Ravel

by Ryan, Shari J.

  We’re patient as the side door of the aircraft lowers, like it did the day I watched Kemper deplane. I knew what his injury was, so I wasn’t as shocked when I saw him, but Jennifer has been given very little information. Her arms are wrapped around her body and her knees are shaking, so I pull her into my side, trying to give her some comfort.

  Travis doesn’t walk off the plane. Instead, he’s pushed out in a wheelchair. There are lacerations all over his face, his right leg is bandaged up, and both of his arms are wrapped as well. He looks like one giant bruise. Jennifer pulls herself out of my grip and runs toward him. Through all of the bruises, I see the whites of Travis’s teeth as Jennifer drops down by his side. She rests her head on his lap and he carefully lifts his hand and places it over her head. “It’s going to be a long road to recovery for him,” Kemper says.

  “He’s alive. They’ll make it.”

  After several minutes of their reunion, they make their way towards us. Kemper greets Travis, and I wrap my arms around Jennifer’s neck. “You okay?”

  “I was really rude to you when you found out about Kemper, and I want to tell you I’m sorry. I should have apologized weeks ago, but—“

  “Jennifer, you are one of the strongest people I know. Not for one second have I expected anything more from you. An apology isn’t necessary.” She hugs me a little tighter and then releases me to go back with Travis. “Oh, I made you meals for a few days. I’ll bring them over when you’re settled in.”

  “You make a pretty kick-ass Marine wife, Daphne. First you shoot a pair of balls off and now you’re cooking meals. You’re amazing. Thank you.”

  ***

  “I think we’re pretty lucky,” Kemper says as we walk up our driveway. “Luckier than a lot of other people.”

  “I think you’re right about that.” I grab his hand and hold it against my heart. “Kemper?”

  “Daphne?”

  “Do you believe in fairy tales?” I ask.

  “I don’t know,” he laughs. “Do you believe in happily-ever-afters?”

  I’ve spent most of my life hoping for a fairy tale, and I might not have a white horse and a castle, but I found my destiny. It turns out a happily-ever-after isn’t that moment where a man sweeps you off your feet and kisses you senseless as the lights dim around you. It’s the moment you can say, “I’m happy,” and if my life were to end today, it would most definitely be a happy ending. “Absolutely,” I say.

  “Then yes,” he says, stopping in front of the door. He pulls me in front of him and looks down into my eyes. “This can be our very own fairy tale, Miss Daphne.” He leans down slowly and places a soft kiss over my smiling lips. “Oh.” He pulls away a bit as a wry grin inches over his mouth. “But, minus the fairies, okay?”

  “Oh, does Tinker Bell freak you out?” I ask.

  “Yeah, why don’t we just stick with the happily-ever-after part…" he laughs.

  “Well, the guy gets the girl, the girl gets the guy, and we just kissed, so I think it’s safe to say, we will most definitely live happily-ever-after.”

  EPILOGUE

  FOUR YEARS LATER

  Dear Journal,

  Is five years enough time to know you want to spend the rest of your life with someone? I don’t know, but what I do know is that when Kemper asked me to marry him five years ago, he promised to take me to a place where I could be happy and free, and I didn’t hesitate to run into his arms. He taught me what love really is. He taught me that marriage is only a word used to describe a relationship, and the piece of paper it comes with is only a contract of this relationship. We’ve had this piece of paper for five years. We promised each other that it wouldn’t define us. If we want to be together, we’re going to be together.

  But today, I know I can’t be without him.

  - Daphne

  DAPHNE

  IN THIS MOMENT, in Myrtle Beach, on a dock below the man in the moon, Kemper is on his knee, asking me to marry him again, just as he does every year on this date.

  “Forever started five years ago. You are my forever. You always have been, since the day we met,” I say quietly, my voice getting lost in the sound of the crashing waves.

  “Well then,” he says. “Until next year, I still do, just as I always have.”

  “Me too,” I tell him.

  He pops the cork on the bottle of Champagne and pours two glasses. Toasting to the man in the moon, we thank our wingman for bringing us together and showing us hope when we thought all had been lost.

