Justified

by Varina Denman

  My mind shut out everything except the contraction and the sound of JohnScott’s voice reaching through the phone to comfort and strengthen me. “It’s another one, isn’t it? Keep breathing, Fawn. You can do this.”

  Obeying him, I tried to inhale, but a moan hijacked my lungs, and I blurted, “Can you come?” Even in my panicked state, I knew the request sounded absurd, but my fear wouldn’t deny my voice the hope of deliverance. I sobbed openly. “JohnScott, I’m so scared.”

  “You’re doing fine.”

  A siren wailed through the roar of the wind, and soon a male and female paramedic came through the door with a gurney.

  “How far apart are the contractions?”

  “Hardly any breaks.” I spoke through clenched teeth.

  “Is that your husband on the phone?” Another pain swelled, and the paramedic laid a palm on my abdomen. “Maybe you should tell him to meet you at the hospital. I think you’re going to need both hands for this.”

  Mother took the phone. “I’ll talk to him.”

  “Alrighty.” The man lightly gripped my forearm. “Time to lie down on the stretcher. What’s your name?”

  “Fawn.” I stood, but my legs refused to cooperate, so I leaned against the gurney, letting the paramedics lift me onto it.

  “Relax now, Fawn.”

  The woman motioned to my mother. “You better ride with us. I wouldn’t want you driving in this weather. Cover yourself with this sheet.”

  They worked another sheet over me, tucking it in around my legs. “Fawn, we’ll have you loaded in a few seconds.”

  I held the sheet over my face, but when they pushed me out onto the sidewalk, the wind yanked a loose piece of fabric, exposing my legs to the elements as tiny needles hurled at my skin. The gurney jolted and bumped, and then the tempest whistled past the closed doors of the ambulance.

  I straightened my legs, feeling powdery dust matted to my moist skin, and the female technician wiped it away as another cramp inched through my core. The sharpness rose faster this time, and I pushed her hand away, irritation accumulating inside me until I nearly cried out. The tissue around my spine burned and then heightened into blue flame, and I moaned loudly.

  “I’m sorry.” I sobbed, embarrassed by my outburst, yet terrified of what would soon happen to my body. “Is this normal? Is it supposed to be like this? Mom?”

  The paramedic patted my arm. “So far, your labor has all the signs of being perfectly normal. We’ll know more when we get to the hospital. Fawn, I’m going to start an IV so you’ll be all set when we get there. All right?”

  I nodded, relaxing as the pain ebbed.

  She wiped my arm with a sanitary cloth and then opened another. “Got to find a clean spot first. Too much dirt.”

  The needle pricked as the ambulance shifted, turning a corner. It felt like we were crawling down the street. “Can’t he drive faster?”

  “Not in this storm, he can’t. But we’ll be there in plenty of time, don’t you worry.”

  Of course she was right. Besides, getting to the hospital sooner wouldn’t necessarily ease my pain. “Can I get an epidural?”

  “Depends on how quickly your labor is progressing.” The ambulance came to a stop. “Fasten your seat belt, Fawn. We’ve got to get out in the dust again, but only for a second.” She tucked the fabric far under my legs and torso. “We’re not losing this sheet again, though.”

  By the time the door opened, I felt like a caterpillar in a cocoon, and dust only smattered my hand, which held the sheet over my face. But then I didn’t notice the dust anymore. I didn’t notice anything. Pain took over my thoughts, my vision, my awareness of everything around me. I arched my back and groaned as we bumped over the threshold into the emergency room. I had the overwhelming urge to bear down, and I held my breath and tensed.

  “Not yet, Fawn.” The man yanked the sheet off me. “Keep breathing and don’t push. Give us a chance to get you into a delivery room, maybe even cleaned up a little.”

  “No,” I wailed, struggling to breathe as he had said, but the need to bear down challenged the limits of my control. They lifted me onto a bed, and nurses scurried around me, pulling my clothes off, washing my skin, rolling me to my side, slipping my arms into a gown. “I need to push.”

