EPILOGUE

Ben

Last week of May

“I think we should head to the hospital.”

As she did the previous three times I made that suggestion, Isla waves me off impatiently.

It’s just after four in the morning, and my wife has been puking her guts out for the past two hours. Every time I’ve tried to pick her up off the floor to try and get her in bed, a new wave surges up, and she’s bent over the toilet again.

“It’s just the flu,” she says. Again.

Sure, Stacie mentioned that Mak had been down with a stomach bug for a couple of days this week, but we haven’t seen them since we were over at their new place, down in Dolores, the week before last. I doubt a stomach bug would incubate that long.

Again, Isla lifts up on her knees and bends herself over the toilet bowl. By now all she’s bringing up is bile. I wet the washcloth under the tap and wipe her mouth and face.

“Oops,” she says, looking down where I can feel warm liquid touching my knees.

“Was that...?”

“My water,” she says, looking a bit sheepish.

“Dammit, Pixie,” I growl. “Could’ve been at the hospital already.” I get to my feet, and grabbing the trashcan, I toss the lid aside and shove it in Isla’s hands. “Hold on to that. I’ve gotta get some clothes on you.”

Five minutes later I have Atsa locked in the house and my wife bundled up in the SUV. I dial my sister on handsfree as Isla sticks her head in the trashcan again.

“It’s time?” is the first thing out of Stacie’s mouth. Poor Isla retches in response.

“Water broke a couple of minutes ago, can you call Al? He’s going to want to catch a flight. And I locked Atsa in the house, depending on how long this is going to take, could you make sure someone lets him out at some point?”

“Got it. Good luck, guys! We’ll see you soon.”

“Not fair.” Isla’s voice echoes around the inside of the trashcan. “You’re not even flustered,” she tells me.

Little does she know that I’m so terrified right now, I’m afraid I’m going to shit my pants. Fine pair we make.

“You’ve got this,” I encourage her when she starts gagging again, this time ending on a deep moan, but she seems beyond speech now.

Every now and then I flick my gaze to where she is now slumped in the passenger seat, groaning with every bump in the road we hit. I’m doing my best not to get us in an accident as I barrel down the road to Cortez.

“Isla?” She doesn’t even respond to her name, as she starts tugging on the sweats I just put on her at home. “Babe, what are you doing?”

We’re almost in the hospital parking lot and my wife is stripping off her pants, grunting like something primeval.

I don’t even look at her now; I just focus on not hitting the portico over the emergency entrance of the hospital. I slam the car in park, unclip my belt and lean over, just in time to catch my son, who comes shooting out of Isla like a goddamn projectile.

Isla screams, the baby screams, and I’m pretty fucking sure I’m screaming too as I pound my free hand on the car horn for help.

-

“Oh my God,” Stacie gushes as she storms into the room, Mak right on her heels, and zooms right in on the bundle in my arms. “He’s so precious. Gimme,” she says, holding out her arms and wiggling her fingers.

“Buzz off,” I growl, not ready yet to let go. Not sure I’ll ever be.

“Ignore him,” Isla says from the bed. She’s way too damn perky after giving me a goddamn heart attack. “He’s grumpy because I birthed all over his precious car. Oh, and I might’ve spilled a bucket of puke on his leather seats, too,” she snickers, the other two girls falling right in with her, giggling away.

“See, bud?” I tell my boy; counting my blessings he’s got the right set of chromosomes. “That’s why we have to stick close, you and me.”

“What’s his name?” Mak asks, sitting down on the armrest of the chair. I can’t resist the reverent look on her face as she takes in her little cousin.

“You ask the right question,” I tell her, throwing a dirty look at my sister, who responds by sticking out her tongue. “Why don’t you sit here?” I get up off the chair and wait for Mak to settle in properly. Then I put the baby in her waiting arms.

“His name is Noah James Albert Gustafson,” Isla says, tears in her eyes as she watches Mak press a little kiss to Noah’s forehead. Mine are getting cloudy, too.

“That’s quite the mouthful for such a little guy,” Stacie says, doing a bit of sniffling herself.

“Eight pounds eleven ounces,” I announce proudly.

“Ouch,” my sister says, looking sympathetically at Isla, who winces at the memory.

Part of me is happy I was too busy trying not to get us killed, so I was spared watching my wife expel our bruiser of a boy from her body.

“Your dad, my uncle, and his own name,” Isla explains to Stacie.

“It’s perfect,” she answers.

“He’s perfect,” Mak whispers.

This is perfect, I think.

Isla

First week of August

It’s hot as a whorehouse on dollar day.

The campground is packed. I’m carting around in the golf cart with Noah in a harness on my chest, since Ben won’t let me drive my ATV with the baby, and I have three more washrooms to stock with TP.

I would love to have a shower sometime this century, but between a perpetually hungry baby who is rapidly depleting the extra boobage I gained in pregnancy, and the height of season for vacationers, I truly don’t even have time to fart.

And I was so looking forward to today.

I’ve finally convinced Stacie to let me photograph her. She’d been skeptical at first, when I talked to her about maybe doing a book for the Children’s Burn Foundation. I showed her the royalty report Jen sent me on the sales of my coffee table book and it went a long way in convincing her. It was selling and the income I was generating from that and the website, was turning out to make for a nice little nest egg.

I’m proud of Stacie, of how she’s been able to adjust to living with the visible scars of violence. I’m especially proud of the way she’s used her experience as a jumping board to get involved with the Children’s Burn Foundation. And I’m not adverse to playing up to her sense of pride, in order to get what I want; a chance to show the world, but Stacie herself in particular, that true beauty can’t hide behind scars and deformations.

By the time I get back to the storage shed by our old trailer, Ben is waiting for me.

“Give me my boy,” he growls, sticking his face in little Noah’s neck, and blowing loud raspberries on the soft skin. All to Noah’s great hilarity. I may be handy to have around for nutritional value, but Daddy is the cat’s meow. Noah never smiles bigger than when Ben walks into view.

“I don’t have time,” I tell him. “I have to try and feed him, and get him down for a nap. Would love to at least drag a wet wash cloth over all my dingy spots, and stuff a banana in my face, all before your sister shows for her shoot.” I lean my weary forehead to Ben’s sticky chest. His large hand wraps around the back of my head as I listen to the rumble of his voice.

“I’ll take him now. I’ll feed him a bottle from the fridge and get him down for a nap, while you eat the sandwich I made you, and have a shower while you pump. In that order,” he instructs me.

I lift my face and smile in teary gratitude.

“Love you,” I whisper.

“Back atcha.” He winks, dropping a kiss on my mouth. “Go on. Get yourself together before you make my sister look like the beautiful creature she is.”

~~THE END ~~