Frank
Twelve weeks later...
I still can’t believe we got married as quickly as we did. I‘m not complaining though because these have been the best three months of my life. To think I pulled that off without even considering her weekend wedding schedule truly overwhelms me.
My wife is a work-a-holic. She has the craziest business schedule I have ever seen, and now I can truly appreciate my daily commute across the parking lot to my job. She bundles all of her working files into her car every day at the crack of dawn and heads into the city to make wedding dreams come true.
I was supremely happy when I peeked at her calendar and saw she had the last two weeks of October empty. I am sitting here at the computer jumping at the chance to book a real honeymoon and take her away.
“Hey, Babe,” I call to her from the den. She’s in the kitchen making lunch, and I promised I wouldn’t enter and ruin the surprise meal she is cooking.
“No, you can’t have a little taste test, if that is what you’re thinking of asking,” she sing-song replies, shooting me down. Pots and pans are clanging and banging. I feel bad for disturbing her, but I need to know now.
“Uh, no,” I holler back, but that’s a damn good idea because it smells amazing from in here. “I wanna go on a honeymoon. One where we actually get on a plane to spend a week or two wrapped up in each other. No commute. No work. No people we currently know. What do you think?”
“I would love to go on a honeymoon,” she says, appearing at the doorway to the den with potholders on her hands, and my apron wrapped around her tiny body. She bends down over my shoulder to see the computer, but I minimize the screen to keep our destination a surprise. “Where do you want to go?”
“I want to surprise you,” I kiss her cheek as she lingers over the desk.
“Oh no,” she says, reaching over me for control of the mouse, but she can’t get her hands on it with the big oven mitts on. She tosses them off quickly and tries again, but I scoop her up and carry her over to the sofa. She’s fighting to get up and run to the computer, but can’t. I’ve imprisoned her with the weight of my body. “C’mon, Frank. I’m a planner. I don’t like surprises.” She whines, giving me her most serious looking face.
“Oh, you’ll like this, I promise,” I assure her. “Please let me take care of this. I just need you to verify that the last two weeks of next month, October, are okay?”
“Fine. I’m a wedding planner anyway. I don’t plan honeymoons. And yes, the last two weeks of October are fine,” she confirms. “I always take those two weeks off and go on vacation anyway. A birthday vacation.”
“You’re shitting me?” I ask. I feel ashamed. “How in the hell in this process of getting to know each other did I never think to ask you when your birthday was.”
“It never came up,” she says, shrugging her shoulders and pushing on my chest to get me off of her. I sit up and pull her upwards against my chest. “We’ve been kind of busy: adjusting schedules, moving my life here, creating a home office, planning weddings, and getting to know each other.” She wiggles her eyebrows up and down in that naughty way she has about her, making me laugh.
The timer on the oven goes off and she jumps up running for the oven. I get up to grab the oven mitts she threw off, and hear her turn back around—her bare feet are pounding down on the wood floor. She sees them in my hand and smiles, taking them from me. “I was just about to bring them to you.” She looks over my shoulder, peeking at the computer and raising her eyebrow. The screen is still minimized so she turns and sprints back to the oven before our lunch burns.
She’s so curious. I’m going to have to watch her like a hawk so she doesn’t ruin her own surprise. I’m taking her to Brazil to see her parents at her grandmother’s house. I emailed them both separately yesterday when I saw her calendar availability and her mom replied this morning. She said she’d work out the details with Bella’s dad.
Needless to say, her parents were a little sour when we told them of our quick marriage.
We promised them a family wedding, priest and all, and I will make it happen, especially while we are there in Brazil in her grandmother’s garden. I can’t believe it’s going to be her birthday too. This worked out for the best, and now I’m even more excited to make this happen.
“It’s almost ready,” she calls melodically. “I hope you’re hungry.”
“Trust me when I say, I’m starving,” I assure her. I close out of the website I’m in and clear the browser history. My wife is highly intelligent, and she will figure this secret out if I leave those little cookies around in the computer. It’s better to clean up my secretive mess than spoil the surprise.
She comes back into the den twirling a sleep mask in her hand. “Here, put this on,” she instructs and stretches the elastic band over my head. She turns me to face her and adjusts it. “No peeking.” I feel her poke my chest with her fingernail. Her hand glides down and intertwines with mine, and we walk to the kitchen. She guides me expertly to not trip over some of the new things in the house that I’m not used to yet.
