Chapter Three
Money can buy nearly anything. It can get you a reserved table at a fully booked restaurant, tickets to a sold out concert, or, in the case of Bart Bass, it can buy your son an extended stay in the hospital nursery despite having no medical abnormality. His grief was still too raw. The dirt was still fresh on his wife's grave, and Bart wasn't ready to plunge head first into the life of a single father. And it really was for the boy's own good. The only thing Bart knew about babies was that he knew absolutely nothing about babies. He had no clue how to prepare a baby bottle. Diapers were still a very sticky and confusing mystery. Bart had been so completely and utterly clueless that he didn't even know how to hold his own son. For fear of hurting the boy, Bart had spent the first few days of Charles's life just starting at the baby from behind the protective Plexiglas of the nursery window until a kind nurse took pity on him.
"What a handsome little boy," the nurse had cooed. "What's his name?" She asked pleasantly as she stood beside Bart at the nursery window.
Bart had nodded his head in response. "Charles," he answered quietly. "It was his mother's idea."
"Charles," the nurse repeated his words. "What a lovely name."
They stood together in silence, just watching the boy's jerky movements. "Wouldn't you like to hold him?" She asked finally, turning to him once more.
"I, uh—" Bart sighed, looking around to make sure no one else would hear. "I-I don't know how," he mumbled quietly, the words almost running together. He cleared his throat, straightening his tie.
"Come, come," she insisted, smiling at him and beckoning him to follow her into the nursery. "If that's the only thing that's stopping you, we can fix that very quickly."
"Oh… I don't know…" Bart faltered. There was nothing he hated more than feeling incompetent.
"Nonsense," she dismissed his protests with a wave of her hand. "This is your son. You'll have to hold him eventually. The help can't do everything for you," the nurse teased with a smile. "There's nothing to it. I promise." She said, stepping forward and using her slender hands to expertly lift the boy from the crib before cradling him against her chest. "The key is to be sure to support the head," she explained before depositing the baby back into the crib. "Now you try," she said, moving back so Bart could move closer to the crib.
Despite her instructions and demonstration, Bart was still skeptical. But upon the nurse's continued encouragement, he tentatively reached his hands into the crib. His long fingers curled underneath the little boy's armpits. Bart barely had the baby an inch above the crib mattress when a loud squeal erupted from Charles's lips. Ironically worried that he'd somehow hurt the boy, Bart had quickly jerked his hands away and unceremoniously dropped the boy back to the crib mattress.
Despite the nurse's reassuring words that no long-term harm had been done, Bart didn't touch his son again for a week.
And Bart was convinced that he had inflicted permanent brain damage on his son. He spent the entire afternoon combing through the piles of job applications for a nanny.