  “Not yet, you don’t.” An older nurse lowered the end of the bed, propped my legs in stirrups, and covered my knees with a sheet. “You wait five more minutes. Now breathe.” Her commanding voice compelled me to comply. I focused on the black dots of the ceiling’s acoustic tile, trying to find a picture among them, but all I could envision were tiny grains of sand. Then misery wracked through me again, and I breathed fast and deep and clenched my fists.

  The drill-sergeant nurse laid a strong hand on my shoulder. “Breathe slower, or you’ll hyperventilate.” When I obeyed, she patted my thigh. “Here comes the doctor. You made it.”

  “Well, hello, Miss Blaylock.” Dr. Tubbs strolled in as though he had all the time in the world. “You’re right on time.”

  My mother materialized from the corner of the room. “Is everything all right?”

  “Sure, it is. This little guy wants to meet all of us.” He studied a computer screen, then moved to the foot of the bed. “Okay, Fawn. You’re clear to push now.”

  The relief of those words took control of my body, and I pushed with every bit of my strength.

  “Well, he’s practically here already,” the doctor said. “One more push should do it.”

  My face burned from the exertion, as though I struggled against a brick wall, and I almost cried out in frustration, but the nurse abruptly moved away from my side to stand at the foot of the bed.

  For a long second, I didn’t realize the baby had whooshed out, because the agonizing pain in my abdomen continued. The doctor was busy, but I couldn’t see what he was doing. Lifting my head, I strained to see my baby as another contraction, lighter this time, fell over me. My breathing came easier, and I sucked in air as though I had sprinted a hundred-yard dash, wiping sweat out of my eyes. I collapsed against the pillow.

  “There we go,” the doctor said. “Healthy boy. Looking around like he’s in charge.”

  I heard a tiny cry, and the nurse laid my son across my stomach, right back where he started from, only now I could hold him in my arms. Curls matted against his head with whiteness that covered his scalp and trembling limbs, and his wail melted my heart.

  Flat on my back, I shifted him closer to my chin. “Don’t cry, baby.” At the sound of my voice, he fell quiet and squinted as though startled to discover the face that went with my voice. “So you’re the one who’s been kicking me.”

  The drill sergeant bustled around the end of my bed, doing Lord knows what, and I realized Dr. Tubbs had gone. She barked at my mother. “Granny, can you raise her bed for her?”

  My mother jerked to attention, following orders, and soon I found myself sitting up and peering into the most beautiful face I had ever seen. The baby blinked at me, and for a moment we did nothing but worship each other.

  “He’s precious, Fawn.” My mother laughed and cried at the same time, and I reached for her hand for the first time in years.

  “He’s perfect.”

  The nurse clanked the stirrups back under the bed. “If you’re breastfeeding, go ahead and do it. This is your bonding time. After that, he’ll go for a bath.”

  The woman lacked a decent bedside manner, but at least she let me know what I should do. I pulled his teeny body to my chest, feeling his skin against mine. Velma had said sometimes babies know what to do, and sometimes they don’t have any idea. It looked as though my son had things figured out, and relief trickled across my worries like healing ointment. Thank You, God.

  “Five minutes each side,” the nurse said.

  I nodded and inspected the baby’s toes and fingers, his ears, his eyelas
hes, his hair. My mother straightened from where she had been leaning over the two of us. “I need to make a few calls.”

  “Thanks for everything, Mom.” With those four words, I tried to convey the feelings I held for her. Compassion at the discovery of her past. Understanding for the decisions she had made. Gratitude for raising me as best she could. In the past hour, she had become a different mother than I’d had that morning. Or maybe I had become a different daughter.

  Her lips curved into a sad smile before she slipped from the room.

  I turned the baby to the other breast and pulled the sheet over him, afraid he would get cold in the air-conditioning, then hugged him closer to my warmth and thought I would never let him go. He was beautiful. I fingered a wisp of thick, black hair near his forehead and let tears fall down my cheeks as I watched him nurse. His dark eyes, alert and attentive, studied me, and we spent the next five minutes memorizing each other’s faces.

