by T. L. Haddix
Sophie placed a smacking kiss on his forehead. “That, I can live with. Name your price.”
“You have it—marinara. And maybe a jar of pesto, if you have any.”
Noah’s concoctions were famous within the family, and they were often used as bartering items.
“Deal. So… the letters?” Sophie asked, sinking down to sit cross-legged on the floor.
Owen traced the edges of the lid. “I’ll read them, and the ones I wrote for the kids, I’ll give to them. The rest…” He glanced at Sarah, his eyes full of warmth and love. “Well, those will stay with us.”
“Exactly where they belong,” Sarah said softly. “I think this might just be the most successful purge we’ve ever done.”
He picked up her hand and laced their fingers together. “I’d say it definitely is.”
October 3, 1960
The room was flooded with sunlight when Owen rolled over, coming awake slowly to the sounds of birds chirping. The open windows carried their cheery song inside to greet him, borne on the back of the soft breeze loaded with the unique crispness of fall air, and a bit of a chill as well. The bed was empty—no surprise given that Sarah had left for work hours earlier. A bleary-eyed glance at the clock showed Owen that he’d slept well past noon again, and he let his head fall back to the pillows with a muffled curse.
He was tempted to simply roll over and go back to sleep, but he had a list of chores that seemed miles long, tasks that had been accumulating and wouldn’t take care of themselves.
For the past week and a half, he’d been on a tight schedule, working from morning until the wee hours to finish up the final bits of the first draft of his latest H. O. McLemore book. This would be the first installment he’d completed since becoming Sarah’s husband, and working around the needs of a wife and the logistics of having his writing studio in their home, largely in their bedroom, had presented a unique set of challenges he naively hadn’t been expecting.
They’d muddled through things, not without some bumps and bruises, and he’d finally been able to close the lid on this latest book last night. He knew Sarah would be relieved.
“Thank God,” he said around a yawn, sitting up to rub still-tired hands across his face. “You’re going to have some fence-mending to do, I expect. At this rate, you might not even get a birthday cake.”
Deciding a hot shower was first on his list of priorities, he padded naked to the bathroom as he considered how to make amends to his wife.
He knew he wasn’t really in the doghouse—Sarah was irritated, not angry. She was as eager for their trip to Laurel County tomorrow as he was. They planned to spend a couple of days with Owen’s uncle and aunt, and Owen figured one of the reasons for that was the birthday party he suspected she’d been setting up with his aunt Amy. It’d be his first birthday since they were married, and that fact alone made it special.
While the first months of their marriage hadn’t been easy, what with dealing with Sarah’s grief over losing her niece and nephew earlier that year, they’d been good months. So good, in fact, that Owen still expected to wake up and find everything had all been a dream, that Sarah wasn’t real, that none of this life he was coming to cherish existed outside his dreams.
If that happened, he didn’t know if he’d be able to stand it. With any luck and a lot of effort, that wouldn’t ever happen.
As he toweled off, mentally running through the list of things he needed to do, a familiar scent wafted into the bathroom to tease his nose. Stilling, Owen sniffed, then he inhaled more deeply. “Coffee?”
With the towel wound around his waist, he opened the door and listened. A soft rustling sounded from the bedroom.
“Hello? Sarah? Are you here?”
She met him at the door with a soft smile. “Morning, sleepyhead. I brought you coffee.”
Owen kissed her, distracted as he tried to puzzle out what was going on. “What are you doing here? Is everything okay?”
She bit her lip. “I think so. I’d planned to take half the day off as a surprise, but when I got there, the power was out, so we didn’t open. I went ahead and did the grocery shopping and a couple of other things, then I came home.” She trailed him to the dresser, taking the towel and holding it in front of her as he pulled clothes from the drawers. All the while, she observed him. “That never gets old, you know.”
“What? Watching me?”
She nodded, her cheeks turning a bit pink. Though she was smiling, tension was plain in every line of her body.
Owen decided to play it light. “Yeah, well, you’re the lucky one, I guess. I’m always asleep when you get ready for the day. Most of the time anyhow.” Once he had pants on, he went to her and tossed the towel aside. Wrapping her in a loose embrace, he studied her. “What’s wrong?”
Sarah closed her eyes and laid her cheek against his chest, over his heart. “I wrote you something.”
“Okay.”
After a moment, she pulled back with a tiny groan and took an envelope from the back pocket of her jeans, but she didn’t give it to him right away. Instead, she clasped it tightly, biting her lip so hard that he winced.
“Here,” she finally said, handing it over. “Read it. Please.”
Mouth dry, he took the envelope and moved to the bed, easing onto the side. He had a gut feeling he needed to sit down to find out whatever was going on.
As he carefully split the seal, Sarah crossed her arms and walked to stand in front of the door that opened onto the deck outside the bedroom. He stared at her back, wondering if this was the moment every dream he had would come crashing down around him, and pulled the folded paper from the envelope. Opening it took every bit of mental strength he could muster, and still, for a few seconds, he couldn’t bring himself to look at the words.
When he did, they didn’t make sense. Two words, written in Sarah’s neat and feminine hand. Two words that, yes, completely changed everything, just not in the way he’d been dreading.
