by Loree Lough
“Just a few more minutes,” the doctor said. “Just a few more minutes.”
Pride and joy and thankfulness filled her eyes with tears, put a sob in her throat. Just a few more minutes, she repeated, smiling. In a few minutes, I’ll be a mommy.
She made herself focus on the bustle of activity in the blindingly bright delivery room—shuffle of paper-shoed feet, the rustle of surgical gowns, banter of the staff, clank of tools against stainless steel trays—instead of the pain, the gripping, never-ending, powerful pain….
Then, for a half second, maybe less, silence—deep and still and falsely calm. No one moved or spoke or breathed, as if the world had stopped spinning and everything, everyone in it had ceased to exist.
In the next eyeblink, life!
Ciara knew—though she didn’t understand how she knew—that during the instant of deadly quiet, her baby boy had died. She knew because the pain of childbirth had ceased, and in its place, heartache like none she’d experienced.
The doctor gave her knee an obligatory pat, pat, pat. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Mahoney, but…”
Her heartbeat doubled, tripled.
“We did everything we could, but,” he said softly, so very softly that Ciara thought perhaps she’d imagined it; perhaps it had been part of a pain-induced hallucination. “There’s no easy way to say this, I’m afraid…but your baby is dead.”
With every beat of her heart, every pound of her pulse, the word echoed in her head. Dead. Your baby is dead…dead…dead.
The eye-blinding white light warmed to a golden glow, and she found herself in the cemetery again, eyes locked on an ivory coffin hardly bigger than a breadbox. Any minute now it would be lowered into the rectangular hole carved into the earth by shovel and pickax. The hole was hardly bigger than the casket, yet it seemed to gape and yawn like a ravenous, savage beast, hungering to swallow up her newborn son, forever.
Ciara forced her gaze away from her boy’s eternal bed, focused on the faces of the people who had gathered around: her mother, daubing her face with a lace-trimmed hanky; her father, staring stoically straight ahead; sniffling in-laws; sad-eyed neighbors and coworkers; a few of her students, looking bewildered by this thing called Death; and their parents, whose expressions said, I’m sorry, but better you than me…. Everyone had shed at least one tear for the infant whose birth caused his death.
So why not Ciara? People will think you didn’t love him; people will think you don’t care. And that was a lie, the biggest lie ever told.
Ciara had never held him to her breast. Had never looked into the miracle that was his face. Had never inhaled the sweet scent of his satiny skin. Would not hear his soft coos or his demanding cries. Could never feel the miraculous strength of his tiny fingers, wrapping around her own. But she loved him, and oh, how she missed him!
It began as nothing more than a solitary thought in her head:
No….
And became a soft whisper that no one, not even those right beside her could hear: “No….”
Then heads turned, and the monotonous din of voices, joined in prayer, quieted when she said more loudly, more firmly, “No.”
“No!” she screamed, falling across the coffin. “No, no, no, no, no….”
A man’s voice, deep, powerful—her father’s?—floated into her ears. “Ciara, sweetie, don’t—”
Don’t what? Don’t grieve for my baby? Don’t make a scene? Don’t make the rest of you uncomfortable?
She gripped the little casket tighter. “You can’t have him, Lord!” she yelled. “You can’t take him, because he’s mine!”
Then, utter silence.
Ciara looked around her, surprised that the other mourners were gone, all of them.
Car doors slammed.
Engines revved.
The grounds crew stepped forward. Where had they come from? And a beer-bellied man in a grimy baseball cap stuck out one gloved finger, pressed the red button and started up the machine that would carry the casket down, down into the dark, damp dirt.
Rage roiled inside her. Don’t! she ordered. Stop that, right now! But the motor continued grinding.
Ciara wanted to grab his fat wrist, crush every bone in the hand responsible for beginning her son’s slow, steady descent into the cold, unwelcoming earth.
