by Angela Hunt
I batted away a recurrent gnat of worry as he walked to the front door, blew me a kiss, and disappeared into the night.
I rolled off the couch and hurried after him, then opened the door and stared into a yawning black hole that should have been our front porch. The darkness swirled and moved, pulling me forward, threatening to drag me from the house and take me under—
Caught in the riptide between sleeping and waking, I closed my eyes and swam upward. When I lifted my eyelids again, I was lying spread-eagle on our bed, pinned to the mattress by a bowling ball belly. My arms were splayed, my legs tangled in the sheets, my skin slick with sweat.
No need for Dr. Hawthorn’s help with dream interpretation tonight. Some nightmares, like road signs, were painfully easy to decipher.
* * *
Waddling from side to side like an old woman with arthritic hips, I stopped by the grocery on Friday, the sixth of December, just to hear the sound of friendly voices. Contact with Mama Isa, Tumelo, Amelia, Mario, and Jenna so cheered me that I decided to fill the house with people on Saturday. Gideon had spoken the truth in my dream—I had access to all kinds of help if I wanted it; all I had to do was ask. So I called Amelia and Mario, Tumelo and Elaine, Mama Isa and Jorge, and then I called the elders, Yaritza and Carlos, Yanela and Gordon. “I thought we’d have a potluck while Gideon’s away,” I said, shoehorning a bright note into my voice. “Bring a dish and come for dinner, please. I can barely move and I’d appreciate the company.”
Apparently my nonchalant invitation didn’t fool any of them. They came early, bearing cleaning supplies and fruit baskets and casseroles steaming with Cuban delicacies. They filled my dining room table until it threatened to buckle, and after lunch they cleaned the house.
Yanela and Yaritza sat on the sofa and told the younger people what to do. Amelia tackled the windowsills the Happy Housekeepers hadn’t touched; Tumelo tied on an apron and dusted, even climbing on a chair to wipe the tops of our doorframes. Mama Isa cleaned out my refrigerator, Elaine alphabetized my spice rack, and Jorge roasted enough pork to feed an army. “You will want it for later,” he said, tilting his head toward the refrigerator. “Freeze it; it will keep. With pickles, ham, and Swiss cheese, it makes great Cuban sandwiches.”
“You need some Christmas decorations.” Amelia stood in front of me with her hands on her hips. “Are you going to put something up? At least a Christmas tree?”
I shrugged and braced my lower back. “I haven’t had the energy. Plus, the decorations are in the attic, and I can’t climb the ladder like this.”
“I’ll get them down.” Amelia set her bottle of all-purpose cleaner on the kitchen counter and moved toward the hallway and the attic ladder, then she paused. “Do you have a tree up there, or is it just small stuff?”
I pressed my hand over my lips to stifle an undignified burp. “It’s, um, mostly small stuff. Some ornaments, ribbons, and maybe a wreath—”
“Don’t worry, we’ll get you all fixed up. Tio Tumelo, come help me get into the attic, will you?”
Delighted with all the company, Marilee played a mini concert on her piano (“Working music,” Mario called it), then basked in the family’s applause. After Marilee’s performance, someone popped a CD into the player, and Tumelo began to sing along with a Cuban trio.
My in-laws filled the house with festivity and food, and all I had to do was sit with my feet up.
Surrounded by so much life and laughter, I finally began to relax. As the medicine of loving care worked its magic, I decided I’d been silly to harbor negative feelings toward Simone and Damien. After all, what crime had they committed? They had simply tried to show their gratitude for all the extra trouble I went through for the sake of their family. The problem—the rift in our relationship—had existed only in my perspective.
By the time Yanela finished rubbing my feet, I was feeling so generous I vowed to be friendlier to the Amblours. I should invite them over for dinner, I told Yaritza, and let Marilee play for them. They ought to know she would put the piano to good use.
I accepted a glass of punch from Mama Isa and shifted to make room for her on the couch. Inviting the clan over had been a wonderful idea, I told the ladies; I should do it more often. The next time I spoke to Gideon, I would tell him all about the family’s visit. He’d be thrilled to hear that I’d invited la familia for lunch. He was always urging me to be more independent, to step out and take charge like so many other military wives. . . .
