Page 7 of Daddy’s Little Chaos Gremlin (The Lactin Brotherhood)

7

ROWAN

One thing I’d come to appreciate over the years was the close bonds of friendship I’d forged through membership with The Lactin Brotherhood. Among our ranks were bakers, musicians, accountants, mechanics, and yes, even the doctor I called on to come examine Zephyr. Phillip had seen me through rehabilitating the damage I’d done to my knee during a snowmobile accident and been my personal physician ever since.

Now, as he stepped through the door of the apartment, I was grateful for him being in private practice, with the ability to shuffle things around so he could drop in this evening, before Zephyr’s anxiety had the opportunity to rev up again. Despite telling him that the contract was within his grasp, I knew he’d never be able to relax completely until he had it. One of a dozen reasons that I was already regretting the ruse I’d concocted.

At this rate, I doubted my ability to last the week, and Tristan was already struggling not to rack up a plethora of extra chores. I’d never imagined it would be so difficult to rein ourselves in, but then, we’d had the freedom to express ourselves however we chose for so long that the concept of acceptable levels of noise and activities were ones that had been lost to us years ago.

It was hard to enforce rules we’d never had before, and it seemed a bit unfair, too, in light of how hard Tristan was trying. I loved hearing his laughter ring through the house. He’d never been able to tone it down when he was excited about something, especially when it was something he was creating. It was like trying to silence a bird when it was happily singing.

It just didn’t feel right to me.

I’d noticed how easily Zephyr laughed right along with him, and when they’d been plotting out their moon shoot, I’d witnessed the same excitement from him that I’d fallen in love with seeing from Tristan. There had to be some way of shaving time off this little experiment. After all, Zephyr hadn’t balked once upon seeing the cramped living space we had to share at the apartment. He’d been too interested in us and the projects Tristan had in mind. After learning of his nomadic lifestyle with the acrobatics troupe, I’d begun to realize that he’d come to us just hoping to be a part of something that would let him use the amazing talents he’d amassed over the years.

There was no purer intention in my book.

“So, you said on the phone that he’d engaged in some acrobatics this morning and suffered a dizzy spell afterward that left him wobbly until he’d gotten something in his stomach,” Phillip said as I led him through to the living room where Tristan and Zephyr sat waiting for us. “That sounds consistent with a sugar crash, which you already knew, but your main concern is how little he eats at mealtimes, is that accurate?”

“Yes, especially as a professional performer,” I said as he removed his shoes and left them beside ours at the end of the hall. “Aren’t they supposed to consume meals more often and in greater amounts, because of the energy they expend?”

I could see the tops of their heads over the back of the couch before they turned azure and honey-hued eyes upon us, both looking nervous.

“In theory, you would be correct,” Phillip replied. “But you fuel a body differently for playing football than you would acrobatics where keeping within a specific body mass index is crucial to one’s ability to perform.”

That’s what I’d figured, too, which was what had led to my not saying anything when he’d rushed out the door that morning to stretch after only a glass of water to hydrate. Should he have had milk instead, or would it have curdled in his belly once he’d started working up a sweat?

So many questions, but my hope was that before Phillip left, I’d have some definitive ideas of what I needed to keep stocked in the fridge to keep him healthy.

“Zephyr, this is my friend Phillip, Dr. Levine, who I was telling you about earlier,” I said by way of introduction. “Are you still okay with him examining you and talking to him about your health and eating habits?”

“Uh-huh,” Zephyr replied. “I think I’d better.”

“Is there a reason you feel that way?” Phillip asked as he pulled up a chair closer to the couch as I moved the coffee table out of the way so it wouldn’t impede him when he went to examine Zephyr.

I knew he wouldn’t jump to that right away; he never did. Even the standard vital checks, temperature and blood pressure cuff, waited until he’d had a chance to speak to the patient first. There was nothing more frustrating, at least not to me, than going to the clinic or hospital and having something rubbed across my forehead and strapped to my arm before I had the opportunity to even mention what had brought me there in the first place.

“Just that a lot of foods make me feel yucky, especially meat,” Zephyr admitted. “I really like it, too, especially steak, but I can only eat a little bit at a time. I love seafood, but I can only eat a little bit of that at a time, too.”

“What about fruits and vegetables?”

“I love them, but I’d rather drink them. Before the troupe fell apart, I had drank several a day, Paulie and I both did, but he ate a lot more solid food than I did.”

“So, it isn’t a restriction that’s been imposed on you in order to keep your weight down?” Phillip asked.

“It’s always been stressed to me that it’s a good idea to drink more than I ate and to keep away from sweets, but I’ve never had an issue doing it,” Zephyr explained. “The few times I’ve had fast food I could barely finish a happy meal. Any more is just too much.”

“Have you ever had a problem with overeating or with deliberately throwing up your food after you’d eaten it?” Phillip asked, his tone both blunt and kind.