  Through scars and shattered worlds, we have healed. Our battle wounds, inside and out, are reminders of how far we’ve come and how much we are grateful for. Our strength and courage has brought us here—together, and with Kemper by my side, there is never a day that goes by where I question what love is supposed to feel like. I know now, it’s like Ravel; the rolling bass is the blood pushing through my veins, making me feel alive and anew. The sound of the woodwinds growing with velocity is like the emotional gain of strength and courage. Then finally, there’s the thundering crescendo, the peak of it all—a first kiss, a last first kiss, and the exact moment life makes perfect sense.

  This is love. This is Ravel.

  If you, or anyone you know, is a victim of domestic violence or physical abuse, please talk to someone, or call the National Domestic Violence Hotline toll free at: 1−800−799−7233. Trained advocates are available to take your call 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.

  A PREVIEW OF

  A HEART OF TIME

  COMING IN 2016

  HUNTER – DECEMBER 26, 2010

  “I CAN’T BELIEVE WE’RE FINALLY going to be parents,” Ellie says, breathing heavily from her last contraction. Her hand is clutched around the armrest of the sofa while I run around the house like a loose chicken. Overnight bag, got it. Baby bag, check. What else?

  “There was something else. What am I forgetting?”

  “The baby’s blanket, the one I knitted,” she yells from the living room. Ellie spent the last seven months knitting a tiny, pink blanket. She didn’t know how to knit, but she said it was a rite of passage into motherhood. She figured it out. I’ll give her that.

  “Got it, baby.” Baby. I’m going to be someone’s dad. We’re going to be a family. “Okay, one more second. Let me warm the car up.” Our little miracle isn’t due for another two weeks, but evidently she’s decided that the day after Christmas would be a good time to arrive. I couldn’t agree with her more.

  I run out the front door, nearly slipping on the freshly fallen snow before reaching the car door. I duck inside and turn the ignition on to blast the heat. Come on. Warm up. This little girl is not waiting for anything tonight.

  Back in the house, Ellie is standing in the same spot, still holding onto the couch for support, gritting her teeth, with her eyes squeezed shut. Drops of sweat are forming on her forehead, and her breaths are quick and loud. I wait for the contraction to pass and take her by the arm, slowly helping her outside, holding her up as best I can so she doesn’t slip on the snow. “We’re doing this, El,” I tell her.

  I settle her in the car and skid across the driveway until I climb into the driver’s seat. As I close the door, I pull in a sharp breath and look over at her briefly—the smile on her face and the tears in her eyes. “I love you,” she says, placing her hand over mine. “This is going to be the best day of our lives.”

  “Just the first best day. There are so many best days ahead of us now.”

  It takes us less than twenty minutes to pull up to the emergency room sliding doors. “You’re not leaving me, are you?” she asks. It’s the first time I’ve seen any fear in her eyes during this pregnancy. She’s kept her calm through everything while I’ve been doing my best to hide my nerves.

  “I don’t want to make you walk across the parking lot, Ellie.”

  “I’ll be okay. I just—don’t leave me.” Without another thought, I press on the gas and pull into the parking garage, thankfully finding an empty spot on th
e first floor, fairly close to the front entrance. Another contraction is moving through her, and she’s beginning to groan from the pain. “Four minutes apart now,” I say, looking at my watch.

  As the contraction ends, I take the opportunity to jump out of the car and help her out. I place my arm under hers and walk with her as quickly as she can move. Once inside the door, I spot a wheelchair and help her in. Oh God. I’m freaking out.

  I push her along to the main desk, one hand on the wheelchair, my other hand firmly locked around her shoulder. “My wife is in labor,” I tell the receptionist.

  “Third floor. They’ll take it from there,” the woman says, smiling brightly. “Congratulations, Mom and Dad.” Mom and Dad. We’re going to be parents. We’re going to be parents. This is amazing. This is incredible. I can’t wait to see her little face. I wonder if she looks like Ellie. God, I hope so. I want her to have her blonde curls and her big blue eyes, and her smile that lights up an entire room. I hope she has my humor and Ellie’s brains. I just know she’s going to be perfect.

