by Holly Rayner
And so with the first line done, came the idea. The image I began to paint on his chest started as an all-black outline. Then I added more black for the upper part of the head, the eyes, the beak, and the legs. I used gray for the feathers, the slightest bit of orange for the belly, more black along some feathers, and then I was done.
“You can open your eyes now,” I told Brock, who had done as I had and lightly napped during my painting.
At the sight of my creation, Brock’s face broke into a giant grin.
“Another chickadee, eh? You really do have an artist inside you.”
Smiling, I leaned back against the wall and shook my head.
“If I don’t paint for the next year, it won’t be too soon.”
Brock went to the bathroom to get a better look at the proud, puff-bellied chickadee on his chest. When he returned, we stared at each other’s art for a while, smiling a bit to ourselves. Then Brock went to his backpack, dug through it, and returned with a long sheet of paper.
“This way we don’t have to lose our paintings entirely.”
Tentatively poking some paint on my chest, I shook my head.
“Brock, sorry, but the paint’s dried.”
He only shook his head, grinned.
“Good thing we’ve got water.”
A second later he was leaving for the bathroom again. He returned with a pail of water. Then, spreading out the sheet of paper on the floor, he gestured to me.
“Sit down. We can start with you if that’s all right.”
I sat down obediently. Brock crouched down in front of me, dipped his paintbrush in the pail, and then paused.
“Wait. One thing first.”
“Wha—”
He kissed me. Tremors went through my body as he broke away.
“You looked so beautiful that I had to,” he said with a devilish smile.
Next thing I knew, cold dribbles of water were rolling down my front.
“I’m adding just enough to get it moist,” Brock said. “In a minute, would you be able to lie on your back? Then I’ll put the paper on top.”
“Sure,” I said, and, in a minute, I did just that.
Brock spread the paper over my belly and then my chest. He pressed on both slowly, gently yet firmly, as if applying a semi-permanent tattoo. Then, after waiting a minute, he peeled it off.
Grinning, he laid the now colorful thing beside me. “Looks good already,” he said. Then he helped me to my feet.
After one look down at the smudged rendition of the seedling sky painting Brock had done, I poked him in the side and said, “Your turn.”
Brock lay down, and, picking up the paper and pressing it against his painted chest and belly, I did the same thing he had done to me.
“Feels interesting,” Brock commented, and we laughed.
When I was done, we spread it out on the ground. After returning to sit on the sleeping bag, we looked at our beautiful creations.
They were impressionism versions of our works—arguably more beautiful for all the haziness.
Afterward, we showered ourselves off then sat back down on the sleeping bag side by side, his arm around me.
I opened my mouth, but he held a finger to my lips and closed his eyes.
I smiled. I understood.
Words would only ruin it. This was perfect. Here, now, with the man of my dreams beside me, my children inside me, warm in this shack tucked into nature’s breast—this was perfect.
I awoke to Brock moving.
“What?” I asked, but he shushed me.
“Hear that?” he asked, and I fell silent. I listened, and then I heard it, the far-off rumble of a vehicle coming down the road.
Brock helped me up, and then we rushed outside to my car. Ducking behind the driver’s door, we saw two blacked-out vehicles pull up. Russell and his men. We had to get out of there.
Chapter Eighteen
I raced over to the passenger’s side of the car, tore open the door, and jumped inside just as Brock did the same in the driver’s seat. I shoved the key in the ignition, and Brock slammed his foot on the gas just as their doors swung open. Gunshots followed our exit, but soon we were rumbling down the dirt road I’d come in on.
“I don’t know how they got here, Brock. I swear!” I said.
His face was grim as he nodded.
“Check the car—the glove compartment, everything. They must have bugged it.”
A scan of the bottom of the car and sun visor revealed nothing, though really, I wasn’t sure what I was even looking for.
“It’ll be a black electrical thing, about the size of a pager probably,” Brock said, answering my next question.
And there, in my glove compartment, was a black electrical thing about the size of a pager.
My breath caught in my throat.
“Brock?” I said weakly.
There was a sharp intake of breath, then a terse, “Yep. That’s it.”
In one smooth motion, he opened his window, grabbed the black thing, and tossed it outside.
“That should take care of that,” Brock said, just as the far-off growl of a car sounded.
It didn’t matter that we had thrown out the tracking device; it had done its job already. Now Russell and his men were on our tail, and there would be no escaping them, no stopping.
“Alex?” Brock asked, concerned. “Alex, you okay?”
But I wasn’t. I wasn’t, and my breath was still caught in my throat; I couldn’t even tell him I wasn’t because I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t inhale or exhale, and when I did, a whoosh passed through my whole body and a wetness came from my pelvis.
Oh, please God, no.
“Alex?” Brock asked, but I was hyperventilating now.
I could feel them coming. As much as I held them in, tightened my pelvic muscles, their force continued pushing out. I was giving birth—right then and there.
“My water broke,” I croaked. “They’re coming, Brock. The babies are coming.”
