep walking around aimlessly, Mr. Dawson,” Jerry said. “We’ve passed the NICU area three times already.”

“No, we haven’t,” I said. “I haven’t seen those letters at all.”

“It’s one hallway back and to the left,” Olivia chimed in. “The next time we pass it, me and Jerry should sit in their waiting room. They have vending machines.”

I gritted my teeth. Sometimes my niece was too smart for her own good.

Turning around, I followed her instructions, pausing at the bright pink and blue sign I’d purposely avoided before.

Welcome to the Best Neonatal Intensive Care Unit in the Country!

As if Jerry could sense my hesitation, he opened the door and pushed me inside the empty waiting room.

Olivia set up camp on a sofa while I approached the desk.

“Good evening. How may I—” The receptionist blushed as her eyes met mine. “How may I help you tonight, Mr. Pierce Dawson?”

“I’m here to check on something.”

“I see.” She leaned forward. “Well, look no further. She’s right here in front of you.”

“Something that other people think belongs to me.”

“Oh?” She tapped her lip. “What exactly do you mean by that?”

“There are two things that I’d really like to see. Now.”

“I wear a Double D cup,” she said. “I can’t just unleash these tasties anywhere…Want to follow me to the break room?”

“Come again?”

“You can suck them, if you like.” She lowered her voice. “I’ll even call you Daddy, if that’s what you’re into.”

“He’s referring to a set of newborn children, Miss.” Jerry stepped in for me. “Not whatever the hell you’re talking about.”

“That’s not what he said.” She was nonplussed. “Is it?”

“ Pierce Dawson ?” A doctor stepped behind the desk, and the receptionist rolled her chair far away. “Wow. I’ll have to tell my wife I saw you tonight. Something I can help you with?”

“I’m here to see a pair of twins.” I showed him the wristbands. “A nurse gave these to me.”

“Okay.” He scanned them. “Please secure those onto your wrist and follow me.”

I obliged, and Jerry remained behind with Olivia.

After leading me past a set of double doors, the doctor led me through a brightly lit corridor and stopped in front of a wall of plated glass.

“Lucky you,” he said. “Those little ones are right here in the front row. I never read anything in the press about you expecting children. Are you excited?”

His question hung in the air unanswered while I stared at the sleeping babies in plastic cribs. Swaddled in complementing sky-and-rose-colored blankets, their eyes were tightly shut, and their pale mushy faces hid under soft knit caps.

They don’t look like me at all…

“Be sure to put on all the PPE gear at the door before going inside to see them.”

“I can see them fine from here.”

The baby boy’s eyes suddenly fluttered open, and he looked straight at me, before shutting them again.

“See?” I said. “No resemblance. He doesn’t hold a stare like I do.”

“Um, what ?”

“How reliable are paternity tests, Doctor?” I asked.

“When they’re done properly, they have a ninety-nine to one hundred percent accuracy rate.”

“But if you have a patient who just assumes who the father is, how do you handle that without getting a test done first?”

“That’s not my department.” He smiled. “But between me and you, one of my colleagues recently had a patient who kept almost everything from her relationship with a ‘rich asshole ex’ and she was certain he would deny it, so she—” He stopped talking mid-sentence, and his eyes widened. “I uh…Have a good night, Mr. Dawson. Pleasure to meet you.”

He disappeared, and I continued to stare at the babies.

Without thinking, I walked to the “Parent Station” and washed my hands. I pulled a hospital gown over my suit and walked into the nursery.

Stepping in front of them, I slid a finger through the boy’s bassinet and stroked his cheek.

“ Awwww !” A nurse stepped behind me. “Are you Daddy?”

“No, I’m just a visitor.”

“Okay, Visitor Daddy .” She put on a stethoscope. “Well, just so you know, these sweethearts are doing far better than they were weeks ago, but their doctor still wants us to run a few tests.”

“Do they have names?”

“Not yet, but here’s a book if you need some ideas.” She placed it on a chair. “Take your time, Dad.”

I gave up explaining myself.

“ Waaaaa! Waaaaa !” The girl suddenly shrieked like she was in pain, stretching her mouth as wide as her little head. “ Waaaaa !”

I gently let go of the boy and approached her bassinet.

“You’re allowed to pick her up,” the nurse said. “Go ahead.”

I obliged, and she continued wailing against my chest.

“See how her little fists are clenched?” the nurse whispered, holding out a small bottle. “She might be hungry.”

Sitting in a chair, I fed her the bottle, and the nurse showed me how to burp her and change the diaper.

The moment she finished those lessons, the boy cried and showed me his clenched fists.

I couldn’t walk away, so I vowed to stay through his diaper change.

Twenty more minutes. Tops.

The next time I looked at my watch, it was eleven o’clock in the morning.

‘Maybe Mine’ and ‘Not Sure Yet’ hadn’t left my sight in a week. On the off chance that the paternity results came for me, I’d never be able to live with myself if I abandoned them—even if they weren’t giving me a chance to sleep or handle any work.

Between feeding and changing sessions, rocking them against my chest, and watching the doctors run tests, I’d answered ten emails and taken two phone calls.

How the hell would my lifestyle work if they actually are mine?

Every time I asked myself that question, one of them cried. Or pooped…

“Mr. Dawson?” Detective Calvin shook my shoulder. “Are you awake?”

Barely. “Yes.”

“I have the DNA results.” He held out an envelope but didn’t give it to me. “Regardless of what these words say, you’re in your mid-forties.”

“I’m fully aware of that, Detective.”

“Don’t you think you’re in a position where you could take on a bit of charity?”

I was too exhausted for a conversation. I reached for the envelope, but he lifted it higher.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is,” he said, “wouldn’t it be fitting for you to adopt these children, like someone adopted you? You have enough money to give them a wonderful home.”

I gave him a withering look. “Hand over the envelope.”

“If you walk away from these beautiful children, the guilt will eat you alive,” he said. “The nurse said you’ve already highlighted names and contacted a few clothing designers.”

“If I have to ask you again, we’re going to have a problem…”

“Fine.” He tossed it into my lap.

Too impatient to worry about his presence, I ripped the flap and pulled out the papers. Flipping through them, I skimmed until I reached the last line.

Based on the analysis listed above, the probability of paternity is 99.99%