%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
 |  My first ever Writing.com journal. |
| happy birthday! you are much appreciated; thanks for being born; enjoy twenty-four. a merit badge seemed boring. i've got a better gift for you. ********** Twenty minutes apart. That's an estimate. But it's long enough to straighten a few things out, which they have to, because Aaron looks ready to spontaneously combust. "This can't be it." "I've never done this before, but I really think it God damn well can." "It's too early. You're too small." "Younger mothers deliver earlier, on average. But she's at thirty weeks. Thirty-one in two days." "That means she'll be okay? I don't think this is it. My mom, when my mom was, pregnant women get these all the time, fake-me-out contractions, doesn't always mean anything--" She's holding his hand; pain slices through her like a knife to the spinal cord; she squeezes harder; they both scream. * Fifteen minutes apart. "We still don't have a name." "I thought of something. I'll do this one, and then if we ever have a boy, it'll be your turn." "What if this one's a boy?" "She's not." "So I don't even get a vote. That's a little unfair." "Your list didn't have any girl names on it, anyway. And Pebble and Sandy and Island Girl do not count. And Crabby. Whatever that one was. If you'd come up with anything I didn't mind passing on to my daughter, then maybe you'd get a vote. And I asked. I asked." "Let's call her Steve." Meant to lighten her mood, to smooth the wrinkles from her tense brow, to loosen the white-knuckled hands that grip opposite elbows, encircling her belly protectively. She doesn't smile. Her face darkens, reddens. "Fuck you," she utters violently, bracing herself against the coming wave of pain. * Ten minutes apart, and the sun is setting. "I don't want you to be there, when it happens." "You don't want me to what?" "I didn't want to leave you alone when you were shitting berries, but I respected your wishes. I don't want you to see me suffering like that for God knows how many hours. And I can manage. I started college as a bio major, remember? And I've seen this on TV a million times, and i was there when my cousin was born, and--" "But what if something happens? You need me there!" "You know, we're really going to have to work on our communication. You finished your residency in obstetrics and you didn't even tell me?" "Okay, okay, then what if I just--what if I--I want to--it's my baby too. Okay? Is that good enough?" "Please, Aaron. Please please please. I'll let you know. As soon as everything's okay, I'll find a way to let you know. Even if I have to scream my lungs out. What's left of them. Hey--stop that. Don't do that. You won't miss anything but a whole lot of misery. You'll hold her first." He wipes away his frustrated tears just in time to watch her double over. * Seven or eight minutes apart; they're hitting harder, lasting longer, turning her face a damp, bright shade of crimson. "It hurts," she says meekly, as one is subsiding. He takes gingerly into his arms, acutely aware of how big she is, and how small, and how fragile, and how very much in pain. He is useless, right now; even after every brilliant innovation, every successful hunting trip, every orgasmic coconut concert, he has never felt more useless than he does at this moment. All he has left are his words. "The more it hurts," he invents, sliding a gentle hand along the curve of her belly, "the more beautiful she'll be, when you see her." She begins to cry, and he drops his hand, afraid it's another pain, but no; "I'm so scared," she says, lifting her voice into the higher, more musical octave of agony. "I don't even need her to be beautiful. I just want her to be okay." Aaron falters. "And you're--you're sure I can't--" She shakes her head vigorously, covering her tear-wet face with trembling hands. "No. No, no. But she's--she's gonna be born on an island. My baby's going to start her life on a desert island." He has no answer for that, so he stays quiet, holds her till the next pain, and through it. * They're coming five minutes apart now, if that; coming right on each other's heels; coming so fast there isn't time to ask the question whose answer he so desperately needs to know. How are you going to tell me when she's here? It waits on the tip of his tongue, crowning occasionally; he can never manage more than the first few words before she's grimacing again, before her breathing goes hard and heavy, before it's time to lift her damp curls away from her face and dab at her feverish forehead with his clammy fingertips. So he gives up, and presses the opposite palm to