“No, sir, but I will throw up if I eat too much,” he explained. “I had an aunt who used to try and make me finish everything on my plate, but she always put too much. After I threw up all over her when she shoved a bite of mashed potatoes into my mouth, she pretty much left me alone.”

Snorting, it took everything in me not to say what popped into my head, that she’d deserved it. My old man was from a generation where you ate what was offered or you starved, and you finished what was on your plate or you sat there until it was empty. Because it had been done to him more times than he could count, he’d refused to do it to me, which I’d appreciated. Some things, like mashed turnips, were never meant for the human pallet. I’d die on that hill if it ever came to it. I couldn’t even think of an animal that ate turnips. Shouldn’t that have been a clue to people everywhere?

“So, it sounds like you know the limits of what you can consume in a single sitting,” Phillip went on to say, looking thoughtful as he studied Zephyr. “Is there a reason you had to give up your smoothies after the troupe fell apart?”

Zephyr nodded, fidgeting a little. “Just, um, the cost of fruit,” he muttered. “I knew Mr. Bruce and Mr. Brenner at Honey Hearth wouldn’t have minded me using their blender to make them as long as I washed it after I was through, but I wanted to make sure I saved all the money I could for paying for my room so I could keep staying there until I could find a job and put money aside for an apartment.”

“That wouldn’t have been easy if you were also paying for a room.”

“I know, but they weren’t making me pay the full rate as it was. They’d given me a discount, since I was renting by the week. I wanted to make sure I’d have the money I owed them first, before I worried about anything else.”

“And meals were included in your room fee, so it made sense to eat what you were provided,” Phillip added, coming to the same conclusion I had after I’d witnessed him eat there.

“Yes, sir.”

“So let me ask you this,” Phillip said. “On a normal day, what would you have before practice or a performance?”

“A smoothie,” Zephyr nodded.

“Do you add anything like protein powder or vitamin supplements to it?”

“Protein powder sometimes, but not too much. I really get all I need just by mixing different smoothie recipes and eating small amounts in between.”

“So more like snacks?” Phillip asked.

“Yes, sir, but not like snack foods, like chips and stuff,” Zephyr explained. “I love finger foods, like meat and cheese roll ups, sandwich squares and bruschetta. Those are the perfect size foods for me.”

So, I’d knocked one out of the park by cubing the sandwiches, good to know. I knew how to make pinwheels, too, but I did need to touch base with him about one thing first.

“Were you okay with the lunch meat slices, or would you prefer real sliced turkey, roast beef, chicken, and ham?” I asked.

When he licked his lips, looked down, squirmed and lifted his shoulders into a little shrug, I knew I had my answer. The question was if he’d trust me enough to tell me the truth.

“It’s okay,” he hedged. “But I like the slices carved off the bone better. Sometimes the stuff from the deli counter is too salty and I end up guzzling a bunch of water, which just makes me feel really full even when I’ve barely eaten anything.”

“Thank you for being honest,” I said, gently touching his knee so he’d look up at me.

The look in his eyes was guarded when he did, but I hoped he’d see, by the way that I was smiling at him, that it was okay to tell me these things.

“I don’t like deli meat, either,” Tristan blurted, sticking out his tongue.

Now that threw me. He’d never mentioned anything about it before. “Really? Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“With everything else you’d already provided me with, I didn’t wanna ask for anything more.”

Stunned, I just sat there staring at him. “But that was years ago.”

“I know.”

“Tristan?”

“I’m sorry, Daddy. You already do so much to make it so I can focus on my art,” Tristan explained. “And it was such a little thing, to me, since we don’t have a lot of sandwiches except in summer and when we have soup.”

Yes, he did have a point there. I employed a chef for a reason, one of which being that neither he nor I were very fond of spending time in the kitchen. I knew enough that we’d never starve, but no one would ever refer to some of my culinary concoctions as masterpieces, though I was proud to say that I could pull them together without the aid of a box. When Theo had responded to the advertisement I’d placed for a chef not long after my business had really taken off, I’d been shocked at the diversity displayed in his credentials and wondered why he hadn’t opted to open his own restaurant rather than become a personal chef.

Man, had he schooled me about all the things that went into that kind of business venture. Not only in the area of capital needed to ensure that a place had up-to-date equipment, but in the man hours he’d need to put in.

Being a personal chef means that I get to do what I love and have a life, unless you plan on hosting dinner parties seven days a week. In that case, you might want to think about hiring a battalion of chefs and providing them living quarters as they’d never have time for anything else.

We’d laughed at that, because I was way too hands on with the day-to-day operations of my security firm to ever consider entertaining that much. Hell, I didn’t like people enough to want to subject myself to that much socializing, though for my boy, I’d learned to play the host for one social event a month. That was more than enough peopling for me.

It turned out that Theo adored that once a month time to flex his chops and really wow the art community that came to see what Tristan was unveiling next. Some of the meals had been talked about as much as the artwork, including some of the soups he’d crafted over the years and oh, did that man love to cook seafood. He was going to enjoy having Zephyr around.

