The Marine's Baby, Maybe

by Rogenna Brewer

  “Grandma Nora was planning on flying out after you were born. Maybe we could get her to come early.”

  She thought of one other person. Would he stay if she asked? She played with the sticky backs of the Eat Me/Drink Me notes. He wouldn’t want to. But he would. Except she wasn’t going to ask.

  Not after their walk on the beach last night. She’d rather deliver in the back of a taxi.

  Her cell phone vibrated across the counter and she leaned over to get it. A text message from Calhoun read Call me, lunch my treat!

  Have to work, she texted Calhoun back.

  She got up to throw away her trash and rinse her glass in the sink. She was putting it in the dishwasher when she noticed one last Post-it note attached to the cover of her genealogy book, which he’d moved to her kitchen counter so she’d find it.

  It said Read Me. She took the book with her and sat back down at the bar. She opened it to the papers she’d kept tucked inside and her eyes started to get watery.

  She’d printed out a sample donor profile form she’d found online at CryoBank’s Web site.

  He’d filled out his medical history. Taken the personality test. Included a photocopy—where did he get a photocopy?—of his military ID and a very old, very worn wallet-size studio photo of two healthy, happy little boys.

  The bigger brother was holding on to the younger one to keep him from crawling off. She turned it over and read the back. The faded handwriting read Bruce, age 1. Luke, age 5.

  Her heart skipped a beat. The photo must have been taken before he’d gotten his nickname.

  Her baby was the next-generation Calhoun. And he might even look like one of those young boys.

  She felt the tug at her heartstrings and punched in #1 on her speed dial. Where was the harm in taking the chance to get to know him in the short time she had left? “I get an hour for lunch,” she said when he picked up.

  LUCKY ENTERED THE WALGREENS where Cait worked just before her lunch hour. She wasn’t working one of the open cash registers up front. He’d been running official errands all morning as part of his outprocessing so he was once again wearing his uniform.

  “Caitlin Calhoun?” he asked a stock boy in a blue vest. The young man plucked an iPod earbud from his ear and pointed toward the back. Lucky hoped to hell they didn’t have her working in the stockroom in her condition. He hurried to the back of the store, where he stopped another guy with a mop bucket coming through the swinging double doors. “I’m looking for Cait—”

  “So you’re the hero’s brother,” said a tech from behind the pharmacy desk. “I’m Roger, by the by. Caitlin’s told me all about you.”

  Her hero’s brother? What did that make him, the antihero?

  “Do you know where I can find her?” he asked with a hint of the irritation he felt.

  “Cait, your brother-in-law is here!” Roger called.

  But all he’d had to do was look up. Cait was in the pharmacy wearing blue scrubs and a white lab coat. She looked away from a computer screen. “Hi.” She offered him a tentative smile. “I’ll just be a minute.”

  He watched her as she finished inputting something and then turned to hang up her lab coat and pick up her purse.

  “You never mentioned you were a pharmacist.”

  “I’ve mentioned temping here on and off several times since Christmas. Walgreens is a pharmacy. Did you think I was just another dumb blonde?” she teased.

  Well, he wouldn’t make that mistake again. Not that he’d ever thought she was dumb. But he’d had a lot of preconceived notions about her. She was better educated and better able to take care of herself than he’d thought.

  He could leave with a clear conscience after this weekend. Hell, he hadn’t even graduated high school. He was just a guy with a GED who’d become a Marine.

  She didn’t need him.

  “Where would you like to go eat?” he asked.

  “There’s a little sandwich shop around the corner. It shouldn’t be too busy this early.”

  They headed toward the door.

  Outside, she spotted a motorcycle parked at the curb.

  “Is that a Fat Bob?”

  “No, that’s a custom job. Still needs a lot of work.”

  “You mean it’s yours?” She stopped to admire it.

  “Yeah.” Embarrassed by the attention his bike was getting, he kept them headed in the direction of lunch. He’d been working on motorcycles for as long as he could remember.