  My heart had never loved, never dreamed of loving, so thoroughly as this. I’d only been a mother fifteen minutes, but already I knew I would do anything—anything at all—for this child.

  His mouth formed a tiny O as I pulled him away, laying him across my lap while I tied my gown back in place. And then he filled my arms again, and I kissed his forehead and rubbed his small fist against my cheek.

  “He about ready for his bath?” the nurse asked.

  Before I could answer, the door flew open with a loud metallic clunk, and we both startled.

  A man panted in the doorway with hazy, red powder crusting his hair, and his skin and clothing were reddish brown from grit. He stared at me, holding my gaze with a fierce intensity that exposed savage fears and raw tenderness. Affection pulled a fresh sob from my throat, and my heart fluttered higher in my chest until I thought I might float off the hospital bed.

  JohnScott.

  Chapter Forty-One

  “Touch nothing.” The nurse demanded, “Are you the father?”

  JohnScott didn’t answer. Didn’t even seem to hear. He stood three feet inside the door, out of breath and staring into my eyes. “You’re all right.” When he stumbled forward, tears left clean trails down each of his cheeks, revealing a spot where the storm had worn his skin away like sandpaper.

  A year ago—less, even—I would have been offended by his bedraggled appearance, but now joy bubbled in my chest, and I giggled and cried, holding the baby slightly higher to draw JohnScott’s attention.

  His gaze fell away from my face, landing on the bundle in my arms, and laughter escaped his lips along with a sigh. “Look at that.”

  I couldn’t speak for the emotions pummeling my heart. Too much blessing. Too much happiness. Too much love.

  He bent his knees, bringing himself down to our level but careful not to lean over lest he get us dirty. He and the little guy looked at each other. The baby made sucking motions with his lips, and JohnScott grinned with his mouth slightly open, his eyebrows lifted in amazement. “Look at that,” he repeated.

  Pride swirled around me like a soft summer whirlwind. Pride at what I had done and for the perfect human I held in my arms. I had never felt such deep elation, and the fact I wanted to share it with the likes of JohnScott Pickett left me feeling uncertain and fragile and fresh. As if I were the newborn.

  I shook my head as tears stifled my vocal cords. “You’re here.”

  He removed his hat, causing a waterfall of dust to glide to the floor.

  “Enough,” the nurse said as she swept the baby from my arms. “Too much dirt.”

  My heart wrenched as though a lifeline had been severed, and I watched longingly as she swaddled the baby tightly, placed him in a rolling, plastic cubby, and pulled him toward the door.

  “I’ll bring him back after his bath.”

  We watched mutely until the door clicked behind her and the room filled with his absence. Then JohnScott laid his palm hesitantly on the side rail of my bed.

  “He’s all right?”

  “Yes.” I grinned, aware of the cheesy pitch of my laughter but not caring enough to stifle it. “I can’t believe you came. You could’ve waited for the storm to blow over.”

  “Probably should have.”

  “I thought the truck was a mile from the barn.”

  He ducked his head. “I ran.”

  An image of JohnScott battling the dust storm quickened my pulse, and I wanted to jump out of the bed and dance around the room. But physical exhaustion and the lingering pain of childbirth rooted me firmly between the sheets. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  He shrugged, nodded, looked away. “What are you naming him?”

  “I guess I’ll call him Nathan. It means gift from God.”

  “I like that.”

  His lips parted as though to say something, but then he turned and pulled a chair toward the bed. When he sat, his head slanted in an uncomfortable position. I considered lowering the head of the bed, but before I could, he stood again, clearing his throat.

  “Fawn? When I couldn’t get out of that barn, I did a lot of thinking.” He fingered the brim of his cap. “Or really, I did a little thinking very quickly.”

  My chest warmed from the energy he radiated. Energy that covered me with a gentle glow of security, but not the kind of security that comes from money. A different kind. And I enjoyed the foreign feeling.

  He exhaled sharply. “I know this isn’t the place for it, but I need to run some ideas past you.”

