Remember Me

Chapter 20

CHAPTER 20

Skye

Six Years Earlier

“M mm,” hums my husband, kissing the ticklish area just beneath my chin. This hypersensitive spot always gets to me. My head lolled back, I close my eyes and moan.

“We’re going to make a baby tonight,” he whispers in my ear.

A baby. How long have we been trying? I’ve lost track. Finally, this past month we gave up on fertility treatments. Not that I couldn’t afford them. I had enough. The days of recording my cycle; counting the days to ovulation; running home from the office to have sex; those countless shots of Clomid, something my husband had to do for me because I couldn’t bear injecting the long needle into my thigh; the clinic visits; the egg retrievals; the IVF procedures. Then, the wait. The hope. The disappointment. The tears. Not to mention the stress it’s put on our marriage.

“I’m sorry. We don’t understand why you can’t get pregnant. Your husband’s sperm are healthy, strong swimmers and your eggs are top-notch A-quality.”

The same story over and over again.

I’ve given up on having children. Convinced myself that not everyone needs to have them. That for us, it’s not meant to be. Maybe in light of my all-consuming career, it’s better this way. I don’t need the added stress of a child. It’s a sign. My defenses go only so far to mask my grief.

“Where are you on your cycle?” my husband asks.

“I-I don’t know,” I stammer. Actually, that’s the truth. Since the fertility treatments, my periods have been irregular. They come and go, and I’ve stopped counting the days in between.

“It doesn’t matter. Tonight’s the night.”

“How do you know?” I murmur, my arousal making it increasingly difficult to talk in full sentences, let alone talk at all.

“I just do. I feel it in my gut.”

For once I just want to make love with my husband and not worry about the consequences. Not feel the pressure. By the time we explode together, swimming in blissful ecstasy, I’ve shoved the word baby to the back of my mind. It’s the best, most fulfilling sex we’ve had in ages.

Recovering, Finn traces the outline of my face with his forefinger. “That was amazing,”

“Yeah,” I breathe out, running my hand through his damp hair.

“I bet we made a baby.”

No matter what, it all comes back to that. Not showing my true emotions, I humor him. “Bet what?”

“Bet your sweet ass.”

“Fine. I bet yours we didn’t.”

A wicked glint lights up his eyes. “We’re not done. And the bet is on.”

***

In the days that follow, I feel different. I can’t pinpoint exactly what’s different. For a lack of words, I’d call it an inexplicable lightness of being.

Two weeks pass. Finally, today’s the day. The test. Okay. I’m lying. I’ve been doing a pregnancy test every day since that night. So far, nada. I knew I would be right. I’ve begun to accept the fact that a baby isn’t in my cards. Our cards . And I’ve resigned myself to winning the bet I secretly want to lose.

The bathroom door is closed. I sit on the toilet, my legs pressed together, the pee-stick in my hand. It’s the last one I have, and after today, I swear I’m never going to buy another box. Good. I’ll save myself some money. I push and a hot stream of urine pours from my center. Midway, I spread my legs and put the strip part of the stick under the flow for a few seconds. God, I’ve done this so often I could do a YouTube tutorial and explain everything. Done emptying my bladder, I wipe and then flush the toilet. The roaring whoosh of the water makes me feel like I’m flushing down all hope. Standing, I pull up my leggings and then set the magic stick on the tile counter. The window side up. Anxiously, I wash my hands, lathering them more than usual with the fragrant soap. I dry them off with a soft towel, avoiding eye contact with the stick. My heart ticks like a clock. My skin prickles. Straightening the magazine rack to pass the time, I try not to think about the outcome. Then, I glance down at my watch. Exactly three minutes have transpired. I pivot toward the stick, my eyes focusing on the narrow window in the middle. A distinct blue line appears. My heart skips a beat. In disbelief, I blink my eyes several times, thinking this will make my vision clearer. No longer batting my lashes, I stare at the window again. The line is darker. Thicker. My heart rattles, my chest constricts. I carefully lift the stick between my fingers and hold it up to my eyes. The results are loud and clear. Oh my God. This can’t be. I need to do the test again. Gripping the stick, I hurry over to the wastebasket and dig out the box of pregnancy detectors. I shake it madly, hoping another stick will fall out. Nada. I toss the box onto the floor.