The mournful moan started softly at first, then escalated in pitch and volume, like the first piercing strains of a fire engine’s wail. She couldn’t pinpoint the source of the grief-stricken groan, and, frightened by it, Ciara clapped her hands over her ears. The keening call echoed all around her, bounced from marble headstones, granite angels, trellised tombstones and returned, like a self-willed boomerang to its genesis.
“No-o-o-o-o-o-o-o…”
Then, big hands, strong, sure hands gripped her shoulders.
“Ciara? Ciara…”
“Where’s Mitch?” she sobbed. “Where is my husband? Why isn’t he here? Why!”
“I’m here, Ciara, I’m here, right here, right—”
“That was some dream,” Mitch said when her eyes fluttered open. He slipped an arm under her neck, pulled her near. “Aw, sweetie,” he sighed, kissing her temple, “you’re trembling.” He tugged the sheet over her shoulder, tucked it under her chin. “How ’bout a cup of warm milk?” he asked, holding her closer. “Maybe that’ll relax you, help you get back to sleep…”
“I hate milk,” she mumbled, her voice sleep drowsy.
Something you should know after eight months of marriage, he scolded himself. Holding her at arm’s length, Mitch cupped her chin in a palm. “You want to talk about it?”
Ciara shook her head, then buried her face in his shoulder. “You weren’t there,” she whispered brokenly. “You…weren’t…there.”
She sounded so forlorn, so frightened, like a child lost in the woods. His heart ached, because once again, he felt powerless to comfort her. “I wasn’t where, sweetie?” he asked, brushing the bangs from her forehead.
Ciara shook her head. “Nothing…just, just a dream…”
Nearly every inch of her was pressed against him, yet Mitch felt as though someone had built a brick wall between them. Her taut muscles, her refusal to tell him about the nightmare, the way her voice trembled when she’d said, “You weren’t there…”
He held her a long while, not talking, not asking her to. A shaft of moonlight had slipped under the window shade, cutting an inch-wide slice of light through the blackness. It lit the room just enough for him to see her sad, still-sleepy eyes.
“I know I wasn’t here,” he said at last, a tremor in his own voice. “I can’t tell you anything that’ll undo what’s already done, but I can tell you this—I’ll be here for you from now on. I promise.”
He waited for a reaction of some kind: a nod, a sigh, something.
Either she’s asleep, he told himself, or she doesn’t believe you.
Tears stung his eyes, and he held his breath to keep them at bay. He had done this to her—he, and the Bureau—and if she had strayed during his absence…
He held her a little tighter, kissed the top of her head.
“What’re we going to do, once this baby is born?” she’d asked earlier, worried he might spoil her, waiting on her constantly.
The question became a chant in his wide-awake mind: What’re we going to do? What’re we going to do?
Her health was precarious, at best.
The baby, if it survived, might not even be his.
And Bradley was out there somewhere, fully convinced that the only way to stay out of prison was to silence Mitch…permanently.
Mitch shivered involuntarily. He certainly didn’t want to die, especially now that he and Ciara were so close to getting back what they’d once had. If something happened to him now, who would look after her?
Lord Jesus, he prayed, what am I going to do?
She couldn’t get that dream out of her mind until the baby moved inside her. Even then, the eerie aftereffects flashed in her mind.
Ciara put her full attention on the cross-stitch she’d been working on. Better that than try and make small talk with Mitch, she thought. “I’m just tired, that’s all,” she’d fibbed, when he’d asked if she was feeling okay. “It’s nothing,” she’d answered, when he’d wanted to know if something was wrong. “Thanks, but I’m fine,” she’d said, when he’d offered to bring her a snack. What else could she do…admit she was furious at him for something he’d done or hadn’t done…in a dream?
Mitch made a few calls on the kitchen phone, pacing as far as the twelve-foot cord would allow, talking in low, steady tones, rousing her curiosity and more than just a little of her suspicion. Who was he talking to, and what topic demanded such privacy?
Had he met a woman while he’d been undercover? Someone who had made his lonely days more bearable; someone who hadn’t been so easy to say goodbye to?
Or were there loose ends, still unraveled, ends that could choke him if he didn’t tie them up?