“Oh God, oh God,” he said, his voice loud and high. “Okay, 20 minutes out there’s a hospital. St. Vincent, I think it’s called. We can make it. We can go there and… Just hold on, Alex.”
The excruciating pressure was back; I could only shake my head. Then, after the wave passed, I said, “No. No hospital. No stop—can’t—police. Have to get away.”
Now it was Brock’s turn to shake his head.
“No,” he said. “The safety of you and the babies is the most important thing right now—the only thing. We’re going to the hospital.”
I could only weakly shake my head and moan as another wave of contractions descended upon me. Why had no one told me just how painful they were?
The next twenty minutes were one long exercise in futility, in trying to hold in what was forcing itself out, what could not be contained much longer. Brock stroked my hair and wiped the sweat off my forehead every few minutes.
Other times he only squeezed my hand and said, “It’s going to be all right.” And, though the black shapes of the cars in our rearview mirror gradually grew closer, I almost believed him.
When we were minutes away from the hospital, I thought to call Kyle.
To his worried flurry of questions, I could only tell him, “Birth now. Chased. Get police to St. Vincent. Santa Fe.” Then my phone died entirely.
Beside me, Brock’s face was creased in concentration, his maple eyes squinting with it.
“We’ll make it,” he said, and that time I would’ve really believed him if it hadn’t been for the fear in his voice.
After we barreled through several hairpin turns and shrieked up to the front of the promisingly fancy-looking tan exterior of the hospital, Brock dashed out, opened the door, and helped me out. One staggering, excruciating step after another, and we were at the doors. Then a car shrieked behind us and there was a crash sound.
Turning around, Brock groaned.
I let out a low moan. I didn’t need to turn around to know that R
ussell and his men had finally arrived and that they were armed.
A bullet shattered the wall an inch away from us, and then more bullets sounded. Amid all this, a siren wailed. I turned around to see police officers running straight for us, their guns raised.
“Brock Anderson, you are under arrest,” a bald man barked. “Don’t move!”
Behind him, other officers were cuffing a furious-looking Russell Snow and several of his burly, equally furious-looking men.
“Please,” I told the bald officer as he advanced, gesturing to Brock. “Please leave him be. I’m pregnant. He’s the father, please.”
My arm was grasped, and I was pressed into a wheelchair as another series of contractions scraped through me.
“Sorry, ma’am,” the officer said, getting out a glinting pair of handcuffs.
Next thing I knew, I was being wheeled away backward, presumably by a nurse who politely ignored my mumbled pleas and only gave my shoulder a squeeze as assured me that everything was going to be all right.
Through the clear doors, Brock waved as he was taken to the police car. Then my wheelchair was turned around and the worst contraction yet occurred.
I let out a low moan, and the nurse pushing me said, “They’re coming out, aren’t they? Don’t worry, we’re getting you to a room right now.”
And then, everything went black.
Chapter Nineteen
“Bet you didn’t expect to see me,” were the first words out of his mouth as I gaped at him.
After seeing Brock being taken away by the police, after giving excruciating birth to our triplets and holding their beautiful raw, red faces to my crying one, yes, the last person I had expected to see was Brock. And yet here he was, standing in front of my hospital bed and grinning at me and the three bundles of beauty I cradled in my arms.
“How…” I said, but he was already sweeping toward me with open arms.
“Can I?”
I handed him the three babies.
“Of course.”
He pressed the tiny sleeping things to his chest, a scared yet delighted look coming over his face.
“Oh man, oh man. Wow.”
We laughed, and he said, “They’re even more perfect than I could’ve imagined.”
His finger pressed against the boy’s forehead.
“So small and…ours.”
“Ours,” I repeated, beaming up at him.
He handed them back to me and then asked, “Want to know how I got here, or want to save it for later?”
I shrugged and patted the empty space on the bed beside me.
“I’ve got time.”
“Okay,” Brock said, going to the other side of the bed to sit down.
He rested his hand softly on my shoulder and smiled as he spoke.
“The police were hardly interested in me since I only ever stole from criminals. In fact, when they found out I had valuable information that would put Russell and his henchmen away for a nice long time, they had to stop themselves from outright shaking my hand at the end of the dealings. When I told them that my girlfriend was giving birth, they drove me here in the squad car, lights blaring and all.”
Smiling, I asked him, “Ooh, so I’m your girlfriend now huh?”
Grasping my hand, he said, “Well, if you’ll accept…”
Then, drawing it to his lips and kissing it, he said, “Alex, ‘girlfriend’ doesn’t even begin to cover what you are to me, but it’s a start. I may have missed our children’s birth, but you have my word that I’ll be there for every minute of their lives from now on.”
“Alex?!” a voice called across the hospital room as a red-haired figure raced toward me.
“I can’t believe you gave birth without me!” Tiffany yelled, Kyle and my mom trailing behind her.
Seeing Brock, she paused.
“Oh, you’re…”
“Brock Anderson, Alex’s boyfriend,” Brock said, holding out his hand with a smile.
Tiffany cocked her head at the proffered hand. Then, heaving a sigh, she clasped it warmly.
