At the beach, they took a long walk until he carried her on his back, never once complaining. They stopped somewhere along the way to kiss. “Want to take a swim?” he asked her.
“Either that or we can make love in the water?”
He sprinted toward the surf.
Laughing like a little girl, she took chase.
¤ ¤ ¤ ¤
On Sunday morning, David awoke to find Lindsey’s face inches from his. He spent a few precious moments staring at her angelic face. “How did we take so long to find each other?” he whispered. Pushing the thought from his mind, he kissed her gently, sweetly. She stirred and smiled. With the world in the palm of his hand, he tiptoed out of the room and left her to her dreams of a joyful future.
After preparing a tray of eggs and coffee, David picked a wildflower from the yard and placed it into a small crystal vase. He sneaked back into their dark bedroom, placed the breakfast tray at her feet and lay beside her again. He then started kissing her everywhere, inhaling the intoxicating scent of the previous night’s love that covered her.
When her eyes slowly opened, he gently rested himself on top of her and kissed her with all the love that made his heart beat.
And as she eagerly returned the passion, the eggs grew cold.
¤ ¤ ¤ ¤
Several full moons had come and gone when David returned home from work and was greeted by Lindsey at the door. She was beaming and held her hands behind her back. He smiled, curiously, and kissed his wife. “What are you hiding?” he asked.
“A gift for you,” she answered playfully.
“A gift for me?” He held out his hands. “Well?”
She kept her hands behind her back, while a mischievous grin worked its way into the corners of her mouth and tears formed in her sparkling eyes.
David was persistent. “I can’t have it now?”
She couldn’t take it anymore. She pulled her arms out from behind her back and revealed two empty hands. He was baffled. She wrapped her arms around him and kissed his neck. “In nine months,” she whispered into his ear.
It only took a moment before it registered—before he hugged her tightly. As if he might be hurting his child, though, he quickly pulled away and bent to kiss her belly. “Oh, Linds,” he said.
She pulled him to his feet. They embraced tightly and cried together.
The months ticking off Lindsey’s pregnancy were a magical haze. They shared the joyous news with loved ones at Cappricio’s Restaurant. And it didn’t take long for David to spoil Lindsey something fierce. Night after night, she took to the couch and ate ice cream, while he rubbed her feet.
Before long, David and his swollen wife picked out baby furniture and tiny clothes. They set up the baby’s nursery, while family and friends gathered to inspect and nod their approvals.
They took the childbirth classes at the hospital.
And each night, as they lay in bed, both sets of hands massaged her belly.
¤ ¤ ¤ ¤
Seven months into the miracle in progress, David visited Max’s gravesite to talk to his friend on bended knee.
“Hi buddy. Lindsey’s pregnant. The ultrasound says it’s a boy, and I couldn’t be any more thrilled. But I’m a little scared too,” he said. “I’m praying hard that the baby’s born healthy.” He shook his head. “I just hope that if God’s going to punish me for what we did in Afghanistan, that he’ll punish me and not my son.”
He sighed. “I’ve been looking in after Max Jr. He’s a good boy. You’d be proud.” His eyes filled. “I hope you’ve found peace, brother. I pray every night for it.”
David pulled a sealed envelope out of his pocket. “Listen, I need you to do me a favor.” He kissed the envelope and carefully placed it at the base of Max’s headstone. “It’s a message to my son.” He nodded. “It’s important that I become the dad I always wanted for myself.” He shrugged. “And my greatest obstacles and achievements will lie in raising my boy. The person he becomes will be the measurement of success in my own life.” He stood. “Can you please deliver it for me, Max?”
David stood, looked up toward the sky and whispered, “Please hear my prayer, Father.”
¤ ¤ ¤ ¤
It was a random Monday morning when Lindsey tried to shake David from his sleep. He was dead to the world. “Come on, hon,” she moaned. “You have to get up.”
He mumbled something incoherent and rolled over. She leaned into his ear and whispered, “Wake up, Daddy. It’s time.”