“Switching away from deli counter meats will be an easy adjustment to make,” I said, ending anymore debate about the subject.

I’d send Theo a text later, so he could dispose of what we had and stock up on sufficient quantiles of the meat we’d need. And bacon. I might be in the minority, but I loved thick slabs of sizzling, maple smoked pork layered between the cheese and meats on my sandwiches.

“Are there foods besides snack foods that you try to avoid, or that bother you?” Phillip asked.

“Pasta,” Zephyr blurted, scrunching up his nose. “It’s already heavy without sauce and then once the sauce is on, I can’t eat more than a tiny dish before I feel bloated. It feels like it stays in my tummy forever, too. I never eat it before I have to perform.”

“Another thing that’s very good to know,” I said, an idea beginning to form. “Would you be able to provide me a list of good pre and post-performance foods, as well as things you like and don’t like?”

“I-I can do that,” Zephyr said.

“And maybe even a schedule of how you like to position your meal and smoothie rotations,” I continued, keeping my voice encouraging.

I needed him to know that this was important to me and would not in any way make him a burden. Then I saw him glance between myself and Phillip and lick his lips before his eyes darted to my chest.

“It’s okay,” I said, covering his hand with mine, which easily dwarfed it. “He’s a member of The Brotherhood, too, as well as my personal physician. He’s the one who provided me with the certifications of health I showed you.”

His mouth formed a little ‘o’ then he broke out into a wide grin.

“Then is it okay if instead of smoothies in the morning and before bed, I got to drink from you?” he asked.

“It is more than okay,” I told him, preening now.

I was thrilled to know that he wanted more of my milk and I couldn’t wait to provide him with more tonight. This morning I’d pumped while they’d been outside conducting their shoot, and it had been nowhere near as pleasant of an experience as feeding them the night before.

“If you’re nursing from Rowan, you might find that you no longer need the protein powder you were using,” Phillip said. “Have you ever fed from anyone on a regular basis before?”

“Regular, no, but whenever I’ve had the chance to, I always felt really good afterward, just like with having my smoothies,” Zephyr explained.

“Sounds to me like the three of you have a good plan to get you started,” Phillip said. “So how about I take a listen to your heart and lungs, check your blood pressure, and your blood sugar, too, as well as get your weight. We can do a follow up visit next month, just to touch base and see how you’re feeling, and take it from there.”

“I-I don’t know if I’ll still be here in a month,” Zephyr stammered, glancing over at me.

“He’ll be here,” I assured Phillip and Zephyr, too, leaving it at that for now, until Tristan and I could talk about pulling the plug on our time here and taking him home.

“Okay, then I, um—I’m good with a follow up in a month,” Zephyr replied.

“Perfect,” Phillip replied as he bent to unzip his carrying case.

As he always did, he made short work of this part of the process, declaring Zephyr’s blood pressure, heartbeat and respiration rate to be perfectly normal, while his blood sugar and weight were a bit on the low side.

“I’ll be looking for those to come up between now and our follow up,” Phillip said as he began meticulously packing away his things. “Though I doubt that will be an issue with the plan you’ve already begun to work out. Just remember that when keeping to little portions, you have to eat them in greater frequency or replace one with a smoothie if you don’t feel up to solids. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes, sir,” Zephyr said without any hesitation.

“Good. Then I will see you next month.”

“When, um, you say you want to see my weight come up, how much do you mean?” Zephyr asked.

“One pound,” Phillip said. “That’s all, and you shouldn’t have to do anything to gain that besides stick to the plan you’re already laying out.”

When he smiled at that, I felt myself relax a little, glad it wasn’t some number that would throw him into a panic or a fit of anxiety.

“All right, I’ve got another patient to see so I’d best get going,” Philip said. “Good to see you again, Tristan.”

He waved but kept silent, always a little wary of Phillip since his visits to the house to see him usually involved a tummy ache induced by over-indulging in the decadent treats Theo made on occasion. He hated enemas, but they tended to be the prescribed course of treatment, something I knew he held against Phillip, just a little.

“Thank you for coming,” I said as I walked him to the door.

“Anytime, you know that. I think you called it right when you contacted me, though,” Phillip said. “I can only see him thriving once he’s in your home.”

He winked when he said it and I tipped my hat as he stepped out the door. He was right, though. We couldn’t begin to implement a meal plan or any changes until we were back home. Someplace I longed to be more with every passing moment. I was just about to pull Tristan aside for what I hoped would be a quick conversation when my phone pulsed with the tones of “You Ain’t Seen Nothin’ Yet.” Sebastion calling me was never a good sign and I felt my soul groan as I slid my finger over the icon to answer the call.

There was a reason I’d assigned that ring tone to him, dammit. Every time it went off I knew down to the tips of my toes that someone had gone and fucked up spectacularly, usually in a new and more disastrous way than any of the crew had ever fucked up before.