By Minim Calibre
Notes: Thanks to the SPB crew for a quick set of eyes.
It’s not until after the fire crew’s put out the worst of the blaze and the sky has turned the pink of undercooked meat that John realizes he’s got no idea how the hell to feed Sammy. The sound of the cop asking question after question fades out to a dull buzz beneath the onslaught of realizations flooding his brain. Mary’s dead, their home is gone, and he’s got no idea how he’s going to feed Sammy.
“I’m sorry, could you repeat that?” John shifts Sammy’s sleeping form from one arm to the other, Dean’s weight pressed tight against his leg. He’s not even sure when Sammy last ate.
Mary’d been nursing. All Dean’s old bottles given away in a fit of La Leche League inspiration and Nestle boycotts. Not one damn can of formula in the house, even if he could get back in there to retrieve it. When they finally, finally let him go, he leaves the boys with Mike and Kate. Goes out and picks up a can of Similac at the grocery store, along with a half-dozen bottles and a box of rice cereal. When he gets back, Dean’s asleep on the couch, left hand curled over Sammy’s feet. Kate’s got Sammy in her lap, and it’s clear as a bell that he’s starving, face screwed red and tight, sucking on Kate’s finger in between sobs.
“I need to make up his bottle,” he says, gesturing towards the kitchen, feeling helpless, useless. “Hope you don’t mind.”
Kate smiles, tight with pity. “The water in the kettle’s still warm. Pots and pans are in the cupboard to the left of the stove. Make yourself at home.”
John washes a bottle, scoops in the powder and adds the water before the instructions start to blur. Puts the whole mess in a pot with the water from the kettle and waits for it to warm up. Christ, he hasn’t done this for four years. For all he knows, he’s doing it all wrong. Please, God, let Sammy take the bottle. He remembers when Mary had to wean Dean, the stomach bug that put her in the hospital when he was only three months old. Remembers how Dean kept crying for his mother, wouldn’t take the damn bottle for love or money until John was certain his little boy was going to wind up in the hospital as well. He squirts some formula on his wrist, guesses it’s finally warm enough before he goes and offers it to Sammy.
“Hey, bud.” He hears his voice crack as he picks the baby up. “C’mon, time to get a little grub.”
Sammy stops crying, sucks the bottle down, this battle over before it’s even begun. John buries his face in his son’s fine, sparse hair, clinging to the soft baby smell that’s lingering beneath the smoke.