Page 3 of Juliet's Echo

Scared as fuck, I made my way to the sink and applied water and hospital-grade soap to my hands. I scrubbed front, back, between—hell, I damn near took the soap up to my elbows. Anything to prolong my holding that kid.

Now, was she that ugly to the point I didn’t want to hold her? I mean, that’s debatable. But for the sake of argument, I’ll say no.I was scared shitless of this little girl, whom I’d be responsible for the rest of her life. And the circumstances of her birth would eventually have to be explained to her.

You see, skin-to-skin aside, Olivia Everette wasn’t her birth mother. Yes, little Pugsley Addams was ours; however, another womb carried her. Her mother—my best friend—was somewhere in this hospital, heavily sedated. Under the circumstances that brought her in to deliver this baby, I was almost certain she hadn’t even had the chance to hold her yet. Hadn’t laid eyes on her. She didn’t even know her baby was here, that she survived.

Yet here we were—healthy, safe, dripping in Gucci and gold—enjoying the fruits of her labor.

That shit sat heavy in my chest.

Because the one person who deserved to be holding this little girl more than anybody… wasn’t even awake to know she existed.

“You don’t even have to do all that to wash your damn hands,” Mylo fussed.

“Shut yo ass up,” I responded.

“Aye, Mylo, watch your damn mouth. And Echo, get your scary ass over there and hold that baby,” my father ordered.

Drying my hands, I grabbed a fresh receiving blanket from the stack and made my way to my mother. I knew my father wasn’t going to ask again, so I draped the blanket over the little bundle of hell and picked her up off my mother’s chest.

Gently, I turned her to face me, holding her like that monkey held Simba inThe Lion King.I had her underarms resting between my thumb and index fingers, the rest of my fingers supporting her wobbly-ass head. She must’ve felt uncomfortable because her little legs started stretching, and that awful cry of hers let out. But this time it wasn’t piercing my ears. This time it felt like a challenge.

Own the game.

I heard my father’s voice in my mind.

“Aye, cut all that noise out, girl. Ain’t nobody hurting your little ass,” I said.

The baby immediately stopped crying and opened one eye as if she were in pure disgust at what I just said. I couldn’t help but smile.

“Oh, so you got a little attitude in you?” I questioned, repositioning her into my arms so she could be more comfortable. “You and I just may get along after all.”

The door opened quietly, and two women dressed in scrubs—one in white, one in blue—stepped in. Looking at their name badges, Dr. Kimberly Wilkinson was in green scrubs. The other, in blue scrubs and a white coat, had a name tag that read Marcel Jacobs, OB/GYN Resident.

“Dr. Jacobs, can you please take the children to the family room while I speak with Mr. and Mrs. Everette?” Dr. Wilkinson spoke.

“Certainly,” Dr. Jacobs responded. “Come with me,” she gestured for my brothers and me.

“Not him. He stays,” my father said, pointing to me.

Dr. Wilkinson nodded as Dr. Jacobs took Mylo and Zion out of the room.

“I would suggest laying the baby down,” Dr. Wilkinson said to me.

The seriousness in her tone made me both scared and curious. Doing as instructed, I gently placed the baby on her back in the bassinet next to my mother’s bed. She cooed softly at the blanket's touch, settling into its warmth, and for some reason, that made me want to cry. Hell, I felt like I should start apologizing to her right now.

The way these two doctors came in, the way their voices dropped low and serious—it felt like one of those dramaticscenes you see in a movie, right before the worst news is delivered. All we needed was some sad-ass music playing in the background.

My body felt cold inside, like the temperature in my bones had dropped ten degrees. Anxiety replaced the blood in my veins, and every second that passed without Dr. Wilkinson speaking made my mind run wild with the one thought I was scared to face.

Whatever she was about to say… I already knew it wasn’t going to be good.

“I am so sorry, but the birth mother did not survive,” Dr. Wilkinson said. Empathy dwelled in her eyes, but professionalism never left her voice.

My father’s knees buckled slightly as he leaned against the window. My mother covered her mouth, and her eyes grew three times their size. All I could do was shake my head. Was I hearing this shit correctly?Did not survive?

The permanence in that statement stung like a needle to the eye. And then to label her as “the birth mother”—that shit felt diminishing. Like she was nothing more than an incubator, and now that her job was done, so was her purpose.

Yeah… this doctor got me fucked up.