  He sounded as though he had developed a new strategy to add to his playbook, and I smiled at his uneasiness. But just as quickly, my smile slipped, and a wave of guilt pulsed through my veins. The tone of JohnScott’s voice left me hoping for something I never thought I could have. But I had just given birth to another man’s child, and I quivered in shame.

  “When do you suppose they’ll bring the baby back?” I asked.

  His shoulders fell, but he grinned. “You’re already a mommy.” When he leaned over and brushed my lips with his, I smelled the dusty scent of the storm as tiny grains fell from his hair onto my cheeks and pillow. He pulled away, leaving his mouth hovering a centimeter from mine. “I’ll go check on the little guy.”

  When he left the room, I turned on my side, watching the door he had gone through, wanting him to come back. But then Nathan filled my thoughts, and the sweet miracle of his birth floated around the room like a gentle promise. I yearned to have him back in my arms, feeding him, caressing him, counting his fingers and toes, but I gradually realized I wanted JohnScott to be the one bringing him to me.

  Maybe fatigue dulled my shame, maybe euphoria blurred my vision, but at that moment, I couldn’t imagine life with anyone other than Nathan and JohnScott. I didn’t care if I would live in a mobile home instead of a ranch house. I didn’t care if I would sit at football games instead of cattlemen’s corporate dinners. And most surprisingly, I didn’t care what my parents thought, or even the church.

  I lay on the bed, alone in the room. No nurse. No mother. No baby. Now, no JohnScott. Looking around me, I pulled the sheet up to my chin, and my laughter bounced off the sterilized walls, filling me with warmth and goodness and something that felt an awful lot like love.

  For the first time in as long as I could remember, I didn’t feel alone.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Even though exhaustion smothered me, I no sooner could have taken a nap than done a set of jumping jacks. Adrenaline laced my veins, and every swoosh and thud coming through the walls jerked my attention. So when the nurse propped the door open and laid Nathan in my arms, my muscles jittered as though I won first place in a long-distance race.

  His face had pinkened as though she had scrubbed him until his circulation increased, and I felt the urge to unwrap the blanket and inspect him all over again. Instead, I pulled at the tiny pink-and-blue knit cap until his curls—now downy clean—were exposed a
nd beckoning to be touched.

  Like JohnScott’s.

  A twinge of guilt brushed across my neck, and I forced my thoughts in a different direction. Nathan had my curls, not his.

  I lifted my gaze to the nurse, standing silently at the foot of my bed, her head bowed over a clipboard.

  “That husband of yours is a mess,” she said, “but to tell the truth, he’s not the only man who showed up looking like that today. Worst storm I’ve seen in years.”

  “Oh …” My face warmed. “He’s not my husband.”

  Her pencil momentarily stopped scurrying across the page, and then she shrugged. “That’s the way of it nowadays. Young people do things out of order, but it all comes out in the end.”

  Shame compelled me to be honest even though I wanted to crawl under the bed and hide from the truth. “Actually, he’s not the father.”

  Her eyes briefly cast judgment before she veiled them with indifference. “Well, he’s a keeper. Came down there asking questions. Was the baby healthy? How bad was the labor? Did you seem afraid? Yes, that one’s a keeper.” She jotted something on the clipboard and then hung it at the foot of the bed. “I gave him a set of scrubs and showed him where to find a shower. My name’s Georgia. Push the call button if you need anything.”

  Her description nudged my heart as I imagined JohnScott’s slow drawl, and I whispered to Nathan who slept soundly. “I bet he drove her crazy.”

  I swept Nathan’s soft hair to one side in a swirl, then fluffed it into a mini-Mohawk. I pulled him close to my face and rubbed my nose on his head, smelling his heavenly baby scent as though it were my new life’s breath.

  Excited voices in the hallway signaled guests, and Velma, Ruthie, and Lynda breezed through the doorway, descending on our quiet intimacy.

  “We’ve been stuck at Raising Cane’s Chicken,” Velma said. “Went there for lunch and thought we’d never get to leave.”

  “Let me hold him,” Ruthie said, wiggling her fingers.