Stunned, Owen stared at the paper, barely aware that he was shaking his head with befuddled shock. “You… wha… how?” Memories of one exceptionally torrid, steamy night where things had gotten out of hand a couple of months ago popped into his mind with what he could have sworn was a ding. “Oh.”
Sarah turned, her countenance somber and concerned. “Yes, oh. I’m sorry.”
Owen didn’t know what to say, but he did know what he had to do—if he could get his body to cooperate. He got to his feet, embarrassed to find his knees a bit weak, and managed to cross the distance between them. Without a word, he folded her into a hug and held on tight, his nerves settling as soon as he felt the realness of her in his arms.
After a brief hesitation, she hugged him back.
“Pregnant. As in… with child. My child. Our child,” he whispered, lifting his face to gaze down at her. He cupped her cheek, pushing back a stray hair. “Are you sure?”
She nodded. “I went to the doctor this morning to find out. Is this… I know this isn’t what we’d planned, not so soon anyhow.”
Solemnly, Owen kissed her forehead. “No, it isn’t. I’m not angry, if that’s what you’re worried about. Are you okay? What’d the doctor say? It’s a boy, right?”
She ducked her head and chuckled. “That, we don’t know. He said I’m fine and that everything looks perfectly normal. I’m about two months along, we think. I’m almost certain that I know when we, uh… when we conceived. I kind of figured we were in trouble as soon as that happened, but it was worth it.” When he laughed, she raised her head, surprised. “What’s funny?”
“We are in trouble. And yes—it was worth it. Oh, Sarah Jane,” he whispered before kissing her. “I love you.”
She clung to him as tightly as he was holding her. “You mean that?”
“Yes, I do. All of it—that night being worth this result and that I love you. A baby…
I can’t grasp what that means fully. We’re going to be parents.” He was grinning too widely and probably looked like a fool, but he didn’t care. “We’re gonna need a bigger room.”
Sarah laughed softly, and her voice was tight with emotion when she spoke. “Probably, yes. I was so afraid you’d be upset. I know the idea of children scares you a bit.”
He held her close, relishing the feel of her. “No. I couldn’t be happier. How could a baby be a bad thing?” he asked in a whisper. Owen brushed his mouth against hers, then came back for a deeper kiss. “I’d say that’s the best birthday present anyone has ever given me. Hands down, I know it is.”
Her lips curved. “Does that mean my note is going in your box?”
“Oh, yes. One of these days, many years in the future, we’ll look back through that box and fall in love with each other all over again. I can hardly wait.”
“That implies we’re going to fall out of love at some point,” she said, tracing his lower lip with her fingertip, her eyebrows arched.
Owen shook his head and captured her hand, kissing the palm. “Never. Not for the rest of my days and beyond.”
Her smile was beautiful and full of happiness and love. “Sounds good to me.”
John
April 21, 1961
Dear John David Campbell,
Welcome to the world, my son. Weighing in at eight pounds, two ounces, you arrived this morning at 3:34 a.m.—much to your mother’s overwhelming relief and my own personal dread over your birth itself—without a single complication. Your doctor says you are perfect and that your mother did an excellent job of hatching you. His words, not mine. We arrived at the hospital at nine last night and thought we were in for a long haul. Not so long as it turned out in terms of hours and minutes, but it felt like it lasted forever to this scared papa. Papa? Did you see that, John David? I’m someone’s papa!
I’ve tried to write this letter three times now, and each time, I’ve not been able to find the words to describe adequately all the emotions I felt holding you for the first time, looking down into your wrinkled little face. I can hardly believe you’re real. I love you so much that it hurts.
My heart is breaking, but in a beautiful way, much like when I met and fell in love with your mother. Only this is so much more personal somehow. Knowing you were created in love, it feels a bit like I’m a magician. Well, your mother and I are magicians. Although maybe in this turn of events, I’m the assistant. She did all the work.
You look very much like a cranky old man irritated at having had his pleasant nap interrupted. As comfortable as you were, I assure you, son, there are adventures to be had out here in the world that will eclipse your wildest dreams.
Much to my surprise, as I thought babies were somewhat all the same, you also bear a striking resemblance to both your mother and to me, though I think you lean more toward having her features. I can’t say this is disappointing—I happen to think your mother is the most beautiful woman in the world. If you grow up to look like her—a masculine version, that is—all you’ll have to do is smile and the girls will come running. Let’s not put that into practice too early, okay? Let your old man adjust to the idea of having you here first.
You’re named after your grandfather Ira David Browning, a man you’ll not have the fortune to meet in this lifetime. Your mother’s father was a good man, a kind man, and though I’m not fond of the convention of naming children after their elders, I didn’t mind in the least when Sarah made that request. Too many generations named after one another tends to muddy the genealogy a bit, you see. She knows this, and when she told me what she wanted to name you in full—John David—I balked at first.
But then she smiled and told me that she just had a feeling you were meant to be John David, and I was helpless to deny her. It’s the smile that did it. Sarah Jane Campbell can get anything she wants with that smile. Thank goodness she doesn’t abuse that power over me. That’s something you’ll learn about your mother—she’s fair and generous, not stingy or petty at all. Truly, you couldn’t do better.