“Okay, so maybe I was wrong,” she said to me. “You may have picked a winner.”
“Clearly I have some catching up to do,” Brock said with a grin, taking my hand now.
“You do, but there’s no need to worry,” I said, squeezing his hand. “We have the rest of our lives to catch up.”
The next few days passed in a happy blur: faces of family and friends, chocolate and balloons and teddy bears, and, of course, my darlings, my perfect little darlings. There was Noelle, named after her great-grandmother who’d had her same rosy cheeks well into her eighties; Sasha, named after Sasha Barrette, an artist Brock and I loved; and, finally, Ian, named after Brock’s father, who had died in combat when Brock was only twelve.
Having three babies was just how it sounded—noisy and demanding. It seemed like I was feeding them nonstop, too. When one was finished, another one would start its harried demands. And yet, it wasn’t as difficult as I had thought it would be. With Brock by my side, parked in the hospital chair, I was able to sleep a bit and eat. My days were still tiring, sure, but they were doable.
And when I saw my little triplets look up at me with their loving hazel eyes, there was nothing better. Seeing Brock with them, carrying them in his strong arms, patting their backs, kissing their tiny cheeks, made me care for him more every day.
Tiffany and my mother delighted in the babies too. Along with Brock, they wouldn’t leave my side, and every day they came armed with more gifts for the triplets.
One day, however, the day before I was to be discharged, Tiffany came with bad news.
“Combs, it’s your apartment.”
My face fell.
“Crap. Did I forget to pay?”
She shook her head.
“No. It’s not that. It’s just…” She fell silent and then glanced at Kyle, as if he could give her the words to tell me what she had to.
“What? What is it, Tiff? Tell me.”
So, with a sigh, she did.
“It’s Charlie. While you were gone, he broke into your place and, uh, accidentally set it on fire. He was smoking or something, and he’s being charged, but…”
Again, she fell silent and looked at Kyle.
“Tiff…”
“Well, all your stuff, it’s gone, Alex.”
Her words hit me like a slap in the face. My whole body drooped, and the babies, sensing turmoil, started wailing.
Mom scooped them up while Tiffany, her face red now, started talking a mile a minute. “But of course you and the triplets can stay with us. It’s no problem, no problem at all. I just thought you should know.”
I nodded mutely, unsure of what to say. Tiffany’s face was still strained.
“That’s not all, is it?” I asked quietly, and she shook her head.
“It’s your office building. They called a few days ago saying that your lease has expired and they want you out.”
Another slap of reality on the other side of my face.
“Okay” was all I could say with a dumb sort of nod.
Now Tiffany was in overdrive.
“But really, it’s fine! I mean, we have a room downstairs we don’t use. That can be your office or the nursery or both! We’ll figure this out, Combs. We always do!”
I nodded dumbly again, feeling too desolate to speak. I suddenly felt very, very tired. The babies were still screaming, so I held my arms out for them. Mom handed them to me, her face looking as sad and worried as I felt.
I cradled them to me, my little darlings whom I hardly even had a home for.
As I drifted off, the last thing I saw, in the corner of the room, was Brock. He was sitting quietly, his face intent. He had heard everything.
I awoke to a kiss on the cheek.
I opened my eyes to see Brock and an empty room.
As my mouth opened, Brock held a finger to my lips.
“Shhhh,” he said. “Your mom and Tiffany went for a quick w
alk with the babies.”
I nodded, searching his face.
“You’re probably wondering why I woke you up then.”
I nodded again, and he grinned.
“There’s something I want to ask you,” he said, going over to the table in the corner of the room.
He brought over a purple cake with the words “Will you live with me?” written on it in orange icing.
I stared at the funny-looking thing while an incredulous smile worked its way onto my face.
“Okay, so I did the icing myself,” Brock admitted with a shy smile, “but are you really going to leave me hanging here?”
It all seemed so incredible. Clearly, my face indicated as much, because, seizing my hands, Brock said, “I know what you’re thinking. It’s too much too fast; we hardly know each other. And you’re right, Alex, you’re right.”
I cocked my head at him. Wasn’t he supposed to be convincing me that this was a good idea?
He tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear and continued. “But I still want to try. The little time we’ve spent together, it’s enough. I know all I need to know, which is that I care for you deeply and will do anything to make this work.”
Tears came to my eyes and rolled down before I could rub them away.
“Well?” Brock asked, and I nodded mutely.
Now tears were in his eyes too, and, as we clasped each other and kissed, Tiffany and my mom returned with the babies.
“She said yes, didn’t she?” Mom said, the delight audible in her voice. All three babies in her arms were smiling more than I’d ever seen them smile, as if they knew what had just happened.
“Knew she would,” Tiffany said, her red lips spread in a big grin. “Well, can we have the cake now?”
I responded by picking up the fork beside the cake, digging it in, and forking out a bite.
Everyone laughed, and in that shining moment, everything was perfect.
Epilogue
One Year Later
“Thank you.”
The rocking chair rocked back, and I murmured the words to myself again: “Thank you.”