I was sitting on the sofa and nibbling on a buñuelo when I glimpsed a dark car outside. When it pulled to the curb and parked I thought its occupants might have come in search of Mama Isa or Elaine, then I recognized a military dress uniform through the car’s window.
I dropped the pastry as my heart went cold and still.
I stared as one of the uniformed men stepped out, tugged on the bottom of his dress coat, and adjusted his cap to shade his eyes. I couldn’t tear my gaze from him, and under my breath I urged him to stay with the vehicle, to remain outside in what had become a family parking lot.
But on he came with his partner, up the walkway, until he rounded a corner and moved out of my sight line. I closed my eyes, hoping for the impossible, yet still the doorbell rang.
Somehow I stood and took a staggering step toward the door. I didn’t want to open it; I wanted to block it, maybe move the piano so no one else could open it, either.
Amelia’s voice cut into my awareness. “Mandy? Are you okay?”
“Don’t answer . . . door.”
A cold shiver lifted the hair on my arms as I remembered my nightmare. Darkness had lain behind that door, a suffocating, dark emptiness.
“Why? Is someone out there?” Moving faster than I could, Amelia stepped forward and turned the doorknob. I closed my eyes and gripped the nearest stationery object—the piano—as I heard Amelia’s anguished cry. “No. Please, no.”
Her heartrending wail silenced the voices, the music, the clinking of silverware and dishes.
I clenched my free hand, wishing I could rewind time and delete the inevitable ending of this scene.
Is this why Gideon visited me in a dream? Perhaps I’d been bracing for this moment ever since waking.
Maybe I’d been preparing for this since the day I fell in love with a soldier. Or maybe God had taken a lifetime to prepare me for this, the worst hour of my existence.
Mama Isa hurried to my side as the uniformed officers stepped into the house. They removed their hats, rocked uneasily on their feet, and stared at the circle of wide, waiting eyes.
Though none of us wanted to break the silence and ask why they’d appeared at this home, we all knew why they’d come.
I shook my arm free of Mama Isa’s grip and tried to reason out an alternative ending. Maybe they were searching for another house. Maybe they had come to give me good news; maybe Gideon had earned a medal. Maybe they got dressed up and came over for no good reason at all. Maybe they’d heard the Lisandra family was hosting a dinner, and everyone on base knew how the Lisandra clan loved to feast—
I approached the officer with the most medals on his chest. Looking up, I saw myself reflected in his dark eyes.
Because I couldn’t, he spoke first. “Mrs. Gideon Lisandra?”
I barely managed to nod.
“Ma’am, I have news concerning your husband. Would you like to speak privately?”
I shook my head, then found the breath to utter three words: “We’re all family.”
Understanding filled his eyes, followed by remorse. “Then, Mrs. Lisandra, I regret to inform you that your husband, Lieutenant Gideon Lisandra, was killed last evening while serving his country. The time and place of his death are classified. If you need any assistance . . .”
He must have said more, but I didn’t hear it. My knees buckled and down I went, my fall broken by Mama Isa’s embrace. A woman screamed, one of the men howled, and a little girl cried, but I remained silent as Mama Isa and Amelia led me back to the sofa. Isa began to p
ray in a stream of passionate Spanish while Amelia sat beside me and wept.
What was God doing to me? I closed my eyes, feeling nothing but emptiness within, and lifted my thoughts to heaven. God, if Gideon’s with you now, why didn’t you give me more warning?
I waited for the blissful numbness that reportedly arrived at moments like this; the painless paralysis that would see me through everything that had to happen before life could move forward. But that legendary state of insensibility never arrived. I felt my heart shatter, I heard the clean, sharp sounds of my life falling into shards around me, and I saw, even through lowered eyelids, anguish and despair take possession of Marilee’s heart-shaped face.
And then, in a blinding moment of brightness, I saw Gideon standing behind a white balustrade. He was smiling at me. “You’re going to be okay, baby girl.” His eyes shone with love and quiet confidence. “You are stronger than you realize.”
“Gid?”
