by Eva Luxe
“Stop spelling about me and let her open her present!” Becky says, and everyone laughs.
I unwrap the gift, which is a picture frame with seashells glued to it.
“Thank you, Becky,” I say, kissing her, and then Mason. “The baby already has the best cousins ever!”
“I made it!” Becky says, proudly. “The only picture in the baby’s room doesn’t have him in it, so after he’s born, you can take a picture of him and put it in this frame and hang it up next to the other one!”
“That’s so sweet,” I tell her, surprised at how observant she is, although I know I shouldn’t be, by now. That’s just Becky.
“Or you can cut out the picture of the baby and add it to the one you already have of you and Ramsey, and put it in this frame!” Becky continues. “Or if he ever comes back, you can take a picture of all three of you!”
“Becky!” Susan says, and puts a finger up to Becky’s mouth. “Shhhhh.”
I laugh, yet look anxiously around to see if anyone else heard. Luckily, the guests who haven’t left are just chatting with each other and don’t seem to be paying attention.
“I told you she’s no good at s-e-c-r-e-t-s,” Susan apologizes.
“It’s fine,” I tell her. “Becky, I really love the gift you made me. Thank you.”
I turn to Susan. “And thank you for the shower. I definitely have the best sister-in-law ever.”
***
It’s late, and everyone has left the party. Trish is staying at a hotel in town, and we’ve made plans to get together tomorrow. Susan has put the kids to bed and gone to bed herself. It’s just me— and the baby in my belly— in the nursery.
“Well little Squirt,” I tell him, “We had quite the surprise today. We got a lot of nice stuff. And now Mommy has to put it all away and organize it so it’s ready when you get here.”
I stare at the picture of Ramsey and me on the wall.
It’s about time to stop glamorizing and the past and move on to the future.
I take it down, and replace it with the framed photo my mom sent. I’ll get out my ultrasound pictures and hang one up in Becky’s frame. When the baby arrives, I’ll replace the ultrasound picture with a photo of him and me.
I stare at the photo of Ramsey and me, which seems to have been taken in a different lifetime. When I was afraid of commitment, of big responsibility. And now I’m having a baby. Alone.
It’s funny how things can change so much in such a short amount of time. I know I can’t be mad at Ramsey for not changing just because I have, especially when he doesn’t even know the full story. I just need to focus on the baby now, and not Ramsey.
I rub my belly and say, “You are going to have a great life. I’ll be your Mommy and your Daddy. You have an amazing aunt who will help us out, and two great cousins, too. Everyone is so excited to meet you.”
I pick up the frame and carry it to my bedroom. My intention was to throw it in the trash can beside my bed, but I can’t seem to do that. Instead, I stick it inside the drawer of my bedside table. I’ll find the strength to dispose of it later, so that I can finally be free and move on.
For now, I’m just tired, and happy that my surprise baby shower turned out so well. I close my eyes, and tell myself not to think about Ramsey, as I drift off into a peaceful sleep.
Chapter 33 – Ramsey
Two Months Later
It’s been uneventful out here, which I guess is a good thing, but it sure makes time feel like it’s passing extra slowly. To make matters worse, a month ago we were informed that our deployment was extended for another two months, because the local Afghan Army needs more training before we can leave.
Everyone’s morale has been low due to this announcement. Harlow always walks around looking like his puppy just died, bemoaning the fact that he can’t be with Whitney and that they haven’t set a wedding date because for all he knows, our deployment could be extended yet again. The rest of the guys don’t look much better.
I try to console them by saying that we only have one more month left. I do my best to take care of others, including my fellow SEALs and our joint task mission team members, like I always do. But I guess the unexpected extension of time and long, boring days we hadn’t anticipated are taking their toll on me as well.
I’ve been having more night terrors. It’s gotten to the point where they’re becoming noticeable. I had one last night in which I thought that our tent was on fire, and I jumped on top of Harlow and then started trying to drag him to safety.