He lurched up and looked at his wife through squinted eyes. “It’s time?” he said.
She smiled. “Yep. My water broke an hour ago. We’d better get going.”
He jumped out of bed and searched frantically for everything they needed, periodically stopping to kiss her during the chaos. Leisurely, she slid out of bed and calmly got dressed.
David loaded the new caravan, helped her in and sped down the road toward the hospital. The whole time, she took deep breaths and held on for dear life. “Oooooh…” she moaned.
David was a wreck, while Lindsey was breathing like a freight train right on schedule for a head-on collision. “Take deep breaths,” he reminded her.
“You too,” she huffed with a grin. “We’d like to make it there in one piece.”
They screeched into the hospital parking lot. The car hadn’t even stopped rocking when David had the passenger door open. One body part at a time, Lindsey got out. She was huge. As if he hadn’t seen her like this for months, he gawked in amazement.
A nurse hurried out with a wheelchair and swept Lindsey into it with one smooth motion. As they raced toward intake, she asked, “How far apart are the contractions?”
“I think they’ve become connected,” Lindsey grunted. The woman chuckled at the candid response.
While Lindsey got carted away, David stayed downstairs for what felt like a few decades to take care of the insurance information.
When he rushed into the maternity ward, Lindsey was already wired for sound, her belly hosting a twisted labyrinth of cords and hoses. She was panting like a dog.
“She needs ice chips,” a young nurse commented and handed David a cup of them. Another nurse approached. “The baby’s going to be delivered right in this room, Dad,” she told David.
He nodded.
“Code croon, rome tee ton four,” the PA suddenly called out. The message was barely audible, the announcement mumbled and incoherent. But the staff must have understood. A parade of medical personnel raced past Lindsey’s room to assist someone who must have been in trouble. Oh no, David thought.
All in one motion, an older nurse with the shoulders of a football player entered the room and snapped on a rubber glove, positioning a rolling stool between Lindsey’s legs. She took a seat, squeezed a glob of petroleum jelly onto the glove and dove in. Lindsey panted through another unbearable contraction. “You’re eight centimeters dilated,” the linebacker announced.
Not two seconds later, the doctor arrived and stuck out her hand. “Mr. McClain,” she announced, “I’m Dr. Shobi Sundar.” David fumbled through the chaos and managed to shake the woman’s hand. The doctor then received the latest update and sighed. “The bad news is, Mrs. McClain,” she told Lindsey, “is that it’s a little late for an anesthesia.” She smiled. “The good news is, you should be ready to go very soon. But don’t start anything until I get back.” She winked.
Lindsey smiled, but not for long. As she released another horrid groan, David instinctively rushed to her side.
One moment, the room was filled with people, and the very next David and Lindsey were alone. Chaos was replaced by silence. David smiled at his beautiful wife and grabbed her hand. “I’m here, babe,” he whispered. “And I love you so much.”
When she wasn’t huffing and puffing, Lindsey screamed out in pain. Without reclaiming his hand, David managed to feed his tormented wife half a cup of melting ice chips. And through it all, he held her hand.
After what seemed lik
e an eternity, Dr. Sundar entered the room again and took a seat at the foot of the bed, positioning herself between Lindsey’s legs. Reaching a hand beneath the sheet, she said, “Okay, let’s see what we’ve got.”
David was amazed at how natural the whole experience felt. He looked back. People were starting to pour back into the room, each one gawking at his wife’s swollen genitalia. But nothing could have bothered him less. Perspective is everything, he thought.
“Ten centimeters,” the doctor announced joyfully. “It’s time for you to push, Mom.”
Lindsey looked over at David. He nodded. She bore down hard. David positioned himself by Lindsey’s head. She crushed his hand with each push. While he stood and watched, he felt a mix of helplessness and respect for his wife.
After a supernatural effort on Lindsey’s part, the baby’s head crowned, its black hair soaked and matted with blood and mucous.
“Here’s the head,” the doctor announced. “Just a couple more pushes, Mom.”