“I’ll be here,” he answered. “I’ll meet you at the river.”
I nodded, and in the next instant, he disappeared. Then loving arms caressed my shoulders while female cries and quiet sobs enveloped me, accompanied by the low moans and sharp curses of men who don’t cry but must express something because their hearts simply cannot hold such agony.
I bowed my head as the baby within me pressed hard on my pelvis. A contraction tightened my belly, forcing me to inhale sharply through my teeth.
Today wasn’t supposed to be Gideon’s death day. He was supposed to finish his tour and help me pick out a house; we were supposed to open a music store and make another baby together. A sob slipped from my throat as the future we’d envisioned faded away like morning fog.
Cocooned on the couch, I realized the cushion beneath me had become wet. This wasn’t surprising, as my heart, joints, and muscles had turned to water and I had to be spilling out into the room.
Logic reared its pragmatic head, reminding me of the heavy obligation I carried—the promise holding insensibility at bay.
I pressed my hands to the bowling ball as the shock of discovery rammed me from yet another direction.
Ready or not, the baby had decided to leave me, too.
Chapter Thirteen
I groaned as a fresh surge of pain erupted someplace near my spine and radiated through my body. Even my feet hurt.
“¡Dios tenga misericordia de nosotros!” Wailing, Mama Isa leaned forward to rub my back. “I am so sorry. How could this be? First Gideon, and now this. How are you supposed to bear it?”
I wanted to scream that I couldn’t bear it. With Gideon gone, how was I supposed to bear anything? I had lost my husband and best friend, my daughter had lost her daddy, and we had both lost our future hopes and dreams.
Familiar voices echoed in the hallway outside my hospital room as relatives crept from the waiting area to check on me. Apparently the entire Lisandra clan had left my house and come here, their contagious joy supplanted by unimaginable sorrow. They’d brought Marilee with them, and I knew she’d be well tended by loving arms, hugged and kissed and comforted as Gideon’s only child. I couldn’t make out all the Spanish phrases flowing in the hallway, but I knew what they were saying about my daughter: Poor thing, she is all we have left of Gideon.
How long had they been outside? The clock on the wall read two thirty, so I had been trying to have this baby for at least twelve hours. A half day that felt more like an eternity.
I grabbed Mama Isa’s hand and squeezed as another pain threatened to draw a black curtain over my eyes. Truthfully, I wanted to pass out. I wanted to unplug my brain and leave the swollen body that would never again sleep next to Gideon or bear the son he had always wanted. Why should I stay on this earth? Marilee would be fine with la familia, and this baby would be safe with Simone and Damien. And Gideon waited for me beneath the tree of life, and I had an appointment to meet him at the river flowing from the throne of God.
No one on earth needed me, no one wanted me. I might as well drift away.
Another pain flashed through my midsection, eliciting a cry of speechless agony. I dug my nails into Mama Isa’s hand, pushing my pain onto her, but she didn’t complain. She straightened and held her breath along with me, exhaling only when I did.
Where were my drugs?
“You will get through this, chica,” Mama Isa said, her voice low and intense. “Soon the doctor will be here and this will be over. Soon you will be free to mourn our Gideon.”
I turned my head as tears coursed over my cheeks. My eyes had been leaking ever since we arrived at the hospital—I’d been so distracted by pain I couldn’t even say I’d been crying. Misery and distress were seeping out through my eyes, my mouth, and even my womb.
I heard murmuring outside the door and recognized Amelia’s voice. If she and Mario were still here, who was going to open the grocery tomorrow? I looked at Mama Isa and saw dark circles beneath her eyes. She shouldn’t work tomorrow, and neither should Amelia.
“The grocery.” I gripped Mama Isa’s hand. “You ought to get some rest, and so should the others. If Yanela and Yaritza are out there, someone needs to take them home—”
“Silencio.” Mama Isa pressed gentle fingers to my lips and silenced me with a stern look. “We will not open the store tomorrow. We will remain with you until you are resting, then we will go home to rest. The store will wait.”
I braced for another pain, then gripped Mama Isa’s hand as it set my teeth on edge. I wasn’t sure how much longer I could do this. . . .