“Ramsey!” He’d hissed through his teeth, as he fought me off. “Stop it! Knock it off!”
He’d shaken me and poured some of his canteen water in my face. I came to, in a huff of breathless fear, and started to say, “What happened?”
But he’d put his hand over my mouth and said, “Shhhh. Just act normal.”
By the time anyone else had woken up and asked us what happened, Harlow told them we’d gotten into a scuffle over whose turn it was to listen to the iPod.
“Well keep it down, fuckers,” someone had said, in the darkness. “We’re trying to sleep.”
“Thanks,” I’d whispered to him.
Harlow knew I had night terrors, and knew they couldn’t be a good sign, but he didn’t really ask me much about them, and I was grateful for that. I was extra grateful that he was protecting me from others finding out.
The good thing was that I’d jumped on Harlow and not someone else. I’m pretty sure they’d kick me out for that, or at least launch an investigation. It was obviously not normal.
I can’t help but feel afraid for my status as a SEAL. Not to mention, I fear for my mental health.
The only thing that seems to help decrease the night terrors is listening to that damn soundtrack from Monica. I have not been able to bring myself to delete it from my phone, and I guess there’s a good reason for it.
I’ve been trying not to listen to it but since it could be the one thing that separates me from a return trip home— earlier than expected— I guess I better start getting into the habit again.
I know I should call Monica, too, but at this point I’m afraid it’s been way too long, and that she won’t forgive me. If she even cares enough to be offended in the first place.
I’ve been playing the tough guy game long enough, though, and I make a note to contact her soon, just to let her know I’m okay and that I’m thinking about her. My head always spins around in a million places when it comes to her, but my heart always feels pulled in only one direction: hers. That has to tell me something.
Today we’re running a training session, with some Afghan troops, and it feels like child’s play compared to what we’re used to. Still, I’m tired due to my night terror, which zaps me of energy the next day, and I’m not in the best mood.
We’ve parachuted out of our planes, and now we’re headed down a mountain, only to scale back up again. It seems like a useless training drill, and everyone’s bored.
“Come on, Pipsqueak,” says Jerry, taunting Jim Baker, the runt of our unit, who always lags behind the rest of us.
A favorite pastime for most of the guys in my unit seems to be picking on “Pipsqueak.” I get annoyed by it, but usually I understand where the other guys are coming from. Pipsqueak doesn’t really have the skills or abilities the rest of us have, and I’m not sure how he slipped through training.
“Didn’t your dad teach you how to run?” Brian says, as he slows down to match Pipsqueak’s pace.
“If not, we’re not here to be your fathers,” says Jerry. “You should just go turn in your resignation papers now. Before you get discharged for being such a slowpoke.”
He also slows down, so that he and Jerry are jogging along each side of Pipsqueak. They start taking turns elbowing him, jostling him back and forth between the two of them.
Today, I’m annoyed by their antics. I guess it’s just my general mood. And the fact that they talk about fathers so flippantly. Maybe Pipsqueak doesn’t
have a dad. Maybe he died. Or maybe he never did have a dad.
I feel adrenaline pumping through my body, a symptom I know is dangerous but that I haven’t had to deal with in a while. I can almost feel the hair on my body standing on edge, my skin crawling out of my body.
This is where I should back off, shut up. I don’t have my guitar, my MMA instructor. I don’t have Monica, and probably never will. I just have myself, and my own weaknesses.
“Hey, back off,” I tell Jerry and Brian, slowing my pace to get closer to them. “Leave him alone.”
“What’s it to you?” asks Jerry.
“Yeah, why should we?” Brian joins in. “Everyone knows he shouldn’t be here. We’d be better off with that crazy female fighter pilot on our team, than we are with Pipsqueak.”
That does it. I start to see red. I can almost feel most of the logic drop out of my brain, until only blind emotion is left. But I manage to summon a small amount of reason, despite my rage.
