Unspoken Words

by K. M. Golland

Bounce.

  Beep.

  “Enough,” I said out loud before closing my eyes, sucking in a deep breath and then opening them. Enough. No more bouncing. No more fear.

  Ellie’s chest rose and held still before it slowly fell with a tempered exhale. I focussed on her breathing, how her red curls rested peacefully on her pillow, and how her eyelids fluttered ever so slightly. She was so beautiful and strong, so … fearless.

  Following the line of her arm, I took in how her hand lay covering her belly. Maternal. Protective. Instinctive. It was how I felt about her. And although I was terrified of what lay ahead, unlike with Aaron, I would not shut down this time, nor would I pretend none of it was happening. If Ellie had taught me one thing it was that my experience with Aaron did not have to be my experience as a whole, that life, love, and death were one and the same yet never the same. She’d taught me to seize every opportunity and moment we were given, to hold it tight and to never let go.

  She’d taught me that life was worth living because there was someone else worth living it with. Always.

  “Are you just going to stare at me?”

  I glanced up at her heavy, forest green eyes that still managed to sparkle like a ray of light breaking through a canopy of branches. “Yes. I am. Forever. Got a problem with that?” I leaned forward and kissed her lips.

  “What if I did?”

  “Bad luck.”

  She gave me one of her stubborn grizzles, and I chuckled. “Thirsty?”

  “Very.”

  I passed her the cup of water and positioned the straw while she drank. “Not too much,” I said, pulling it away from her lips.

  She frowned but then smiled. “Yes, Dad.”

  My eyebrow drew up. “You trying to be funny?”

  “No. I’m just basking in your fatherly skills.”

  I knew where she was heading with the conversation, and I couldn’t help but smile at her strategy. “I do have very good fatherly skills through years of practise.”

  “I know,” she said, taking my hand in hers and placing it on her belly. “I’ve seen them in action. You’re a wonderful father, and I can’t wait to see our baby in your arms, and for Max to be a big brother.”

  My stomach tightened, and I must’ve shown the discomfort.

  “What’s wrong, Connor?” Ellie let go of my hand and stiffened. “Are you not happy we’re having a baby? Because if you’re not, I will do this on my own. I’m not afraid. I’m blessed.”

  I placed my hand back on her tummy and caressed the side of her face with my other hand. “Of course I’m happy. All I’ve ever wanted was a family with you.”

  “Then what’s wrong?”

  “I’m terrified. Your life is fragile right now.”

  “I know.” She covered my hand on her face with her palm and leaned into my touch. “But I can do this. I know I can. I’m strong enough.”

  “But are you? I mean, really?” A tear descended my cheek, her eyes overfilling as she watched it fall. “I nearly lost you. You were there, in front of me, like you’re supposed to be, and then you were gone, and there was nothing I could do about it.”

  “I’m sorry.” She nuzzled my hand and closed her eyes. “That must have been awful for you to watch.”

  I scoffed. “Worse fucking thing imaginable.”

  A gentle knock sounded on Ellie’s door, and we both told whomever it was to come in.

  Turning my head, I looked up to see Dr Goodman enter the room, pushing what looked like a small TV on wheels.

  “Hello, Ellie. Hello, Connor. I was just about to finish my rounds but thought I’d check on the baby before I leave. Would you like to see him or her?”

  Ellie shot up, straight. It was the most movement I’d seen her do since waking. “Oh my God! Really?”

  “Yes.”

  Her ECG sparked to life like a fire alarm, sending my heart rate soaring along with it. “What’s happening? Ellie, are you o—”

  “She’s fine, Connor. She’s just a little excited which we need to settle down,” Dr Goodman said, her expression composed and serene.

  “Yes, yes. I’m fine. I’m calm. I’m settling down.” Ellie tried to subdue an excited squeal, and all I could do was metaphorically pick myself up from the floor and consider hooking myself up to the damn ECG machine as well.

  “Okay, this may be a little cold at first.” Dr Goodman squirted a jelly substance on Ellie’s tummy then moved a joystick-looking device across her skin. She pressed a few buttons on the machine, and a mixture of black, grey, and white swirls appeared on the screen. “If you look at the area I’ve just measured—”

  “I SEE IT!” Ellie shouted. “I mean, I see him or her.”