  “Can you believe this?” she says, rolling into the elevator. “Three years doesn’t seem like such a big deal now. I’d wait forever for this little girl.”

  “But we don’t have to. We’re so damn lucky, baby.” I push her out onto the third floor where a nurse immediately greets us. She takes one look at Ellie and ushers us over to a small office.

  “I just have a few questions for you, Eleanor. Then we’ll get you checked in.”

  I try to remain calm, or at least make it look like I’m staying calm, but I’m still losing it. What kind of questions could they possibly have right now? We pre-registered. We did everything the way we were supposed to. The nurse asks Ellie to confirm her basic information and creates her a hospital wristband. Then she leans over her desk and places it around Ellie’s wrist. Although, she’s breathing through another contraction right now, Ellie grunts the words “thank you” out. That’s my girl—always polite, no matter what the situation.

  “You two can follow me now.” She leads us out the door and through a set of double doors into a large room separated by what must be a dozen curtains. “One of our triage doctors will check you out and determine if you’re in active labor,” she says and places Ellie’s chart on the door. “There’s a gown for you to change into, and we’ll need a urine sample as well,” she says, pointing to a cup.

  How could she not be in active labor? Of course she is. Look at her! I’m trying to keep my cool, but I just want someone to take her pain away. I can’t watch her suffering like this. “Don’t worry, Hunt, I’m going to be okay,” she laughs softly. I wish I could say her laughter comforts me, but I know she’s forcing it for my sake. What am I saying? I should be comforting her right now. I’m already failing.

  I’ve pretty much been acting like this since the day she got the blood work back, confirming the pregnancy. There was so much to do to prepare for our baby, and I couldn’t let either of my girls down. I can’t let them down now, either.

  Ellie is trying to get her clothes off, and I’m just standing her staring at her. I force myself to snap out of my daze and take her by the arm, helping her step out of her pants. I grab the gown from the bed and slip it over her. “You look so beautiful right now,” I tell her. She’s glowing. She’s happy, despite the pain. She was placed on earth for this purpose and I can see that right now.

  “Sit down,” she whispers. “I’m going to use the bathroom. Don’t worry. Just relax.” She leaves with a smile. She’s smiling. I should be smiling. So why does the room feel like it’s spinning around me? I shouldn’t be practicing the breathing exercises without her, but I have to. I have to breath harder because it feels like I may not be breathing at all right now.

  Ellie returns within a few minutes and hoists herself up on the bed before pulling the sheet up around her chest to get comfortable. “The contractions are getting closer together,” she says. “I didn’t think it would happen so fast.” The class we took said that first-time moms usually have a long labor, so it’s okay to take our time when coming to the hospital. They gave us this five-one-one rule. Five minutes apart, lasting for one minute, and for more than an hour. I think that’s what it was. My mind is drawing a blank. God, I hope we didn’t wait too long. They’ll think I’m a horrible husband and father-to-be. “What is going on in that mind of yours?” she asks.

  I bring my focus over to her pale face. “Nothing, baby. I’m just excited. Anxious.”

  She reaches her hand out to me. “Me too.”

  A doctor comes in to check her, and he causes her more pain by doing so. Part of me would like to hurt him for hurting her, but I refrain from saying anything. “Well then, you are almost nine-centimeters. I can feel the baby’s head, and we need to get you into a room immediately.”

  “Can you get her an epidural first? Anything for the pain?” I ask.

  “Mr. Cole, there’s not enough time for pain management.” That only means more pain for Ellie. I did this to her. I’ve caused her pain.

  “I’m sorry, El. I’m so sorry,” I tell her as someone lifts the brakes on the bed she’s lying on.

  “It’s okay. I’ll be okay,” she moans out. I keep her hand in mine as we run down the hall into another room where two nurses help her onto a larger bed. They’re hooking her up to a bunch of wires and an IV. Is this how it always is? Everyone looks so serious.