She’s not worth it, I tell myself. You’re not even together. She doesn’t want to be with you.
“Whatever.” I shrug, proud of myself for starting to calm down.
“You hear that?” Jerry tells Pipsqueak. “We can do whatever we want to you. No one cares. Not even Responsible Ramsey, who cares about everyone, all the time.”
Brian sticks his foot out and trips Pipsqueak. To my surprise— he’s not the most buff guy, but, I have to hand it to him, he’s pretty light on his feet— Pipsqueak stops himself from falling.
He’s knocked pretty much off balance, though, and in a huff, he says, “Hey! Stop it!”
But Jerry shoves Pipsqueak, up against a boulder. Since Pipsqueak’s already off-center, he falls down, hard, his body landing with a thud on the ground.
All the rage I’d managed to fight off comes storming back— and then some. I don’t even think anymore. I just shove Jerry harder than he shoved Pipsqueak, and soon he’s on the ground next to him.
“What the fuck?” yells Brian, as our entire squad— and some Afghan guys we’re training with— turn around to see what’s going on. “You asked for it, Bradford.”
He runs right into my chest, pounding and flailing, but my rage— and my MMA training— has taken over. I punch him, pummel him, until he’s on the ground, but by that time Jerry has gotten back up and is fighting me next, like the idiot that he can be.
All the bad memories I’ve been storing up inside me come pouring out. It’s like a night terror, but during the day. I must think I’m at war or something, or I’m somehow trying to save my dad. I punch Brian— a bigger guy and better fighter than Jerry— and ward off his punches until I’ve gotten him in a wrestling hold and I’m nearly choking him out.
Harlow and some other guys have to come and pull me off him. Even as I’m being forced to move away from Brian, I manage to land a final, solid punch, and he hits the ground cold, right next to Jerry.
And then I black out. Not from being hit— Brian barely got in a few swings, and I didn’t even feel them— and not from passing out. But my consciousness just shuts down, and I realize I have no idea what I’ve been doing.
When I come to, I’m at the bottom of the mountain and Harlow is asking me, “Are you alright? Ramsey. Are you alright?”
He’s put some water from his canteen onto a towel and he’s rubbing it all over my face and forehead. The sensation of embarrassment and dread feels very much like how I feel after a night terror. Except this is the day time. Training time. War time.
I want to tell him, no, I’m not alright. But no words come out. I don’t know what just happened, and I can barely remember how to talk.
All I know is that I just beat up my team members, who I’ve sworn to protect and support no matter what. What the hell has gotten into me? Who the hell have I become? And what in the hell is going to happen to me now?
Chapter 34 – Monica
I’m in the nursery, rocking in the glider and reading a romance book. I’ve spent all morning washing, folding and hanging his tiny clothes, and I need a break.
All of a sudden, I feel some low, subtle pains in my lower abdomen. It feels like mild menstrual cramps.
Contractions? I think.
Don’t be ridiculous, I answer myself. It’s far too early.
But still. It makes me think of what lies ahead: labor, delivery, a baby.
Ramsey’s baby. That he doesn’t even know about. And why is my stomach feeling tight and painful like this?
It’s just practice labor, I reassure myself, thinking of the labor and delivery and parenting classes I took at the hospital. I even received a certificate, certifying that I’m prepared to be a parent, I suppose. Or at least to give birth.
Maybe these are the Braxton Hicks contractions they told me about.
A tiny ripple of fear goes through me, and I can’t help but wish Ramsey were with me. The thought makes no sense, since I hadn’t even told him I was pregnant, let alone having his baby.
I think about living a lifetime of secrets: the baby not knowing who his father is, Ramsey not even knowing that he is a father. Or worse, what if Ramsey were to die while he’s deployed, like my brother did?
I suddenly feel regret, and a strong urge to tell everyone everything and let the chips fall where they may. Who am I to decide anyone else’s destiny, just because I thought this was what was best for me, and probably Ramsey too?
