It had taken three weeks for the nursery to be finished. She had grabbed Clark’s hand and dragged him to the room to see the final result. Brook had stood in the center of the room with her hand on her expanding belly, visualizing the room with a crib, herself holding a cooing baby. Clark had shown moderate interest, but Brook was happy enough for both of them and didn’t concern herself with his less than enthusiastic participation.
At ten weeks, Brook had begun to spot blood. She was frantic when she arrived at the clinic but the doctor soothed her and scheduled an immediate sonogram. Everything looked normal and the doctor explained that some women experienced spotting for no apparent reason. She could find absolutely nothing that Brook should be worried over. Brook left feeling a little concerned but trusting her doctor. After a week or so, the bleeding stopped and Brook was once again overcome by the need to buy baby stuff.
Brook went on a shopping spree. She purchased a basinet which would remain beside her and Clark’s bed until the baby was old enough to sleep in a crib. For the baby's room, she chose a pretty white nursery set; crib, changing table, dresser, and rocking chair. Wandering the aisles of the specialty store, she found a cute, wind-up mobile in orange, yellow, and green. It represented the nursery rhyme ‘Hey Diddle Diddle’ and went perfectly with the room’s border. She also couldn’t resist buying a few sleepers, booties, and blankets. After her twenty-week sonogram, when she found out the baby’s sex, she planned to buy the car seat, stroller, and other paraphernalia.
When the furniture had been delivered and set up, the room was perfect, with one exception; she still had to wait another twenty-two weeks for the baby. Anticipation kept her buoyed and exuberant. She took pictures of the room and sent them to her mom, sister, and brother. Several times a day, she strolled past the nursery just so she could peek inside. Life was wonderful.
And then, disaster struck. At nineteen weeks, Brook began to spot again. She reassured herself that it was normal, but by the end of the week, the spotting had become a flow. She rushed to the clinic and the doctor admitted her to the hospital for testing.
Blood tests were ordered and exams were performed. Brook went into labor in the early evening. Clark called her mom and dad and they began the trip to Denver. The fear was even harder to bear than the pain. She couldn’t lose this baby; she wouldn’t. She wanted it so badly! But her hopes were shattered. Before the night was through, Brook had a spontaneous abortion.
And then, when she thought life could be no crueler, she was dealt a losing hand. Her placenta wasn’t birthing and complications arose. Brook was rushed to surgery where it was discovered her placenta hadn’t detached from the uterine wall. The doctor had to perform an emergency hysterectomy to remove her uterus in order to stop the hemorrhaging. Brook was left with no baby in her arms now and no chance of a baby later. She sank into a deep depression.
As Brook reached this part of her story, she broke down crying. Lance gathered her into his arms and rocked her gently. It was quite a while before she regained her composure, and then she excused herself to go to the restroom. By the time she came out, Lance had a good start on lunch. He paused in his task, a look of concern on his face. "Brooklyn?"
She shrugged slightly and murmured, "Everything's fine, Lance, I'm just tired. I think I'll lie down for awhile. “Brook curled up on her bed and drifted into an uneasy sleep.
Lance left her resting and disappeared into his work room while the meal cooked. When he returned, he sat next to her on the side of the bed and brushed her hair from her face. Brook opened her eyes and smiled softly. He left his hand lingering on her cheek as he asked, “Hey! Ready to eat?”
Brook, sensing his worry, stated, “I’m okay, Lance, really. It still gets to me sometimes; probably more right now. I feel pretty vulnerable still.”
They spoke of trivial things during the meal. Lance told Brook how Gilbert was getting antsy about being cooped up all the time. She was overjoyed when he had turned her out of the pen that morning so he could muck it out. “That goat knows where every stump is, even when they’re covered by snow. She gallivanted around for a few minutes and then gave a mighty leap into the air, landing delicately with her four feet together on a high stump. Not bad for a pregnant nanny.”
“Gilbert’s pregnant?” Brook asked with a smile. “That sounds really funny to say, doesn’t it?”
“Yep. Not something you hear every day of the week, that’s for sure. Good old Gilbert. She’s quite the lusty gal. And sneaky, too. Even though she’s been penned up most of the time, she still managed a tryst with her boyfriend. I suppose it’s a good thing, though. She’s going to keep me in fresh milk come spring.” He laughed and his eyes shone with pride. Brook could see how much Gilbert meant to him and was glad it was the less-favored goat the cougar had killed.
Brook helped with the clean up. She liked being this close to Lance, their arms touching off and on, his warm smile when he looked down at her. When the dishes were done, she went to her purse and rummaged through the meager contents. She moved to sit at the table, holding a pink laminated card. She read from it silently and then held it to her chest as she picked up the story where she had left off earlier.
“After losing the baby I had no desire to continue with my life. The doctor had given me anti-depressants and sleeping pills, and I seriously considered taking them to end my pain, to join my baby. Knowing how hard it would be on my mom and dad was the only thing that stopped me going through with it.”
Lance moved to sit beside Brook, leaving a little space between them. He wanted to be near if she needed him but didn’t want crowd her.