  It was no big deal to scavenge old parts so he could keep himself in wheels. He had a few designs of his own he’d like to work on someday. Maybe someday was just around the next corner.

  Nothing commercial.

  Something small. In a seedy back alley where only the most unpretentious of riders would venture. He’d build his business by reputation and word of mouth, one motorcycle at a time.

  “What are you going to name it? When you’re done, I mean. Or does it already have a name?”

  “I’m not going to name it.”

  “You have to,” she insisted. “You’re the creator. You get to call it anything.”

  Did she even hear the irony in that statement? Well, he knew what he wouldn’t be calling it.

  “I’m starving,” he said, changing the subject.

  “Oh, I wanted to ask you something.” She dug an envelope out of her purse as they approached the bistro.

  “What do you know about this house Big Luke gave to Luke and I as a wedding present?”

  Just that he’d spent his childhood there.

  He couldn’t believe Big Luke had held on to it all these years. His last memory of the place was being in the car with his mother, and his parents driving off in different directions. “Not much of a house. You thinking of selling it? Or renting out the place?”

  “I don’t know. It’s been on the market for a while now. What do you think?”

  CAITLIN DAYDREAMED HER WAY through the afternoon lull in the pharmacy. Lunch had been nice. Calhoun thought she should contact a rental agency to rent out the cottage until she found a buyer. Because she was having second thoughts about selling.

  Just before her shift ended, Marilyn came in to fill a prescription for prenatal vitamins and shared her good news. “Thank you so much for recommending the FSH.” Her friend was glowing.

  “I should have thought to tell you sooner,” Caitlin said, truly happy for the other woman.

  They exchanged a few pleasantries and a hug.

  Cait’s smile faded as her friend left, wondering if she’d ever been that happy about her own pregnancy. She envied Marilyn that.

  The thought of FSH reminded her of the conversation she’d had with Calhoun. She’d thought he wanted to know about the IUI procedure, when what he’d really wanted to know was why his specimen hadn’t been destroyed.

  At the time she was curious about his choice. But now that she thought about it she was more than curious about whose specimen had actually been destroyed.

  Her heart started to pound.

  Ten minutes later she was hanging up her lab coat.

  Within thirty minutes she found herself outside the doors of CryoBank.

  Caitlin walked in and up to the counter. “Hi, I need some information regarding my husband’s specimen.”

  They had all the information on file to give her access to Luke’s account. She just needed to show her ID. The young female in green scrubs spent several minutes trying to pull up the data on the computer. Every second that ticked by felt like an eternity.

  “According to our records, Mrs. Calhoun, your husband’s sperm sample was destroyed six months ago at his request.”

  “My husband died nine months ago.” Cait gripped the counter to hold herself upright. She’d be damned if they were going to shove another tuna fish–smelling sack in her face. “I’d like to speak with the director,” she demanded.

  LUCKY DIDN’T WASTE ANY TIME heading over to CryoBank. He’d left his brother in a sports bar with a half-assed expl
anation as to why he wasn’t sticking around for happy hour and hot wings.

  He eyeballed the bored rent-a-cop in the corner as he walked into CryoBank.

  A well-heeled woman and two young technicians glanced at him expectantly.

  “But how do you know you destroyed the right specimen?” Cait demanded of the well heeled woman, still unwilling to accept it.

  “Because the sample we have has been correctly identified,” said the director. All the fight went out of Cait, replaced by a look of defeat.

  Four tours in Iraq and he felt helpless to defend her. “This isn’t over,” he threatened the director. “Think jury trial.”

  “Mrs. Calhoun signed away her right to sue,” the director said evenly.

  “But I didn’t.” Lucky reached into the breast pocket of his cammies. “I’ve been waiting three months to do this.”