How can I deprive my baby of a father? I hadn’t wanted to take the chance that Ramsey wouldn’t be interested in getting to know him, and my baby would have to grow up knowing that his father hadn’t wanted him. But wasn’t I making that possibility a reality by not giving Ramsey the information? Shouldn’t it be up to Ramsey to decide?
I wish I could call him right now. But I don’t have his number. The one time I talked to him, he didn’t seem too interested in having me be able to get a hold of him.
I shake this notion out of my head, before I can let second thoughts take over. I guess a letter will have to do. It will take a while to reach him, but it’s my only option at this point.
I walk across to my bedroom, where I keep stationery and envelopes in a desk. My mother taught me good manners, and I still write old-fashioned letters. Thank you notes mostly, but also just “I’m thinking of you” notes to friends of my parents and grandparents.
Dear Ramsey,
I pause, the top of my pen in my mouth, trying to think about how to tell him. And wondering whether his mail will be read by anyone else but him. The last thing I want to do is get him into trouble.
I guess I’m going to have to tell him in code. Too bad we don’t both know a foreign language.
My mind resorts to the one language we both have in common: music.
There is something I need to tell you. I trust you can figure it out by this musical riddle of sorts. We once lamented that a certain male pop star was the voice of music for a new generation. He sings a song with a rap star who is famous for singing about wanting to do what you’ve been rated a ten out of ten for doing to me.
What I need to tell you is that something unexpected is coming our way, and its name is in the title of the song that those two singers collaborated on.
Suddenly, though, before I can write any more, I feel like something’s ripping through my body. I’m doubled over in pain.
“Susan!” I call out, grabbing my belly. “Come quick!”
She rushes into the room, holding Mason. “What is it?”
“My stomach. It hurts so bad. Like period cramps, only a hundred times worse.”
“Contractions,” she says, with authority.
“But isn’t it too early?”
The pain radiates around to my back, and I can even feel it gripping my thighs.
“I don’t know,” she says. “But I’ll call 911. And I’ll come to the hospital as soon as I can find someone to watch the kids.”
“Okay,” I say, for lack of anything better to say.
Am I going to be all rig
ht? I want to ask. Is the baby? What’s happening?
But I know she doesn’t know the answers to these questions any more than I do. A fear overtakes me that feels even stronger than the pain. I just want to get the hospital, where they can give me some answers.
Chapter 35 – Monica
I wait at the hospital for what feels like an eternity. My contractions— or whatever they were— have subsided a bit, although it’s still painful.
A kind nurse has explained to me that while this is scary, it should be okay. If I have the baby this early, he will still be all right, although he will probably have to stay in the neonatal intensive care unit.
But she thinks they’re trying to find a way to stop labor from happening, so that I can carry the baby longer. That’s the extent of the news I’ve received, and I don’t even know how much of it is accurate.
I think of my mostly-finished letter to Ramsey, sitting at home on my desk. What if I have the baby before I can even send it? What if something happens to the baby?
I can barely contain my anxiety, but luckily, a doctor finally enters my room and sits down to talk to me, instead of poke and prod me.
“Ms. Carrington, I’m sorry that you’ve been here so long without many answers, but we needed to monitor your condition before we could say for sure what the status is.”
I nod, fearing the worst.
“We believe that you were in what we call false labor,” the doctor continues. “But because we couldn’t exactly be sure, the medicine we gave you was to try to stop the labor if it was indeed real labor.”
I nod again, even though it still seems clear as mud to me.
“At this point, after monitoring you for a few hours, it seems that either you were in false labor, or if you were in real labor, the medicine was successful and it has subsided.”
“Okay,” I say, relieved.
“In checking your cervix we see that the cervical cerclage is still intact, although it’s somewhat strained, and this can be problematic. Have you been on bed rest as instructed?”