  “Ellie, please stay calm,” I said.

  “Look, Connor, right there.” She nodded enthusiastically and pointed at the screen.

  I hesitantly removed my eyes from her and let them settle on the monochrome image before me, my face tingling, my heart dancing.

  “Say hello to your baby.” Dr Goodman pressed another button. “He or she is 2.3 centimetres long.”

  Ellie slowly raised her hand, her thumb and pointer finger separating the distance mentioned. “Oh, wow! That’s the size of a marshmallow.”

  “Yes. Most people say peanut or jelly bean, but marshmallow will also do.”

  I couldn’t remove my stare from the screen, from my child, my tiny, innocent, living, breathing baby boy or girl, who’d already been through so much and, yet, was alive and growing stronger—was already like his or her mother.

  “Heart beat is 170 bpms. Nice and strong.”

  “Connor?”

  “Yeah?” I asked, dragging my eyes from the screen to meet Ellie’s.

  “That’s our Marshmallow McBaby Head.”

  Laughter burst from my chest. “What?”

  “That’s our Marshmallow McBaby Head. That’s what I’m calling him or her … for now.”

  Dr Goodman smiled and shrugged, so I reached for Ellie’s hand, brought it to my lips, and kissed her knuckles. “I think we can do better than that.”

  Her eyes twinkled. “Nope. It’s sticking … literally.”

  Chapter Forty

  Ellie

  The name Marshmallow McBaby Head lasted until my twentieth week of pregnancy when we found out we were having a little girl. I’d tried to convince Connor to name her Madonna or Mariah, but he was dead against it. Apparently, those names weren’t ‘unique’ enough, so we settled on Christina Bethany-Ella Bourke instead—a combination of Mum’s name, Chris’s name, and mine. Our choice was perfect, and I was fast becoming desperate to finally meet her and hold her, and to show her just how special and cherished she truly was.

  Cradling my lower—and much fuller—belly, I was now into my third trimester as I gazed over at Connor who was constructing our angel’s cot, a drill in his hand, a pencil slotted behind his ear. My feet gently propelled the white, wooden rocking chair I was sitting on, a handmade gift from Connor’s father and my new favourite spot in my new favourite room in my new favourite house— Connor’s house.

  I’d moved in the day Dr Webb and Dr Goodman finally discharged me from hospital, exactly sixteen weeks after I was admitted. And, yes, I’d counted every single one of those days, marking them in my notebook like I would the wall of a cave on a deserted island—one hundred and twelve dashes, to be exact. Honestly, I probably would’ve preferred the cave than my hospital room. At least the cave would’ve been peaceful and uninhabited. A medical professional free zone. No monitoring, poking, and probing every hour of the day. And it was probably safe to say that deserted island food would have been much tastier than the rubber mush I’d been eating.

  But I hadn’t complained. Much.

  Early into my second trimester—at roughly thirteen weeks gestation—Dr Webb had once again suggested I have a pacemaker inserted, but my heart rate, BP, and overall health were steady, so I’d refused the surgery, much to everyone’s displeasure. In no way would I risk my c
hild’s life for a procedure that didn’t seem overly critical at that point in time. I knew I’d have to have it eventually, but while I was the sole protector of the miracle growing inside me, the answer was no. It would always be no.

  Now at thirty weeks gestation and into my third trimester, I was starting to feel much more tired, rundown and sore. I had less energy, less patience, less fight. A cloud had formed above, growing day by day, its shadow transparent to all except me. When alone, I crept through its darkness, through the doubt of whether my daughter would grow up without me or whether I’d survive her birth and live long enough to hold her in my arms. But it was a cloud of doubt I had to keep to myself, for the sake of my family and Connor. And what lurked in its shadows was something only I could prepare for and with no one knowing.

  “I wonder if she’ll have your dimples?” I asked as I jotted down: One of the first things I noticed about your father was his dimples. They popped like popcorn every time he smiled. Do Mummy a favour and poke them every night when he tucks you in. We must never let them fade.