This job of his is going to be the death of me, she fumed.
The thought distracted her from the needlework, and she pricked her finger. “Ouch!” she said, popping it into her mouth.
Holding the phone against his chest, Mitch stuck his head into the doorway. “You okay in there?”
She held her finger up, as if testing the direction of the wind. “Stuck myself,” she said, rolling her eyes. “No big deal.”
Nodding, he smiled. “Whistle if you need me,” he said, and popped out of sight again.
She could have picked up the portable, pretended she’d forgotten he was using the extension. Perhaps a snippet of conversation would answer her questions. Maybe a word, a phrase, overheard before he realized she’d joined him on the line, would ease her fears.
Or you could act like a grownup, and ask him straight-out, she told herself. No…just because he’s your husband doesn’t mean you have a right to know every intimate detail of his life.
Intimate?
Could a man like that have sought comfort in the arms of another woman? Ciara shuddered, shook her head. Not Mitch. Anyone but Mitch. She had never met a more fiercely loyal man. He was devoted to his family. Dedicated to his job. Unwavering in his reasons for choosing a career in law enforcement.
“What are you making, there?” Mitch asked.
Gasping, Ciara lurched with fright.
He was beside her on the sofa bed in an instant. “Are you all right? Geez, I’m sorry, sweetie. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“It’s okay,” she said, patting her chest, as if the action could slow the rapid beating of her heart. “It wasn’t your fault.” She had always liked working in complete silence, without radio or stereo or TV to interfere with her private thoughts. And at the moment when his voice had cracked the stillness of the afternoon, her thoughts had been very private, indeed.
He turned his head slightly, regarding her from the corner of his eyes. “You sure you’re okay?”
She nodded.
“And you don’t want anything? More tea? A cookie? Some—”
“I’m fine, honest,” she interrupted.
Mitch continued to study her face for a moment more. “All right, if you say so.”
The glint in his dark eyes told her he didn’t believe a word of it. “You want the truth? Really?”
His brows rose in response to her terse tone. Blinking innocently he said, “Well, I asked, didn’t I?”
Ciara narrowed her eyes, set her needlepoint aside, crossed both arms over her chest. “You asked for it….”
He lay on his side facing her, drove his elbow into the extra pillow, and propped his head on a palm. “Go on. Start talkin’. I’m all ears.”
You weren’t there for me in the dream, and you weren’t there for me in real life, she thought, the stirrings of anger niggling at her. Ciara remembered the day she discovered she was going to have a baby. The first person she had wanted to tell, naturally, had been Mitch. And where were you? she demanded mentally. You were off somewhere making like James Bond.
And when the doctor had diagnosed her condition, warned her to stay off her feet. Where were you then? Where were you!
He had been so gentle and affectionate, so tender and loving when the nightmare had awakened her. He had been that way, practically from the moment they’d met, and those very qualities had made being without him all those months so much harder to bear. Ciara seemed to remember muttering and mumbling noncommittal responses to his quiet questions. But what would he have done if you’d told him the truth? she wondered. How affectionate would he have been then?
“What are you trying to do,” he asked, grinning, “win the Alfred Hitchcock ‘Keep ’em in Suspense’ award?”
Their gazes fused on an invisible thread of tension…his the result of confusion, hers caused by steadily mounting anger.
Mitch reached out slowly, gently laying a palm against her cheek. “You look so tired, sweetie,” he said. “Let me hold you so you can take a little nap, right here on my shoulder.”
She planted both palms on his chest, locked her elbows and managed to keep him at arm’s length. “Do I smell beer on your breath?” she asked, narrowing one eye suspiciously.
He held up two fingers. “I had two. That’s all. While I was cleaning up your lunch dishes.” He snickered. “Just two…on an empty stomach.”
Ciara looked into his eyes. He was right…he hadn’t had a bite to eat all day. He looked so cute, so helpless; how could she lambaste him in this condition!
“So, what do you say? You want to take a little nap?”