David peeked down and saw his little prince’s dark-haired crown. He gasped and fought back the squeal in his throat, while tears began rolling down his face.
Lindsey pushed again and again, but the baby crept out a centimeter only to return a centimeter each time. Suddenly, the baby’s heart monitor beeped rapidly. The child was stuck in the birth canal and laboring hard. The doctor remained calm and placed both hands into Lindsey’s vagina under the baby’s head. She nodded and asked the nurse for an instrument that looked like a large turkey baster. “The baby’s umbilical cord is wrapped around his neck. He’s fine, but I need to get him out right now.” She looked at Lindsey and winked. “Mom,” she said, “I’m going to help you, but the baby and I need you to push as hard as you can, okay?”
Lindsey gritted her teeth and conviction glazed over her pupils. David looked up to find two postnatal surgeons waiting. His legs went weak at the knees, and he lost his breath. I need to be strong for Lindsey and the baby, he thought. Of all times, I need to be strong now.
Lindsey grunted and groaned, while everyone in the room cheered her on. Three pushes later, the head popped out to the neck. The baby was blue, and David felt like crying. Lindsey looked at him. He smiled.
“Everything looks great. He’s almost out!” the doctor said.
Lindsey let out a shriek and pushed one last time. The baby’s shoulders crossed the breach, and his limp body shot out into the doctor’s bloodied hands. A swollen plumb stood out between his legs. It’s a boy, David confirmed. For a moment, the newborn lay still and lifeless. David held his breath and began to die inside.
Medical personnel swarmed the newborn, while David silently asked God, If You must, please take my life instead of the baby’s. And then, the baby’s cry pierced the room. David couldn’t hold back any longer. He cried harder than his boy.
With the newborn in her hands, Dr. Sundar announced, “Congratulations, you have a healthy baby boy.”
David kissed Lindsey. She was exhausted but smiling. Dr. Sundar cut the cord and placed the child on Lindsey’s chest. “Okay, little guy,” she whispered, “It’s time to meet your mom and dad.”
All three were crying. David hugged Lindsey and wept. “Thank you for my beautiful son.”
Between sobs, Lindsey told David, “Oh my God, babe. He looks just like you. Let’s name him David Jr.”
David kissed her once more and then lifted his newborn son into his arms. “Happy Birthday, D.J.,” he whimpered. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”
After the tiny miracle was cleaned up and checked thoroughly, a blue knit cap was fitted over his pointed head and he was carried to his mother’s bosom. David and Lindsey wept over their son’s new life.
David stared at his new son, his chest swelling with pride. He bent down, kissed the baby and whispered, “Even with all the darkness, you’re going to love it here.” His eyes filled again.
“And your dad and I will be right by your side through all of it,” Lindsey added. “Always.”
¤ ¤ ¤ ¤
That afternoon, the hospital room was filled with flowers. Both families had visited the baby and were leaving. Though exhausted, Lindsey and David were grateful for the time alone with their child. Lindsey cradled the tiny boy in her arms. They stared at the perfect little gift for a long time. D.J. opened his eyes, yawned once and offered a slight smile. They laughed, joyously.
“He seems so happy,” Lindsey said. “Do you think he knows something we don’t?”
“Maybe he’s just remembering where he came from?” David suggested, kissing his son.
“Maybe,” Lindsey whispered, glowing with joy.
The new family held each other tightly.
David looked at Lindsey lying beside him and then at D.J. who was sleeping peacefully. Life is better than good, he thought, smiling wide.
Epilogue
Eric Holloway and his two boys, Blaize and Flynn, were leaving the cemetery when they found a dirt-stained envelope lying on the ground. Eric bent down and picked it up. It was addressed to My Son. “That’s odd,” he said and opened it—never realizing that the sealed envelope contained a message of hope from a healing soldier to his unborn son.
Dear Son,
First and most importantly, I love you—more than I could ever explain in a simple letter.
Know that I will always be here for you, my son. No matter the circumstances or the situation, I will be right by your side until my final breath. You have my solemn word.