  “Her blood pressure is low,” one of the nurses says. “We need to turn her onto her side.” Ellie’s eyes are set on mine, ignoring all of the fuss around her. Our fingers are still interwoven and she’s squeezing tightly. “I can’t get a heartbeat on the baby.”

  What? “What do you mean you can’t get a heartbeat on the baby? Is she okay? What’s happening?” I spit out. My blood drains from my face…from my entire body.

  “Mr. Cole, please relax,” the nurse says calmly. “Eleanor, when is the last time you felt the baby kick?”

  “Um, uh, a couple of hours ago I guess. I haven’t been feeling much through the contractions.”

  The nurses all share a look, and one runs out the door. God, help us. What is happening right now? I drop down to my knees and take Ellie’s hand, bringing it up to my lips. “Remember the class said this stuff happens sometimes, but they’ll fix whatever is wrong. Don’t worry.” I’m worried. I’m so unbelievably worried right now.

  “Hunter, I am worried, and I’m scared,” she whimpers. “Something’s not right.”

  “Our baby is okay. She is.” She has to be. Where is the doctor? And why is no one talking to us?

  A doctor finally jogs into the room with a portable ultrasound machine. “We’re just going to make sure she’s in the right position to come out,” the doctor explains calmly. That’s all they’re checking for? It doesn’t seem like that’s the case. Is he just trying to keep us calm? It isn’t working. “Okay, we have a heartbeat, but it’s not as strong as I’d like it to be. I hate to do this with you being so close to full dilation, but we need to get the baby out right away.”

  “A C-section?” Ellie asks, through tears.

  A nurse hands Ellie a pen and has her sign a few papers, which takes less than ten seconds. They’re already pushing her out of the room, back into the hall. Someone just threw me a set of scrubs and told me to put them on and follow them down to the operating room. Is this safe? Is Ellie going to be okay? They do this all the time. They said that in our class, too.

  I struggle to get the scrub shirt over my t-shirt as I run down the hall toward where I see doctors piling into a room. Shaking and weak, I walk into the OR and a nurse guides me over to a stool next to Ellie’s head. “Just relax, the nurse says. She needs you right now.” I wish everyone would stop telling me to relax. How the hell am I supposed to relax right now? My wife is on an operating table, and my unborn daughter is in trouble. Who would relax in this situation?

  I try to breathe through my nerves, but it isn’t working. I comb my fingers through her soft hair
and push it out of her face. “You okay?” Of course she’s not okay.

  “I’ll be okay,” she says quietly. She’s terrified. She’s never had surgery. She’s never broken a bone or needed stitches.

  “There isn’t enough time for a spinal,” a doctor shouts. “The dad needs to leave right now.”

  “What? Why?” I ask. A nurse inserts another tube into her IV. “What’s that?” I ask.

  “We need to put her out. There isn’t enough time to give her a spinal or an epidural, so I need you to say your goodbyes and wait in the room next door. As soon as the baby is out, we’ll let you know what is going on.” I can’t be here for my daughter’s birth? I can’t be here for Ellie? “Mr. Cole, we need to do this right now,” her doctor shouts over.

  Ellie already looks dazed as I lean over and press my lips against hers, feeling the tears fill my eyes. “I love you, El. When you wake up, we’re going to be a family.” We are. Right? Her hand lifts weakly and places it over my face. “Let’s name her Olive,” she mumbles out.

  “You said you didn’t want to name her until you saw her,” I remind her, but her eyes are closed, and I’m being pulled out of the room. “I love you, Ellie,” I cry out. I shouldn’t be crying. I’m supposed to be the strong one. I don’t cry. I haven’t since I was a kid. Why does this all seem so wrong? I shouldn’t be leaving her right now. It’s my job to be by her side.

  Now I’m alone in a small room with a water bubbler and a TV. I only sit down because I feel like my knees might give out. I might pass out, and I didn’t even see a drop of blood. Holding my head in my hands, I count the seconds as they pass, wondering how long I’ll have to wait before I hear something.