“My mom stayed at our house for a couple of weeks. I tried to put on a positive face and eventually she left for home, but I could tell she was still worried. Clark babied me to begin with, but when I showed no signs of improvement, he began to get annoyed. He even told me I needed to ‘snap out of it’, like I could just blink and be through with my pain and sorrow.”
Lance stood and got Brook a glass of water. After a few sips, she continued. “I’d find myself standing outside the nursery, unable to open the door and enter. I’d just stand, staring at the knob until Clark would come and get me. Finally, I sought therapy.”
Brook recalled the long drawn-out sessions with her therapist, all the tears she had cried, the anger she had expressed. She was advised to keep a journal, to write down everything that was pleasurable about her pregnancy, and to keep these good thoughts near while pushing away the bad. She joined a support group but found the pain of the other women too much to bear; although, the few meetings she attended did open her eyes to the fact that she wasn’t alone and that some women actually held living babies only to have them ripped from their arms by death.
Brook’s baby had been a girl, so she had bought and embellished the front of a baby book in fancy lettering with the name her daughter would have had: Lacey Joelle Parrish. The pages inside held pictures of the nursery and the tiny outfits she had already bought. She wrote about the wonderful moments when she had found out she was pregnant and the first time the baby kicked, her awe at the miracle of life. How Clark would caress her tummy and feel for movement. How much she had enjoyed preparing the nursery for its new little occupant. Knowing the book wasn't supposed to hold sorrow, she skipped everything that came during and after losing the baby.
One day, while searching the internet for help in dealing with her loss, she found a poem written by Denise Hanstad, another unfortunate mother who had lost her baby at birth. Keeping a copy for herself, she added this poem to the book and decided it was complete. Packing a suitcase with the Lacey Joelle's book nestled between her clothes, Brook went home to visit her mom and dad. There, she went to a quiet little cemetery in the country, a spot she had often found comforting with its pastoral setting and the century-old stones that remembered people long forgotten. She leafed through the book one last time and then buried it in the soft ground below the outspread branches of a beautiful tree. Lacey J
oelle now had an eternal home; somewhere Brook could visit if she wanted.
Brook paused in her story and held the pink card in front of her. Looking at it with unseeing eyes, she read from memory.
A tiny hand we'll never hold.
A child without a name.
Your coos and giggles
won't touch our ears,
but we loved you just the same.
The twinkle in your little eyes,
was not for us to see;
we longed to hold you in our arms,
but it never came to be.
God now holds your tiny hand,
He's given you a name;
your coos and giggles grace Heaven's ears,
but we'll miss you just the same.
The twinkle in your little eyes,
now lights the sky at night.
God holds you close in loving arms,
you're always in His sight.
A tiny hand we'll never hold,
we have no reason why;
but we'll always hold you in our hearts,
even though we said good-bye.
Lance felt a tug on his heart as Brook read the words. Not so long ago, he'd hoped to be a father. Fate had stepped in and stolen the dream from him, too. Brook's sorrow brought his to the surface. He wanted to hold her but she sat so still he was afraid to touch her. He waited.
“After the ritual with the book I felt better. It was like I had managed to find some closure. But then, I went home. There was the nursery door, still unopened, still haunting me. Clark made the decision that brought me some true peace. He sold our house and we moved.”
Her eyes held a faraway look. “You wouldn’t believe the difference between the two houses. Our first home was an old Victorian, not Clark’s choice but one he went along with to make me happy. I loved that house; it was so comfortable with the hardwood floors, area rugs, and old furniture. When we moved we entered the modern world; glass and chrome fills the house. The new house has never felt like mine; it’s Clark's through and through.” She smiled up into Lance’s eyes. “I feel more at home here in this cabin than I have ever felt there.”
Lance beamed. “It is nice here, isn’t it?”
“It is,” Brook agreed. “Comfortable, safe, and right in the middle of some of the most beautiful scenery on earth. Of course, I may be a bit prejudiced because I also associate this house with my rescue and the man who saved my life.”
Her eyes held such frank admiration that Lance had to look away. His heart started a slow but heavy thumping under her gaze and warmth stole over him. If he didn’t reign in these feelings she inspired, he might find himself acting upon them. He didn’t want to take the chance of scaring Brook away from him entirely and lose the friendship they had cultivated. Brook noticed Lance’s discomfort and changed the subject. “As much as I love the cabin, I have to admit I have cabin fever. Do you think I could go out with you when you do your chores?”
“That’d be great,” Lance said and then stared at Brook’s feet. “We’ll have to find something for you to wear besides the moccasins; they’d be soaked through in a few minutes.” He contemplated the situation and then said, “Come with me.”
Brook followed him to his bedroom where he picked up several pairs of boots, discarding one pair after another. Finally, he selected a pair and said, “These are snug on me. I know they’ll be way too large for you, but maybe with several pairs of socks you can use them.”
Brook ended up using four pairs of socks and the boots were still loose, but they would protect her feet from the snow. Now all she needed was a coat and gloves and she’d be ready to tackle the outside.
Lance bundled her up in extra clothing and one of his coats. His clothes were so big on her, it bordered on ludicrous. She looked like a child dressed in grownup clothing, and he couldn’t help but grin. Unaware of her comical appearance, Brook smiled back and Lance’s heart did a small flip. He led the way and they tromped outside.