“I’m not sleepy, Mitch. I’m…I’m bored, and I’m tired, and I’m achy from lying around like a hundred-year-old house cat all day. I’m sick of looking at these four walls, and I’m—”
“Tomorrow is the Fourth of July, you know.”
She gave her head a little shake, drew her brows together in a frown. “What?”
“Oh, sweetie, I’ve got it all worked out! First, we’ll have a big country breakfast…pancakes, home fries, eggs over easy. After your bath, we’ll get you into some real clothes for a change, watch the parade on TV. This evening we’ll have a cookout—steaks, potato salad, baked beans—the works! And after that, we’ll lounge around in the deck chairs, watching the sky get dark….” Mitch wiggled his eyebrows. “Did you know that we can see the fireworks from the mall in Columbia from our backyard?”
Smiling, Ciara shook her head, so caught up in his excited recitation that she almost forgot why she’d been mad in the first place. “You’re a grown man, Mitch Mahoney. How can you get so caught up in a light show?” she asked affectionately. “Besides, how do you know that?”
“I don’t see anything wrong with looking forward to some stars and spangles,” he said defensively. And just as quickly he added, “Old Mrs. Thompson told me the other morning. She’s comin’ over for the barbecue and bringing her grandson. He’s four.” Squinting one eye, he looked toward the ceiling. “His name is Nicky or Ricky or something like that. Your folks are coming, too, and so is the entire Mahoney clan.”
Ciara’s eyes lit up. “You’re kidding. When did you plan—”
“This morning. I made about a dozen phone calls while you were working on…” He leaned forward. “What is that thing, anyway?”
She clutched the fabric to her chest. “I don’t like people looking at my needlework until it’s finished.”
He went back to resting on his palm. “You’ve been working on it for days,” he grumbled good-naturedly. “When is it going to be finished, anyway?”
He looked like a little boy, Ciara thought, when he pouted that way. Grinning maternally, she answered him as if he were one of her fourth-graders. “It’ll be finished when it’s finished, young man.”
Mitch grabbed the finger she was shaking under his nose. “Didn’t your mother teach you it isn’t polite to point?” he asked, kissing it.
“She did. But I wasn’t pointing. I was scolding. There’s a diffe
rence.”
“Not when you’re on the receiving end, there isn’t.” He kissed her palm. “Besides, ‘When you point a finger at me, you’re pointing three more right back at you.’” Pressing his lips to her wrist, he added, “I learned that in the second grade, when I accused Carrie Butler of putting a valentine card in my tote tray.”
“Carrie Butler, eh?” Ciara asked, one brow up in mock jealousy. “You sure pulled that name out of the air pretty quick, considering how long ago you were in second grade.”
“Hey,” he mumbled into the crook of her elbow, “watch it. It wasn’t that long ago.”
“I’d say a quarter of a century ago is a long time.” She giggled. “Mitch. Stop that. It tickles.”
“What…this?” he teased, kissing the spot again.
“Yes, that. Now cut it out,” she insisted, laughing harder. “I mean it now….”
“Okay. Sorry. I was just trying to distract you, is all.”
She looked into his handsome face. “Distract me? Distract me from what?”
“From asking any more questions about Carrie.” He winked, then sent her a mischievous smirk. “I asked her to marry me, you know.”
Grinning now, Ciara gasped, pressed a palm to her chest. “But…but you said I was the first woman you proposed to….”
“You were the first woman. Carrie was the first girl.” He rolled onto his back, tucked both hands under his neck and exhaled a dreamy sigh. “I met her in kindergarten, in the sand pit. She beaned me with a red plastic shovel. It was love at first strike.”
Another gasp. “You said she was the first girl…there were others?”
He shrugged. “Oh,” he said lightly, inspecting his fingernails, “one or two.”
She grabbed a handful of his shirt. “How many others? I want names and addresses, mister, ’cause I aim to hunt them down, every last one of them, and—”
“Whoa,” he interrupted, hands up in mock surrender. “I’ve never seen this side of you before.”
“What side?”
“The jealous, vindictive side.”