I must admit that this is not a perfect world that we live in, but it’s all we have, so it’s important to make the most of it. Attitude is everything. If you can adopt a positive attitude and find hope in each day, then your life will be filled with joy—I promise.
No matter where you live, family and friends are your home. Value education because it’s the key to opportunity. And although I never want you to start a fight, I never want you to run from one either. Courage is the only thing that guarantees you can keep your word and stand for your beliefs—and you’d better do both because that’s where your character is forged. Also, try to give people the benefit of the doubt. We’re all human and we all make mistakes—even you and me. Wearing another’s shoes is a good practice.
Make sure you laugh a lot and, although it’s good to plan for the future, remember to live in the present. Your life will be a string of moments. Don’t waste any of them. Be forgiving of others, as well as of yourself, and strive to have no regrets. As far as we know, we only get one shot at this.
You’re responsible for your own life, so please make it a great one. Dream big and never let anyone tell you that you can’t do something. You CAN do anything… ANYTHING!
Be good to yourself. Believe me, it’s not as easy as it sounds. Say your prayers and lean on your faith when things get tough—and unfortunately, things will definitely get rough at times. But remember, it doesn’t rain forever. And please be a gentleman. Your life will be the true measure of success for mine. I’m counting on you to be a good man.
Never be selfish. It’s a true weakness. Give more than you take and know that you have my heart.
All My Love,
Always,
Dad
Eric wiped a single tear from his cheek and placed the envelope back on the ground where he’d found it.
“What did it say?” Blaize asked, looking down at the envelope.
“Yeah, what did it say?” Flynn asked, echoing his older brother.
Eric grinned. “It says that there is no love like a father’s love…” He stopped and looked them both in the eye. “And that we should do our best with the gifts God’s given us.”
Both boys nodded, and they walked away.
Letter from the Author
Although it took me nine months to pen Gooseberry Island, it’s been a novel in the making for better than twenty years. I served in Operation Desert Storm—which was a very brutal experience—and have both experienced and witnessed the terrible suffering that acco
mpanies combat service.
For years, I’ve also watched our military men and women head out to Iraq and Afghanistan only to return home with some deep but invisible scars. I’ve always wanted to write a novel about war that the average person could relate to; just because a soldier, sailor, airman or marine returns home in one piece, it doesn’t mean the war is over. In fact, for many, the struggles have only just begun. More times than not, the wounds that are invisible prove much more painful than those that can be seen.
Gooseberry Island is a tribute to all who have served in Iraq and Afghanistan, as well as those who stayed behind and suffered every moment until their loved one’s return.
More from the Author - Twelve Months
I had just finished the first draft of a novel, entitled, The Rockin’ Chair and was happy to take some time off. Two days later, I was in the shower thinking, There’s never enough time to do everything we want to do. Then another thought hit me. What if I only had twelve months left? And the decision was made right then and there. I need to write this book!
So I created Don DiMarco; an ordinary man faced with extraordinary circumstances—having to face his death long before he thought he would have to. He is madly in love with his wife, adores his daughter and spoils his two grandchildren. Don is a good man; the salt of the earth, but he must find the courage to truly live.
The cliché is true: We can only write about who we know and what we know. Although I consider Twelve Months a fictional work, the content all felt very real to me—so the emotions were also very real.
In the end, the novel’s message is simple but very powerful: As far as we know, we only get one shot at this thing called life—so we each need to make it a great one. Stop wasting time drifting along. Take complete responsibility for your life and live each moment with real intention. In essence, have a love affair with your own life.
The novel’s excerpt depicts Don in the final days of his battle with cancer. Something comes over him—an unexpected surge of will power—and he suddenly feels compelled to volunteer some of the time he has left with people who are even worse off than him. By giving something back and lending a helping hand, he knows he will enrich his life and maybe even make a difference in someone else’s. Although he never needed his wife’s permission for anything, this is different. There are so few moments left. He asks Bella what she thinks.
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