her belly, their touchstone, sweet round symbol of their greatest island achievement. "You're hurting her," he scolds softly, addressing their progeny. "Try not to, as much. She's never done this before. And she just wants to see you healthy, so she's gonna do this for you, whatever it takes, but make it easy. Make it easy for her. She's never been a mommy before." Shannon's rapid breathing slows and she turns giant brown eyes on him, wide as the moon arcing over their heads. She's listening. He hardly notices. "Then again," he continues, "I know you've never been a baby before, either. But we're going to do the best we can with you. We love you, already, so much. One day, you should ask us about the berries. Or, no, don't. But I--" Shannon squeezes his hand. "It's time," she whispers. "Go, go, go somewhere--" Panic clenches his heart. He slides out from beneath her, lifts her with effortless hands, leans her carefully against the same tree where the coming child was conceived, where they've already amassed clean linens, towels, water, scissors for the cord. Dropping to his knees, he presses his lips softly to her belly. "I won't be here," he whispers. "But I won't be thinking about anything but you. I'll be back soon." He rises to his knees, meets Shannon's eyes. She manages a weak smile. "Let me know," he pleads. Accepting her nod, he leans in, kisses her, hops to his feet, walks away. * The silence is deafening. He knows she isn't a screamer. She didn't scream when the fire licked her, or when that coconut fell from the tree, whizzing to the ground within inches of her unsuspecting head, or any other time he can remember. She isn't a screamer; he can bring her to the tensest of orgasms, and with the ocean nearby to outmurmur her sighs, he'll have to rely on tactile cues to be sure. But there isn't a point on the island so far from any other point that he shouldn't be able to hear so much as an echo. He fills the silence with noises of his own. He lights a fire, and the familiar crackle is soothing. Sitting at their dual workbench, he finds the pieces of a mobile she never finished, and begins hacking at it, loudly, with the blunt edge of a rock designated for carving. Then he skips rocks for a while, choosing the roundest and flattest, sending them sailing across the water's navy blue surface. Then he finds the notebook. I wish she would scream, he writes across the top of the first blank page. They've come so far, and yet, it's back to cliches. The silence is deafening. * I'll never be able to fall asleep, he thinks, staring at the stars. * He dreams of a pink satin ribbon; of his own hands, taking it, fumbling with it; of tying it, eventually, around a spray of glossy curls, honey brown, burnished gold at the ends. * He jolts awake beneath a blazing noonish sun. "God damn it," he mutters, sitting up. It's been hours; too many of them, judging by the midday heat. The fire is dead; the waves are calm; the silence has officially lasted too long for his comfort. He promised he wouldn't check on her, not till it was time. "It's time now," he says aloud, scrambling to his feet. "It's my baby, too--" An infant's cry, strong and sweet, floats down over the dunes. His legs can't carry him fast enough. * "Say it one more time," he whispers. Her voice is weary but exceedingly patient as she repeats, for the third time, "It's Hawaiian. It means sea and sky." He hears her this time, but his eyes won't budge from the miniature hands, the cherub toes, the pursed rosebud lips drawing sustenance into his daughter's astonishingly tiny body. "It's beautiful," he whispers. Shannon is hoarse, exhausted. "I need to sleep," she says. Still transfixed, he reaches blindly for the clean sheets, pulls them carefully up to her waist. "I'll hold her," he whispers. As if on cue, the rosebuds part, and the baby's long-lashed hazel eyes fall shut. Shannon shifts slightly, painfully, lowering her slight weight into Aaron's waiting arms. "Hawaiian," she repeats one last time, without prompting. "For sea and sky. Because, you know"--she yawns--"she was born on an island." She's out cold within seconds. He stands, carefully; wanders out from beneath the trees, carefully; shows his sleeping infant to the stars. "So then, miss Kailani," he whispers, running his fingers carefully along the line of her slick brown curls. "This is our island." ********** your birthday's tomorrow. i know. but i couldn't wait three and a half hours, and i was afraid i'd close the window by accident or something. "keiki" translates loosely to "child"; "kailani" to, like i said, "sea and sky." |
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