  He took out the folded and worn check with CryoBank’s initial offer to him of thirty-five hundred dollars and ripped it up, letting the pieces fall around the scanner. Cait had received ten times that. She should have received ten times more. And he was going to get it for her. Maybe CryoBank had offered him so little because they didn’t consider him a victim. Well, he wasn’t a victim. He was a Marine. And what CryoBank should have considered was that he’d fight for what was right.

  Lucky turned to leave, but Cait was already out the door.

  CAITLIN WALKED OVER TO THE bus-stop bench at the curb and sat before her legs gave out. Calhoun was only seconds behind her. He sat on the opposite end.

  Neither of them said anything.

  She stared off into space.

  He raked his hands through that stubble on his head, then leaned forward with his head bowed, elbows resting on his knees.

  “Cait—”

  “There’s nothing you can say to make this better.” She’d have felt as empty as when she’d lost Luke, but the baby was kicking, reminding her she wasn’t alone this time. “All I have left of him is through you, Calhoun. I don’t want you to destroy your specimen.” She held her stomach with both arms.

  “Excuse me for being crude, but there’s more where that came from. I’m not going to leave it with CryoBank.”

  “I want custody,” she said.

  “Oh, that’s a good one, Cait. You already have custody of my unborn child. You want custody of my sperm, too?” He got up from the bench, turned as if to walk away. Then turned back. “Why?” he demanded. “Because there’s some ten percent probability my baby will have Luke’s eyes?”

  She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Luke had eyes the color of emeralds. And he never narrowed them on me with accusation like you’re doing now.”

  “I don’t have to read a book on DNA,” he said, “or graduate from high school to know that baby you’re carrying is fifty-fifty me and you. Yet I have no rights under the law.” He rubbed the back of his tanned neck. “You want to know what the JAG officer said to me? Forget about it. Cash the check.”

  After consulting with the Judge Advocate General’s office on her own, Caitlin knew Calhoun’s rights as a donor were limited by her choices as a mother. “So why didn’t you?”

  The sound of air brakes interrupted their conversation. A bus pulled up to the stop, and they waited for the passengers to disperse.

  She had thought it would be Luke’s name on her baby’s birth certificate. He’d been her husband and the intended father. But it became complicated because of death benefits a child of Luke’s would be entitled to. The simple solution would be to name the father “donor” or “artificial insemination.” Calhoun would have no rights. But the lawyer had cautioned against it. Because her baby would have no father.

  Her other option was to name her baby’s biological father.

  And leave herself wide open to his paternity challenge.

  “Because I can’t forget,” he said, sliding in next to her once they were alone again. “I’m okay with being the donor, Cait. I’m not okay with being a factory outlet.”

  “I don’t want this baby to grow up alone.”

  “Peanut’s not growing up alone,” he said with certainty. “Do you think Luke would want you to spend the rest of your life pining for him?”

  She fumbled through her purse for her car keys and stood.

  He stood, too.

  “I loved him.”

  “I don’t doubt that, Cait.”

  “All I wanted was to have his baby.”

  “I know,” he said. “Which is why I’m not going through this again. We’re not talking about Luke’s baby.”

  “I need to get home.” She headed for her car.

  “You should rethink your choice of baby names. Luke wouldn’t want this baby named after him,” he called.

  She turned and walked right up to him. “Suddenly you’re an expert on what Luke would want?” She shook her head and turned again to leave him standing there.

  “I’m not sure you should be driving,” he said, keeping pace with her.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Just the same, I’ll follow you home.”

  “Can I just ask you one thing?” She stopped to face him. “Why did you put your semen in storage in the first place? And what happened to make you change your mind?”

  He didn’t try to shy away from her direct line of questioning. “I wasn’t sure I was coming back.”

  “But you did.”

  “But I did.”

  And that was the answer to both her questions.

  Chapter Nine

  AFTER THREE DAYS OF CAIT’S not returning his messages, Lucky called in reinforcements.

