Skinny • Book 1 In The Reality Series

William

I remember the day Calum was born.
Weighing only three pounds, two ounces, his entire body fit easily in the palm of my hand.

He was born early.

I remember trying not to cry on the way to the hospital, struggling to keep it together for my wife's sake and for Anna, who was watching on, terrified, from the backseat.

I remember sitting in the room, holding her hand in one hand and her bent leg in the other, encouraging to deliver a child which in all honestly I figured would be stillborn.

I remember being told to leave the room, only to see my wife at the time wheeled past me on her way to be sliced open, the small child inside her removed.

I remember seeing her for the first time after giving birth, comforting her sobbing form, waiting for doctors to deliver goodness or bad.

And I remember the feeling of pure elation and hope and undying love which had filled me when I was told he was alive.

For two months he lived in a clear box, like a gold fish. Kept alive by the symphony of chorded and wires connected to him.

For two months, everyday before work, on my lunch break, after work I came to see him. Sticking my hand through the hole only large enough for it, I would stroke his arm, his spider silk thin hair, or his tiny toes, chucking to myself as they curled.

Every time I left him, I promised I'd see him again soon, but in all honesty, I didn't know.

For two months, I lived in terror, unable to eat or sleep without my thoughts wandering to the toy sized child, barely clinging to life, several miles away.

I feel the same way as I drive to the hospital, my speedometer pushing ninety, my fingers cramping from my death tight grip on the steering wheel, the ailments which surrounds me, smothering me until I have no choice but to turn the radio on, then off again.

Arriving, I pull in to the first spot I see and scramble to get out as quickly as possible. Feeling the hem of my suit coat close in the car door I shrug it off my shoulders and leave it on the puddle speckled ground.

I haven't run in years, but I do. Ignoring the strange looks I'm giving and orders to slow down I make my way to the emergency only to stop, inches before I pass the threshold at the sound of my name.

I just barely turn towards the sound when someone crashes into me. Their arms encircling my waist and their head pressing against my chest, and their tears wetting the front of my shirt they cling to me.

The person smells like rose scented shampoo.

It's Anna.

She's spewing an incoherent slur of sobs and apologies as I pull away from her, steering towards the waiting room I can see their Mom and her newly created family are sat.

My parents are here, and hers, and several chairs over, staring nervously at her shoes, is Katy.

I'm not in the room more then three seconds when Colleen rises to her feet and pulls me against her.

Fleetingly I wonder if her husbands mines before I realize that I don't actually give a shit.

"What happened?" I question of anyone and everyone.

"Heart failure." someone answers and I feel my own heart clench.

"He's seventeen." I argue weakly, more to God then anyone present.

"He's malnourished." The new husband, who's name I don't care enough to know, speaks up, "Do you not feed him?"

It's as if the very essence of my being is insulted. I'm a lot of things; a lawyer, an owner of a doctorate degree, the oldest guy at my gym able to do one hundred consecutive burpees, but my greatest achievement and favorite title is a dad.

Not a great one, admittedly, but I wasn't complete shit at the job either. My kids never wanted for anything, I made sure they went to a good school, wore cool clothes, went to bed at a semi decent hour, I feed them. I provided food but I was at a complete loss as to what to do if they didn't eat it.

"How do you not know what's going on with your own kids in your own house?" My replacement continues, twisting the dagger he's already plunged hilt deep into my heart, "Did you not notice him wasting away?"

I'm bleeding now.
My blood spilling out onto the white linoleum like in the elevator in the Shining.
I can't defend myself, he's right, there's nothing to defend. I can't breath, I can't move, I don't even reach up to wipe the tears leaking from me as I realize that I'm crying.

"Get out John." Colleen orders, coming to my rescue.

The goat looking man, frowns, unmoving.

"Get out." Colleen repeats, "Calum is our kid. You have no place to critique our parenting skills."

I hear him offer a rebuttal and then they're arguing, loudly, but I'm not paying attention, instead I'm sitting in a mysteriously stained floral print chair, connected to four others just like it.

My face buried in my hands I try to remember the last time I'd cried. It wasn't recently, but it wasn't my wedding either. It wasn't when Anna was born, or when my brother had died.

It was when I was in a hospital, the same hospital in a similar chair waiting to hear if Calum would survive the night. My entire existence depending on an individual the size of a banana.

I realize now that I face the same unknown, and so, I cry.