  “Maybe,” Connor answered. He glanced over his shoulder, his grey eyes bright, and nodded toward me. “She’ll definitely have your hair though.”

  I twisted a tendril around my finger and jotted down: ‘Don’t dye your pretty red hair. I know you’ll want to—Mummy wanted to dye hers. Be strong. Embrace the fire. It’s a gift.’

  Connor screwed in the final screw and put the drill on the floor. “There. That ought to do it.” He stood up and stretched, his head nearly hitting the plastic crystal chandelier dangling from the ceiling above. He gave it a dirty look, which made me laugh.

  “She’ll definitely have your height.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. She might be short like you.”

  “Hey! I’m not shor—” As if aware we were talking about her, she performed what felt like a roundhouse kick to my ribcage. “Sweet mother of all things motherly.”

  “What?” What’s wrong?” Connor dropped to his knees before me, fear stretching his eyelids wide. Ever since I’d come home to rest, he’d had the stress levels of a New York Taxi driver.

  “Nothing.” I took his hand from my knee and placed it on the spot baby Christina had just booted. “She’s just very happy today.”

  Paternal joy shone from his silver eyes, and he flexed his fingers with pride and love. “She should be happy. She has the most beautiful mum in the world.”

  “And the most clever dad, and loving grandparents and uncle.” I gestured to her nursery. “Look at this room. It’s gorgeous.”

  Thanks to our parents and Chris, we were sitting in a pink wonderland of fairies in a magical garden. There was even a teeny tiny fairy door at the base of a tree mural, painted on the wall.

  Sitting there, taking in the enchantment they’d created, I wanted nothing more than to be like Alice in Wonderland and shrink so that I could open the door and experience the magic inside.

  Connor relaxed on the floor at my feet. “They definitely outdid themselves.”

  And they had. They’d painted and decorated while I was in hospital, a surprise for when I was released.

  Christina kicked her approval.

  “Yep, she’s definitely happy today.”

  “How about you? Are you very happy today?”

  I was about to answer ‘yes’ when my stomach gurgled and reminded me that I wasn’t. “No.” My smile morphed to a frown.

  “Why not?”

  “Because my diet is drastically lacking in the pizza department.”

  The newly formed tension in Connor’s shoulders eased. “Ellie, you know we have to keep an eye on how much high fat foods you consume. Dr Goodman and Dr Webb said—”

  “BUT I’M PREGNANT, GODDAMN IT! A woman with a human being inside her uterus should be able to eat whatever the hell she likes.”

  “Ell—”

  “No!” My finger shot out and nearly poked him in the eye. “You shut your pie hole, Mr Privileged Sperm Donator. And while we’re on the topic of pies, my stomach is lacking those too. Meat pies. Apple pies. Chocolate pies. Mag-freakin’-pies.”

  He chuckled. “You want to eat a magpie?”

  “Yes! If it were on a bloody pizza, I would.”

  Christina Karate Kid booted me again, so I glared at Connor and gently caressed my tummy. “Yes, I know, baby girl. We both want pizza and Daddy won’t let us have it. He’s a big Meany McDiet Head.”

  Connor stood up and placed his hands on his hips as if he were in blue tights, red jocks, and wore a giant S on his chest. “I know what my girls need,” he announced, swivelling before soaring out of the room.

  I shook my head and went back to jotting my diary notes for Christina: ‘Sometimes Daddy will pretend to be Superman. Believe him, because he is’.

  Smiling, I flicked back through the pages I’d written already. Tears welled in my eyes, and my heart pinched. I rubbed my chest, offering hushed words of reassurance that everything was fine, that everything would be fine, but that I had to write these things … just in case.

  Connor returned to the room moments later, holding his guitar and a plate of carrot sticks, Vegemite, and sour cream. It wasn’t a greasy, cheesy, Meatlovers pizza, but it was my second favourite thing to eat in my current food-scoffing state.

  “Am I still Meany McDiet Head?” he asked, placing the plate on my lap and then kissing my forehead.

  “Yes. No. Maybe a little.” I picked up a carrot stick, dunked it in my jar of vegemite, then rolled it in sour cream before shovelling it into my mouth, crunching and licking my fingers like a greedy goblin.