  After a chat with Bruce, Cait agreed to go out to dinner and a movie with the two of them on Friday. So there they were, cooling their heels, both in civilian clothes, in her apartment.

  “I don’t have anything to wear,” she said, studying their casual dress.

  Lucky followed her into the bedroom, determined not to let her get away. “You have a whole closet full of clothes. There’s gotta be something in here you can wear.” He stared into her closet, wishing he knew what he was looking for.

  “Nothing fits. I’m too fat.”

  “You’re not fat.”

  “Don’t you dare use one of those euphemisms like pleasantly plump.”

  “I don’t even know what a euphemism is, but I’ll be sure not to use one around you.”

  She pulled two more dresses out of her closet and tossed them on the growing discard pile on her bed. “I’m too pregnant,” she whined.

  “No one is too pregnant.”

  “Wasn’t that the first thing you asked me? How pregnant are you? Well, the answer is too pregnant!”

  Bruce leaned against the doorjamb. “Cait, are you sure you’re not carrying twins?”

  “See, see?” She poked Lucky’s chest with a hanger to make her point. “Your brother thinks I’m fat!”

  Lucky glowered over his shoulder at Bruce. “Not helping.”

  Bruce shrugged and limped away from the door.

  “Everything I own is black!” she wailed.

  “What’s wrong with this one?” he asked, taking a dress down from the back of the closet door.

  “It’s black.”

  “You were wearing it when I got off the plane.”

  “I’d give you credit for that, Calhoun, but that was just four days ago.”

  “So you know it fits.”

  “You’ve already seen me in it. So has Bruce.”

  “I wouldn’t mind seeing you in it again,” he said.

  Cait stopped her rant to confront him directly. “Why are you being so nice to me, Calhoun?”

  “I never thought I was being all that mean to you before.”

  Even though it had seemed as if they were at cross-purposes.

  He really did have her best interests at heart.

  She had her hair pulled back into a ponytail today. No makeup. He didn’t like the look of those purple smudges underneath her eyes. He’d bet she’d been up
all night again.

  If he had to, he was coming back here tonight, invited or not, to put her to bed. Even if that meant camping out on her couch to keep her there.

  “You’re not mean. I’m being a bitch. And because I’m pregnant I blame it on hormones. Now get out so I can dress.”

  Finally.

  “She coming?” Bruce asked when Lucky joined him in the kitchen.

  “She’s changing now,” Lucky said. Bruce had a shot glass of tequila in front of him. “Where’d you get that?”

  “I know where Cait keeps her liquor. For guests,” he clarified. “Want one?”

  Lucky shook his head. He might be designated driver tonight. Not that Cait would be drinking. Just that he might be driving.

  “You a regular, then?” Lucky asked, dressed up in black slacks and an untucked, black-and-white shirt with three-quarter sleeves. Lucky thought of it as his bowling shirt, even though he didn’t bowl.

  “What are you asking me?” Bruce demanded.

  “I thought you were avoiding her.”

  “I tried, but she wouldn’t let me.” Bruce was dressed down in a chambray shirt and jeans. He was off his crutches and had moved on to his training leg. An adjustable pole with a foot.

  Lucky glanced down at his brother’s empty left pant leg and looked away.

  “It’s okay, you can look.” Bruce threw back the last of his drink and banged his glass down on the counter.

  “So she knows all the details surrounding Luke’s death?”

  “I tried for months to avoid her, but she figured out I was there and confronted me. She had questions, and the Navy wasn’t giving her answers. Or at least not to her satisfaction. She wanted to know if he had any last words.”

  “Did he?”

  “Yeah—tell Lucky he’s an asshole.”

  “Funny.”

  “No,” Bruce said seriously. “He was just gone.”

  “What’d you tell her?”

  “Tell Cait I love her.”

  “You idiot.” Lucky smacked his brother upside the head.

  “How’d you explain taking so long to pass that along?”

  “I was traumatized.”