As Lance went about his chores, Brook breathed in the crisp cold air and let her eyes wander over the snow-covered trees. The peaks in the distance were veiled in ragged gray clouds, and the land seemed to sleep under its blanket of white. She felt renewed.
“Hey!” Lance pointed toward the outer boundary. “The wild herd makes its appearance. Want to feed them?”
Brook looked at the small group of goats gathered nervously nearby.
“Sure,” she said.
“Okay, don’t make any quick moves. I’ll get you some hay and you can start tossing it to them. Once they get to know you, they’ll be a lot more trusting.” He ducked into the other side of the shed and came back with a wedge of tightly packed hay. She took it from him and began tearing small clumps from it and tossing them away from her. Timidly, first one goat and then another approached, grabbed a bite, and backed off. Watching her with their peculiar eyes, they chewed thoughtfully.
Gilbert walked boldly up to Brook and nabbed a healthy bite. She allowed Brook to pat her shoulder. Gilbert stood unafraid next to Brook and the other goats became less wary and approached her. She could hardly tear a piece away before it was snatched from her hand.
Things were going so well, Brook decided to pet one of the wild goats. The minute she did, however, it panicked and ran. The other goats followed, disappearing into the trees. Gilbert stood with a placid expression on her face and watched them go.
“I scared them off,” Brook said, disappointed.
“They’ll be back. Not to worry,” Lance told her and set about his chores. Brook walked around the area, looking at each small outbuilding and admiring the outside of the cabin. She brushed the snow off a stump and sat down to watch Lance work.
Lance was grappling with a loose section of fence when he felt a thud against his insulated hood.
“Oh, no,” he said, turning slowly. “You did not just throw a snowball at me.”
Brooklyn stared innocently into the distance, as if studying the sky. She seemed not to hear him. Lance shrugged and returned to his task. Perhaps some snow had broken away from the branches above him and fallen. A minute later, another wad of snow hit the back of his head. This time, when he turned, he caught Brook’s mischievous look and the fight was on.
Lance was surprised at the accuracy of her aim. She nailed him a number of times and ducked several of his return volleys.
“Years in Little League,” she called with a laugh, explaining her proficiency. She did a bob and weave before flinging another snowball his way.
He marched over to her, his hands full of snow. She tried to run, but with the ungainly boots hampering her efforts, she lost her footing in a deep drift. Lance easily caught up with her and dumped the snow over her head. He smirked. “Revenge is best served cold,” he said over her giggles. He held out a hand to help her up. With unexpected strength, she pulled instead and he tumbled into the drift with her. She rubbed handfuls of snow into his face, squealing with delight at his surprised expression.
Grabbing her hands, he gently held her arms down. Now he was lying partially on top of her, their faces close. They were winded from laughter and exertion as their gazes met and held.
Seconds before their lips joined, they sensed the impending kiss, the magnetism of their feelings for each other drawing them together at last. The world seemed to halt, all sounds ceased in that moment. Lance started to pull away, but Brook strained upward to continue the contact, and he gave in to the urgency. Tenderly, they clung to each other in the snow, their passion warming them. The kiss. It was soft, tender, achingly sweet, soul-rocking, sultry as a delta night, and breathless as the first hush of dawn. All at the same time. When they parted, Lance stared into Brook’s face, noting the flush on her cheeks, the softness in her eyes. He moaned and went in for a second time, and she responded under his lips.
“Sweet Brooklyn,” he murmured against her mouth and laid his cheek against hers. She placed her gloved hands on either side of his face and turned his lips back to hers.
Had Gilbert not chosen that exact moment to nibble on Lance’s hood, they might have gone on kissing. But Gilbert was persistent and kept tugging. Lance tried to swat her away, but to no avail.
Brook giggled under him and he laughed.
“I think she’s jealous. She wants some attention,” he said as he pulled Brook to her feet.
“Well, I don’t blame her,” Brook said. “I needed a little attention myself.”
They brushed the snow off their clothes and headed for the cabin, Gilbert following closely. Lance escorted Brook to the door.
“Let me tend to her and I’ll be right in.” He kissed Brook tenderly before stepping away.
Brook had already changed into dry clothes and stoked the fire by the time Lance entered the cabin. He stood next to her near the flames, but the heat she felt was internal and it was coming from her feelings for him.
“I’m going to change,” he said, his voice soft with passion. He placed his hand on her shoulder in a light caress as he moved to the bedroom. After he had gone, she hugged herself and gave in to the feelings that flooded her, feelings she hadn’t been sure she could ever have again. A smile lifted the corners of her mouth.
Chapter 42
That night, Brook lay awake in her lonely bed, thinking about Lance and soul searching. Reaching a decision, she tiptoed to the blanket covering Lance’s bedroom doorway wearing only a shirt. Her pulse raced as she contemplated her next move. She hesitated a moment before pulling the curtain aside. Lance lay in bed, propped on his pillow, reading. He looked up as she entered and slowly laid the book on the nightstand, never taking his eyes from Brook.
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