A loud rap sounds at the bathroom door. Along with a quizzical voice.

“Baby, what are you doing in there? We’re going to be late for your awards dinner.”

The doorknob twists, and on my next frantic heartbeat, the door swings open. Finn, dressed in one of his few suits, strides in.

“What’s going on? You’re not even ready.”

Still in shock, I hold up the detector. “Look.”

Finn snatches the stick from me and stares down at it. His eyes widen, his jaw drops. “Holy shit. It’s positive.”

I nod.

“Are you sure?”

“I think so.”

Without warning, he gathers me into his arms, and the sob I’ve been holding back spills out against his chest. He plants a kiss on my head and then chuckles.

“I won the bet.”

“I accept.” My heart swells with unprecedented happiness. For once, the super competitive me, who’s always strived to be the winner, is happy she’s lost. Tears of joy fill my eyes and then I begin to laugh too. Oh my God! We’re having a baby!

Twenty-four hours later, I’m sporting a small tattoo on my butt. A delicate flower. A symbol of life.

***

Nine Months Later

Labor Day. Though I’m off from work, the Monday starts like any other morning. Finn and I are both up early. Nine months pregnant and only twenty-five pounds heavier, I head sprightly to the kitchen to make breakfast. First, a pot of coffee for Finn, and then, some decaffeinated Earl Grey tea for me. The divine aroma of the coffee wafts up my nose as I boil water in the tea kettle. Inhaling the dark rich brew, I long for a cup. My obstetrician, however, has forbidden me from drinking caffeine as well as alcohol during my pregnancy and despite my love of both, I’ve obliged. Once the baby is born, I can at least go back to coffee. One cup a day. My doctor’s assured me the caffeine won’t affect the quantity or quality of my breast milk nor the baby.

The baby is due in two weeks though she could drop any day. I believe it’s going to be a girl while Finn is positive it’ll be a boy. Three months into my pregnancy, we made another bet—same stakes. Either way, I just want to give birth to a healthy baby, and I’m grateful that I’ve had such an easy pregnancy. No morning sickness, cramping, or lack of energy. In fact, I’m still working full-time, much to Finn’s chagrin. He’s wanted me to take the next two weeks off, but I refused to give in. Resting is not part of my vocabulary. I’m a lot like my mother, who right up to giving birth to me, was shooting a documentary in Australia. One day, I’ll share the story with my child—Dad was driving a Jeep in the Murramarang Nature Reserve with my very pregnant mom next to him in the front seat. The open-air vehicle flew over a sizable pothole and my mother instantly went into labor. Thirty minutes later I was born in the backseat while she was shouting out to their production team not to miss one shot of the kangaroos hopping by.

“Good mornin’, baby.” A familiar rasp brings an end to my musings. I look over my shoulder.

Finn. Dressed in casual sweats that sit low on his hips and bare-chested. Unshaven, his mop of bedhead hair falling into his sapphire eyes. He shoots me his dazzling, dimpled smile.

“Mmm. The coffee smells good. What’s for breakfast?”

Before I can answer, the kettle whistles. I hurry to the stove to turn it off.

Then suddenly, I feel it. A rush of warm liquid pouring down my inner thighs. Panic rises up inside me. It’s not supposed to happen this way. What happened to the contractions?

“Oh my God!” I cry out.

“Skye, what’s the matter? Are you okay? Did you burn yourself?” Finn’s voice is even more panicked than mine.

“Finn, my water just broke!”

He glances down at the puddle of liquid around my bare feet. Speechless.

“I’ve got to get to the hospital.”

Five minutes later, with the overnight bag I’ve had packed for over a month, we’re on our way. A Springsteen song playing—“Countin’ on a Miracle.” Praying that we won’t be pulled over for speeding. Or get into an accident. The gut-wrenching contractions start coming. Praying that all will go well.