  Connor dry-retched, lifted his guitar in place, and settled his arse on the arm of my rocking chair, his fingers strumming a light, sweet rift—the beginning of “My Girls”, a song he’d been playing around with since learning Marshmallow head was his daughter.

  Strawberry hair, sweet kisses

  Breathe in and count my wishes

  I reach out, touch your skin.

  It’s not a dream

  This is real

  It’s not a dream

  Resting my head on his back, I closed my eyes and listened as he repeated the first verse and bridge before slowing his strumming and then stopping. It had become my lullaby, my medicine … my anchor.

  I smiled and glanced up through my lashes at him. “It’s coming along nicely.”

  “It’s not quite there yet. The lyrics for the chorus just aren’t working.”

  “Wanna run them by me? Maybe I can help.”

  “Na, not yet. I have a few things I have to put in place first.”

  “Oh, okay then.” I shrugged and crunched into another carrot, some of the sour cream sliding off and dripping onto Connor’s t-shirt. “Shit!” I scooped it off with my fingertip and chanced a look up at him to see if he noticed.

  He did.

  “Did you just do what I think you just did?”

  “Um …” I sucked my finger, removing the evidence. “I don’t know what you think I just did, so my answer is no.”

  He shifted to face me and took hold of my hand and held my finger to his lips. “God, I hope she doesn’t have your cheekiness.”

  “Of course she will. You’re doomed.”

  He slapped his hand to his chest. “I’m doomed? Don’t you mean we’re doomed?”

  “Nope. Just you.”

  Connor flicked his tongue over my fingertip, his eyes heavy and prurient. “How am I gonna cope with the two of you?”

  I swallowed and bit my lip. “I don’t know. Good luck with that.”

  The muscles between my legs pulled tight, my breasts full and heavy, my need for his tongue, lips, and body even heavier. During the past couple of weeks, my sex drive had raced faster than a F1 McLaren, so it was all systems go at any second of any day, provided I didn’t get ‘too’ excited or ‘over-worked’—Doctor’s orders.

  Trailing his tongue across my hand, he stopped at my wrist and gently nibbled and kissed my tattoo, his eyes never leavin
g mine. They were a dark storm of need and intent, and I adored their thunderous stare.

  Connor stood up and gently guided me to stand with him. He then circled my body, stepped behind me, and pressed his erection into the dip of my arse. I sucked in a breath as his ravenous hands encased my body and roamed my chest and neck, one settling to cradle our daughter the other cupping my breast.

  “Bedroom,” he whispered, his lips warm and wet on my earlobe.

  My body shuddered with desire, and I near collapsed at his feet, my knees weak, my legs useless.

  Gently guiding me forward with his body, he held me to him with each step we took, his frame hard and strong.

  “I’ve got you.”

  “Yes, you do.” I arched my neck and welcomed his mouth to my exposed skin, my eyes fluttering shut when he pressed his lips to the spot only he could touch.

  “Oh God! I might not make it to the bedroom,” I exhaled, my words weaker than my body.

  Before I could feel the loss at my back, he gently scooped me into his arms. “Yes, you will. I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.”

  My eyebrow quirked. “Anywhere?”

  “Yeahhh.” His eyebrow quirked too. “But something tells me your destination is different to where I had in mind.”

  I smiled. He was right. Kinda. I wanted him to take me to where he wanted to go, but I also wanted him to take me somewhere else. Somewhere afterwards. Somewhere just as delicious.

  “Let’s go to the bedroom,” I said, kissing the tip of his nose. “And then you can take me to Anthony’s.”

  “Anthony’s?”

  “Yes. I want a damn pizza by the end of the day. Got it?”

  Connor rolled his eyes, chuckled, and groaned playfully. “We’ll see.”

  Anthony’s Pizzeria pretty much became a daily occurrence for the two weeks that followed. Except, I didn’t have the energy to eat at the restaurant so we’d order home delivery instead. Anthony had strict instructions from Connor to make a ‘healthy’ or ‘pregnant’ pizza, which basically meant more vegetables and less meat and oil, or one that comprised Vegemite, grated carrot, and drizzles of sour cream.