Dr. Hawthorn swept into the room and greeted me with a quick smile. She glanced at the machine keeping track of the baby’s vitals, then she looked under the drape over my legs. “Okay, Mandy,” she said, giving me another falsely cheerful smile. “You’re fully dilated, so I think it’s time to push. Are you ready?”
I gritted my teeth. “What happened to my drugs?”
She lifted a brow. “You didn’t get the epidural?”
I shook my head.
“Too late now, I’m afraid. Something must have happened to your birth plan. But now let’s concentrate on getting the baby out.”
“Where are Simone and Damien? I’m supposed to give them the baby.”
A shadow of annoyance crossed my doctor’s face. “Do they know you’re in labor?”
Did they? I struggled to remember if someone had called them, but my memories of the past few hours were fuzzy. I’d been told to call Natasha and the Amblours when I left for the hospital, but nothing had gone the way I planned. I was supposed to be calm at the delivery. I was supposed to have Gideon on my left side and Simone and Damien on my right, standing by my head. Simone was supposed to be my coach and I was supposed to have an epidural and plenty of narcotics. . . .
Another contraction, another blast of pain, and suddenly I didn’t care about what was supposed to happen. I wanted to get rid of this baby and get back to my own house, where I could be surrounded by memories of my husband. “I’ve got to push.”
“Good girl. You’re crowning.” The doctor sat on the rolling stool at the foot of my bed. “Okay, Mandy. With the next contraction, I want you to push with all your might. The baby’s in a good position, you’re more than ready, and this shouldn’t be a problem.”
Of course it shouldn’t be a problem, but this day had produced a tragedy of unspeakable proportions, a black hour of such intense shock and grief that my body had rebelled, expelling the baby who might or might not be ready to come, who might still be as small as a pineapple or mango—
No matter. The baby was coming and I was ready to let him go. I closed my eyes as the next contraction rose and crested within me. Holding my breath, I rode the wave, squeezing Mama Isa’s hand, tears flowing down my cheeks, sweat dampening my hair. . . .
The door opened. And as the doctor pulled a new life from me, Damien and Simone rushed in, breathless and wide-eyed, stylish and perfectly groomed beneath their thin sterile gowns. Simone stared at the baby, her hand catching her throa
t as she choked out a cry. Damien grinned and wrapped his arms around himself, probably in an attempt to keep from leaping forward to hug my doctor.
I swallowed hard, disturbed by the way this event was unfolding. Simone and Damien weren’t supposed to be down there, they were supposed to be standing by my head and preserving my privacy.
My gaze slid reluctantly from the Amblours to the child. He was pale and blue, shiny with fluids, but his little arms were flailing. And then, while I watched, his lips parted and a lusty cry filled the room.
Holding the baby in her gloved hands, Dr. Hawthorn turned to the Amblours. “Who wants to cut the cord?”
While I blinked in confusion, Damien stepped forward, took a pair of scissors from a nurse, and cut the pulsing cord that bound the baby to me.
I cried out, too.
The nurse looked at me, surprise flashing in her eyes, as I covered my mouth and stifled another cry. I had left this section of the birth plan blank, but the scene before me felt completely wrong.
“Calm yourself, hija,” Mama Isa murmured, pushing my wet hair from my forehead. “Everything is all right.”
I watched through blurred eyes as the nurse took the pinkening infant and rubbed him with a towel, then suctioned his nose and mouth. She swaddled him in a blanket and hesitated, her eyes wary above her mask, her arms tilting between the woman in the bed and the woman by the door, both of whom were weeping. . . .
In the absence of an official birth plan, Dr. Hawthorn broke the stalemate. “Mandy, would you like to see the baby you’ve worked so hard to carry?”
Unable to bear the sight of the child I was about to lose, I turned my head. “I’ll see him later,” I whispered, my voice strangled.
Without another word, the nurse crossed the room and placed the baby in Simone’s arms. When Damien gripped his wife’s shoulders and gazed at his son, I knew that corner of the room had become their private universe.
I couldn’t watch them. As the doctor and nurses worked on me, I fisted my hand and bit my knuckle until I registered the coppery taste of blood.