Cedars-Sinai Medical Center is about twenty minutes away, but without traffic, we make it there in ten. Finn drops off the car at the Emergency Room entrance and lifts me into his arms, leaving my overnight bag behind. Carrying me, he darts through the automatic doors and dashes up to the reception area.

“My wife is about to have our baby!” he spits out in a panic.

The attendant on duty rolls her eyes at him. “Relax. It happens all the time.”

Ten minutes later I’m in the delivery room, Finn by my side. Assisted by several nurses, a young Asian doctor examines me. I don’t recognize her.

“Who are you?” I mumble.

“Dr. Woo.”

Dr. Who?

“I work with Dr. Harris, your regular doctor. She’s on vacation.”

What!? On Labor Day? The day of all days I’m in labor!

I manage one word: “Oh.” Which morphs into “ooh” when another agonizing contraction stabs my gut. Groaning, I contort my face as Finn’s alarmed voice fills my ears.

“Do something, doctor! My wife’s in pain!”

I glance up at my dressed-in-scrubs husband. His face is more pinched than mine. And he’s sweating.

Dr. Woo gently presses down on my swollen belly. “Chill, everyone. I’ve got this. Everything’s going to be fine.”

“What’s going on?” I mutter.

“Mrs. Hooker, because your water broke before your contractions, we’re going to give you an epidural.”

“An epidural?” That was so not part of the plan. Dr. Harris, Finn, and I all agreed I’d have the baby naturally.

“Yes. It’ll minimize any potential infections. As well as the pain you’re experiencing.”

The epidural kicks in quickly—no pain—but thankfully Finn never leaves my side. He’s my husband, lover, partner, coach, and the father of our child... that’s if the baby ever comes out.

“Push, baby, push!” he urges.

My legs bent and spread, I give it all I have. I push. I grunt, I cry. I shriek. Sweat beads cluster on my chest. Oh, the pain! Please, my baby, come.

Finn repeats his three desperate words.

I push and I push and I push. Why, oh God, won’t she come out? Every horror story I’ve read fills my head. That she’s breach... tangled in the umbilical cord... and the most horrifying of all... she’s stillborn. Tears spill from my eyes as I do everything I can to bring my baby into this world.

Then, suddenly, on my next push, I feel something different. Something pushing out of me like an alien. It hurts so much! I shriek in agony and in fear. Finn squeezes my hand.

“Skye, the baby’s head is coming out!” He gasps. “Now the shoulders.”

“Push again!” orders the doctor with an excited smile.

Why the hell is she smiling? This is no picnic! With a thundering grunt, I push again, looking up at Finn. Tears leak from his eyes. Why is he crying? It’s freaking me out.

“One more big push!” I hear the doctor say as I squeeze my eyes shut.

“Uggggh!!!” Then suddenly, my belly feels empty, and I hear a hungry, little cry. Then, the voice of a nurse.

“Congratulations, Mrs. Hooker. You have a healthy baby . . . ”

“Girl. It’s a girl.” The soft, bewildered voice of my husband.

What? I open my eyes. And watch as they clean her off. My tiny, mottled, peach-haired life form. My little beauty. Her sweet cries music to my ears as they swaddle her and lay her gently on my breast. Misty-eyed, I gaze down at her and feel the deepest of love, a powerful connection that can’t be put into words. One that transcends all others.

“She’s beautiful.” Finn’s voice is hardly above a whisper. “Our Maddie.”

We decided on names early on, for both a boy and a girl. We’re calling her Madeline Soleil. After my favorite storybook character and my late mother whose name meant sunshine. Maddie for short.

I nod, glancing back down at her. “Yes, my love, she is.”

He kisses her scalp. Then, he kisses my forehead.

“You won the bet.”

I flash him a smile. “It’s going to hurt to sit tomorrow.”

Twenty-four hours later, my husband is sporting a tattoo identical to mine.