I hear her pull out a chair as the leg scrapes against the tile floor, and she assists me with sitting. She tries her best to scoot my body closer to the table but I’m too heavy for her little frame. I grab the edge of the table and pull myself in. I can feel steam rising up to my face from what I assume is a prepared plate. The smell wafting in the air is divine.
Her feet shuffle to the other side of the table and I hear her sit. “Okay, you can take off the mask now,” she calmly instructs.
I pull it off to see a room completely decorated in white paper baby booties, pink and blue baby bottles, yellow giraffes, green race cars, trains, paper dolls, rainbows, and there are even little pacifiers in multiple colors thrown like confetti all over the table.
“Is there a theme for this luncheon?” I ask, teasing her. She picks up her napkin and throws it at me, but I catch it before it can hit my plate and push my chair back. I stand and go over to her, pulling her chair out, but push down on her shoulders when she attempts to stand.
I fall to my knees, placing my hands on her belly and caress it with my thumbs. I choke back a sob as I think of our baby or babies growing inside of her. At the ripe age of forty-five, I never thought I’d have children. That time had come and gone with the passing of Olivia.
I bend low over her belly and whisper, “I’m gonna be the best daddy in the world to you. You’re gonna be so loved and spoiled.“ I hear her sniffle her nose and I look up at her smiling through the blinding sheen in my own eyes. Tears are rolling down her cheeks and landing on her shirt where I hold her stomach.
“Yes, you are,” she whispers. “I have no doubt of that.” She places her hands on my head as I bend down low again and lay my head on her belly, listening. I kiss her shirt and rub it again.
“I’m the happiest man in the world right now,” I say, placing little kisses all over her flat belly. “I can’t wait to see our baby growing inside you. But now you must eat because I can hear your stomach growling. That or you’re growing a lion in there.”
I stand and hold her hand as I walk back over to my seat, never losing contact with her. She wipes her tears with the crook of her finger before she picks up her fork and takes a bite.
We eat for a few moments before she breaks her silence, “Do you want to know when we are going to be parents?”
“Yes, of course, I do,” I reply. “I’m sorry for not asking before. I have a million things going through my mind right now. Please tell me.”
“Our child should arrive in the spring, around tax time. We are due April 15th,” she laughs.
“Great. Just in time for Coachella to see Radiohead play,” I tease, but she doesn’t laugh. Instead, she hurls her forkful of rice at me like a cannonball. I watch it hit my shirt and fall to the floor. “Hey, I’m kidding. I swear. So, you’re about five or six weeks along?”
“No, WE are five weeks along,” she intimates, circling her index finger back and forth, gesturing between us. “We do this together.”
“Yes, sweetheart. We do everything together,” I assure her. “I swear I can’t eat now. I’m so excited, I want to run to the bar and buy everyone a drink on the house.”
“No, it’s too early to tell people. We have to wait until we are out of our first trimester,” she says, “in case something happens”. She whispers the last words, not wanting to jinx it.
Yes, I remember Jenna saying something like that. “Okay, we’ll wait, but when we get back from our honeymoon, I’m shouting it from the rooftop,” I laugh. “Or maybe I’ll rent one of those skywriters and tell the whole fucking state. Yeah, that’s what I’m gonna do.”
“C’mon, babe,” I say standing. I pull out her chair for her and help her stand. “I love the meal you’ve prepared, but I’m seriously too excited to eat. Let’s go to the bookstore and get that pregnancy book I always saw Jenna reading. I think she practically memorized it. We’re gonna need that.” She grabs her purse from the hook by the door, and off we go.
“Frank, do you want a boy or a girl?” she asks quietly. I assume she has a preference in asking, but I don’t know for sure. “I want a healthy child and that’s all that I’ll request.” I rub her belly before sliding my hand to her lower back, finding that perfect divot where my hand goes.
“What about you?” I ask, holding the car door open for her. She hugs me tight and whispers in my ear, “I want a perfect blend of you and me. A child that has all of our best qualities.”
Dreams really do come true, so never give up on them no matter how old you are. Life really does come full circle: you live and then you die, but sometimes you die and then you live.