Right now, you have a spiky little hairdo, a head full of dark, downy fluff that stands straight up in the middle. It’s too soft to be believed, and though your mother warns me it will probably fall out while your “real” hair comes in, I hope it stays. Your eyes, also something I’ve been told will change, are blue. They’re not the sharp, dark cornflower-blue of your mother’s, but again… I hope they turn that shade. I’m quite partial to it.
Speaking of your mother, she’s exhausted but as pleased as punch to have you here. She’s worked hard these last nine and a half months, and I think you’ll find yourself in very capable hands. She’s already fought the nurses for the right to feed you on her own without a bottle. No small task, I assure you. Apparently, the all-knowing “they” have said it’s better for babies to have bottles nowadays, what with the advances in food science we’ve made in recent years. I thought your mother was going to slap the nurse into next year when the woman informed Sarah that the natural method just isn’t done anymore.
Fortunately, your doctor intervened and sided with your mother before we had to start a true confrontation. He was a bit surprised to find out she plans to go home tomorrow afternoon, as staying in the hospital several days following a birth has also become the norm. But Sarah won’t be talked out of it. She told me she can’t bear the thought of being away from our home any longer than is necessary.
Given that she’s nearly the first woman in her family to give birth in a hospital, that all the others have done so at home and somehow managed to (mostly) survive and tell the tale, she figures two nights in the hospital will be more than enough time for her body to rest. Yes, the “mostly” terrifies me, but that’s my emotions speaking, not logic.
I plan to wait and see how she feels tomorrow before I weigh in with my final opinion. I’ll decide then if that’s a battle I need to pick to fight. I won’t let her risk her health, but I trust Sarah to know what’s best for herself. I’ll admit that I don’t like the idea of leaving the two of you here while I am cast out onto the streets any more than she does. Son, that might be a bit of an exaggeration about being cast out but not by much.
The nurses and doctors seem to take it as routine behavior for the father not to want to stay with his family. I saw two other men in the waiting room while Sarah was having you, both old hats at the game, and both only stuck around long enough to tell the nurse they were going to a nearby bar to tie one on. They asked me to join them, but I declined. Okay, let’s be honest—I bit their heads off for making the suggestion.
I hope when you grow up, you’re the kind of man who wants to be there for his family even when he’d rather be anywhere else—not because it’s a burdensome task, but because it hurts to know you’re helpless.
My God, John… the notion that you’re going to be an adult someday…
You’re so tiny now, I’m terrified I’ll drop you and destroy you. But you have such a strong grip! You managed to Houdini your way out of that blanket the nurse had you swaddled in, and before she could get back to you to fix that, you were holding onto my finger as tightly as you could. Sarah dismissed her from the room so we could spend some time alone with you, another move that didn’t endear your mother to the nursing staff.
Once you get to know Sarah, you’ll know she didn’t give one whit of a second thought to that nurse’s offended sensibilities. She wasn’t rude or mean, but the nurse knew by that point Sarah meant business. Sarah’s primary concern is you, and I think I’m in second place for now. John, I’m all right with that. I don’t mind sharing her with you in the least, as she holds inside her enough love for both of us.
I do think I’ll have a hard time sharing the two of you with the world. I want to carry you both away to some isolated place where we know no one, where nothing sad or tragic can ever hurt you. Already though, people are starting to show
up to visit you two. Another good reason for us to head back to the farm as soon as we can. Though I don’t think that’s going to stop people from visiting.
My little isolated world is opening up, isn’t it? I’m not entirely comfortable with that, but your mother looks out for me, makes sure the only people we invite to our home are people who are good and kind, or at least honest. Now, while she’s recovering from bringing you into the world, I’ll need to do the same for her. I hope I can manage that without scaring people away.
That brings me around to thinking again about who and what you might become as you grow older. The “what” scares me the most. Once you’re old enough to know about me, I wonder if you’ll look at me with fear and loathing or if you’ll be full of wide-eyed amazement like your mother.
I’ve still not managed to show her the wolf inside, but I surprised her with the deer a couple of times. Her laughter and fascination, her utter delight at seeing me like that, it went a long way toward starting to heal the wounds I didn’t like acknowledging I still had. Maybe someday, you and I can run together, much like Uncle Eli and his boys do or like I do when I’m with them. I’m starting to believe I’d like that very much, being able to run the hills with my sons. Sons… let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Your mother may be too tired to consider another child.
I hope you don’t want any sisters. Girls are too much trouble, though if your mother insisted, I’d probably give in. But it’d be much more peaceful with boys, don’t you think?
It’s late here, my son, and I need to try to get some rest. That’s what everyone said, “Go home, Owen. Get some sleep, Owen. You’re going to need it.” But the bed is empty without your mother. The house is too quiet, even though I’m staying with your aunt Gilly’s parents in town. I may have to try to sneak into the hospital tonight, see if I can manage to get past the night-shift nurses and keep an eye on you and your mother. I don’t see myself getting much rest here without the two of you.
