Aiken

April

Tiny beads of sweat beaded across Claire’s forehead. There was a small blood vessel that had burst under her eye. I took in the slight reddish-blue vein marking her otherwise flawless skin.

She was still fucking gorgeous.

Stunning, with her dark hair tied back, no makeup, cheeks red from exertion, pink nightshirt falling off her shoulder, no bra, her tits full and loose under her shirt.

“Want an ice chip?” I was a fool to ask, but I needed to know.

“Nooo,” she growled. “This is ridiculous, Aiken. I’m too old for this. I’m not supposed to be doing this, or anything closely related to this. This isn’t natural.” She grunted the last part, gritting her teeth, and I tried to subdue my laugh.

“Yeah, I know. For fuck’s sake, I just turned thirty-two. I should be anywhere but here. I should be at Juicey’s.”

She glared at me in the most evil fashion, and then she gave a yelp.

“By the way, watch your language.”

I didn’t have time to apologize…

“Ow, it hurts.” She arched off the bed. “Aiken.” My name was a whimper from her lips.

Moving closer to her side, I ran an ice cube around her lips and along her brow.

“Give me your hand,” she barked, and I did just that.

She squeezed hard, and I didn’t dare say another word about my age or hers—I never mentioned hers.

“I need a doctor, not you. Sorry. I need someone who knows what they’re doing. I need this thing out. Now.”

“I can’t go get one…love.” She rolled her eyes at me. “Unless you let go of my hand.”

“Go.” She immediately released me and shoved me off the bed.

After sprinting to the nurses’ station, I hurried a nurse back to my wife, who declared it was time.

Go time.

Time to meet our baby.

Our son. We knew it was a boy after all the tests we’d endured.

Because of my age, Claire had reminded me every step of the way. Don’t you want to do this with some young thing who will bounce back like nothing, be romping around in a bikini in no time? she’d asked too often.

I’d ignored her in earnest, treasuring every test and each sonogram. You’ll be in a bikini in no time.

The room morphed into some sort of spacelike studio. Cables and bars appeared out of nowhere, and my Claire was spread open, a doctor now between her legs, my lips next to her ear. Crouched on the floor next to the bed, I told my knees to shut up, and I told my wife how much I loved her, what a wonderful mother she was going to be…I bit my lip from detailing what I was going to do to her when she was all healed up.

I was younger, but not stupid.

“Okay, Claire, when you feel the urge, give me a little push.”

All of a sudden, Claire let out a loud roar, followed by, “I should’ve got the epidural,” and then a grunt and some weird short breaths. I steadied myself and remained stoic, thinking of how the cows did it back home.

No judgment.

“Breathe,” I told her. She panted and continued to push. Her ears sparkled with purple, and I smiled, knowing a small part of Abby was with us today. The nursery was painted lavender and blue, a mural of the sky lining the ceiling.

“You’re doing fine.”

“Shhh,” she told me. “I’m doing this how I want.”

After the exhausting battery of tests, in which we received nothing but good results, Claire got herself on a natural jag. Organic cotton blankets, no drugs during the delivery, straight breastfeeding, preservative-free immunizations.

I just let her have at it. Whatever she needed for peace of mind.

“That’s it, Claire. I can see the head,” the doctor spoke up.

Her head fell back into the pillow, and she took a long breath. “I want to push again, for real. Can I? I wannnt to…”

She didn’t wait for permission. She squeezed my hand, and I was glad her engagement ring didn’t fit at the moment. No doubt, the stones would have dug a hole in my palm.

It took only three more pushes, and our son was born. Ten fingers, ten toes, a head of dark hair, and a loud cry ushered him into our lives. My hand left Claire’s, and I made my way closer to my son.

I couldn’t take my eyes off him, covered in goop, eyes wide, mouth open…

“Dad want to cut the cord?”

“What?”

“Dad want to cut the cord?” the doctor repeated.

I jumped into action, and then the nurses swept my little boy away.

“Remember me?” Claire called to me.

“Oh shit, I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He’s perfect.”

“It’s okay,” Claire whispered, her voice hoarse.

“Here, have a drink.” I held up a Styrofoam cup with a straw.

“He’s really okay? All good?”

The nurse turned. “Perfect. Apgar score is nine. He’s all good.”

“Here.” Another nurse brought him over swaddled in a blanket, a small hat nestled on his head.

She placed him over Claire’s chest, and she burst into tears. “I’m not going to let you down, little guy.”

“You have a name picked out?” the first nurse asked, a smile on her face, her gaze taking a pass or two over my ass. Hey, I still have it going on. Not really. I was ass-out to the nurse, face to Claire, twisted to hear what the nurse asked, my legs barely holding me up.

“Sean Adam Fordham,” Claire said aloud.

“Beautiful name. Is he named for someone?”

Claire nodded, and I said, “Sean was my grandpap’s middle name, and Adam is for his sister, Abby, who is no longer with us.”

I felt my eyes water, and Claire’s had yet to dry up.

“I bet she’s watching down on him as we speak,” the nurse interjected, and my wife smiled like I’d never seen her smile.

“She definitely is,” were the last words to come out of Claire’s mouth before she placed her lips on top of Sean’s wild and unruly hair. She brought him to her tit, and after a few tries, he began suckling. We both watched in silence, my hand lightly covering Claire’s, our plain platinum bands shining under the lights.

“How did we ever live without him?”

“I know,” Claire responded, her brow furrowed. “Do you think Abby knows I haven’t forgotten her?”

“One hundred percent, Fordham. The nurse is right, she’s watching and smiling.”