***
I catch my eyes drifting every so often to the plump slightness of her belly, peeking out from beneath her sweater. It has just begun to kick now, testing at the boundaries of her womb, looking for a way to escape her insides, as though, like its parents, it cannot be content in its home. Yet, she rests her hand upon it, comforting and quiet, sometimes murmuring small words I do not recognize.
Our walls are smaller now, and I am restless. Like a wolf’s sire, I stalk around the entrance to our humble home, and wonder if I should take the chance to move her. There is only one place we could go, and I’m certain that those four brick walls have changed by now. I lean into the room, glance over her shoulder. She perspires, but makes no move to hide it. And I am thoughtful.
I spend nights awake, wondering what it will look like. While she sleeps beside me, mumbling quietly about nothingness, I stare up at the ceiling. I have no hope left in anything that one might pray to, but still, I beg that our child will not be pointed at, prejudiced against, noticed. Though I have always been reluctant about fighting for the cause, I do fight for it. Yet, what father wants such a fight for his children?
My hand rests on the lump beneath her nightgown as I wake her. My lips, close to her ears, whisper urgency and worry. I spread fingers through her hair, gently stroking, maintaining peace. But my voice is strong, unyielding, and eventually, she rises from her slumber. Green, soulful eyes greet me sleepily, yet there is a glimmer of understanding, a twinkle of thanks unspoken. I help her from beneath the tangle of sheets.
I can smell the minutes ticking away, though there is still time for her, for us. She carefully packs all that she will need, while I throw together my own belongings. I watch her, pacing, a tempest. At last, she is ready, and I swoop from the door to start the engine. I do not know when we will return here. This house has served us well, but it is not home. I stare for only a moment at the door, the plaque bearing our names, the shining brass mail slot. What did we ever think of, moving here?
She stumbles in her shoes, and so I lift her. She’s only slightly heavier, and it is no burden. Her smiles, her giggles, they lighten the load that bears down on my shoulders. A warm kiss finds its home on my cheek, then my mouth. Each one is a gift for which I am certainly unworthy. I place her in the seat, reach over her to fasten the belt, and replace her lips with mine.
The road is rough, torn with winter ice, and drifts of packed snow. She turns the heat up high, and sings quietly to the radio. Though her belly protrudes, she lifts her legs up, resting her socked feet on the edge of the seat. Her knees wobble beneath her chin, and I glimpse uncertainty in her emeralds. During the entire trip, I glance back into the mirror and wonder if I’ve done the right thing.
We must stop every few hours. She nibbles at food, or uses the facilities. I walk in to the gas stations or truck stops with her, protective. I am aware she can take care of herself, but I stand by her regardless. In the car, she’s littered half eaten sandwiches, or partially consumed cups of milk. She talks to the lump, staring at crusts of bread with tuna salad stuffed between them, asking if that sick feeling in the pit of her stomach is a sign of its intelligence. She hails me to stop, and vomits out the window.
It seems like months later when we cross the county line, though it has been only a couple of days. I have not slept, but it makes no difference. I cannot even remember the last time my eyes closed for more than a minute. The town is unchanged, dotted by impressive homes with rolling yards, and sculpted fox wood bushes. Beside me, my wife presses her nose to the passenger window and watches memories float by. Tears stain her cheeks. The lump kicks, timid.
The gates swing open before I can utter a word. Though they’ve made no sign to show us, I know they know we’re here. Perhaps they’ve known since the moment I decided to leave. They’re tricky like that. Together, we scan the tapered lawn poking out through a sprinkling of snow. We watch children creating snowmen, pelting each other with balls of ice and powder, laughing and talking.
I stop the car as close to the door as I can manage. She is out before I can speak, but she does not move to the entrance. Instead, she stands nervously near the hood, touching the metal lightly with her fingertips, a support. I come around and offer her a hand. She looks up at me, and her eyes brim with tears. Anxiety clings to her skin, lingering in my nostrils.
I offer to carry her, but she shakes her head. So, instead, I take her hand, bring it to my lips, and then hold her steady. We walk to the door together, my other hand shoved in the pocket of my coat. She stays close to my side, as though frightened of what may lie behind those solid mahogany doors. I sniff the air instinctively.
The portal opens before I have a chance to knock. I’m on my guard, hairs prickling the back of my neck. A seemingly ancient face greets us, eyes worn by time, clouded by cataracts, yet all seeing and all knowing. Behind him, another figure, white gaze creased by wrinkles. They both smile, and a slight ease befalls me.
“Professor,” she says at last, touching her belly, as though to ensure she is still carrying it.
“Welcome home.” He smiles, offering his hand to her, allowing her fingers to find his. He knows before either of us has the chance to speak, and it is a surprising comfort to not have to explain.
“Welcome home, Logan,” Ro smiles. She backs away from the door and allows us inside.
***
End.
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