Starry-eyed and flushed, my body coursed with the most feminine of yearnings. I felt sensual sensations I’d never experienced before, not even with the father of my baby. I felt faint, fevered, and completely unprepared for the gruff rumble of Luke’s rigid ouster. Though his features retained a trace of his more kindly demeanor, the determined set of his once-pliable mouth shocked me back to reality, centered me on the task at hand—facing my folks.
My folks. The mere thought of them sent a chill up my spine and weakened my knees.
With Luke’s reliable bulk bolstering my sagging spirit, I handed my parents my decision, and girded myself for their virtuous reprimand. But true to Luke’s prediction, they were more happy to see me return safe and sound, than they were at my hard-won decision. They didn’t mind the adoption plan and allowed me back into the house.
Before he left on his turnaround haul to Michigan, Luke accompanied me to a local women’s clinic, and held my hand through the embarrassing question-and-answer counseling, patiently reading dogeared magazines while I underwent my physical examination.
The clinic proved a godsend of help and reassurance. They even hooked me up with a sympathetic doctor and a reputable adoption agency.
As my gloom gave way to springtime blossoms, the weeks passed in supercharged emotions. Although I’d left him high and dry, my boss welcomed me back without dissension. My high school had more to say, though, and they were infinitely hesitant to permit me back to class. Still, once they learned that I would not “brag” about my condition, and I assured them that I would not “show” before graduation, they capitulated, and reluctantly let me finish out my senior year.
My ex-boyfriend had absolutely no interest in our baby. He avoided me like the plague. But somehow, I didn’t care. Indeed, I was glad to be rid of him—an immature, selfish little boy.
Through it all, I had one unvarying, uncompromising champion in my corner: Luke Jameson.
Luke called me every night, and sent me postcards from random truck stops. Every two weeks, he came through town and took me out to dinner and a movie. Luke listened to my troubles, and stroked the burgeoning roundness of my belly as though the being inside was an object of phenomenal delight. Luke giggled like a first-time father every time an errant foot or fidgety fist nudged his loving hand.
Despite our closeness and obvious physical attraction toward one another, by mutual, unspoken agreement, we did not fool around sexually. We never kissed or touched again, but we did constantly hold hands. Our emotional bonds grew more personal, but our physical relationship stayed strictly platonic.
Since I intended to give the baby up for adoption, I struggled to remain unattached to my little bundle, which I frequently referred to as “the fetus.” Nonetheless, some things are easier said than done.
As my belly protruded, bounced around, and ruined my sleep, I couldn’t help but talk to it. Late at night and early in the morning, I told it my life story, and dreamed aloud its prospects with some loving, caring family. My hands became a safeguarding shield around it’s shifting, kicking orbit. With all my might and no-nonsense logic, I endeavored not to love it. I desperately tried not to think of my unborn child’s postpartum future.
As my due date grew nearer, winding down to a last few days, I was surprised to see Luke in a pickup truck, instead of his usual eighteen-wheeler. He wasn’t scheduled to arrive for days. I was, however, immeasurably joyous to see him. But I’d never felt larger, more uncomfortable, or more unlovable. The baby had been too quiet and my back ached fiercely.
Luke jumped out of the cab and winked at me. His eyes roamed up and down my huge torso like I was the most beautiful woman in the world. I almost cried, but then, I was always near to tears, it seemed.
“How can you look at me and be so proud, Luke?” I waddled toward him and gave him a pudgy-faced grimace. “I’m a water balloon about to pop!”
“Oh, I love water balloons. They’re so darned squishy and soft and bright and cheerful. Besides, Kelli—you are glowing. Simply radiant, sugar.”
I rolled my eyes and sighed at his playful assessment while Luke made his customary acknowledgment of the baby. Gently, he patted my oversized stomach, and held a sunny conversation with my belly.
Not unlike me, Luke enjoyed talking to my tummy and usually explained his latest trip and any excitement he’d had along the way. Not only did his one-sided chats entertain me, but his carefree dialogue seemed to affect the baby. It responded to Luke’s voice with a muffled squiggle and an amniotic gurgle.
“What are you doing here, now, Luke?”
He shrugged bashfully. “I took my vacation. I wanted to be here with you when the baby comes.”
“Who knows when the baby will be born?” I groused, weary of being pregnant, terrified of the childbirth ahead, and profoundly relieved to have him with me.
“I’d say soon. You hungry?”
“No,” I admitted, amazed that I hadn’t been all day. “Just tired and swollen. My feet hurt and my back is killing me.”
Luke’s grin widened hopefully. “Really?”
As if on cue, another spasm shifted the load within me and a sharp cramp shot through my torso. I stumbled, caught by Luke’s steadying embrace.
Alarmed and leery, I straightened, only to feel the almost soothing sensation of something warm oozing inside, then staining my maternity pants. I gasped and looked up into Luke’s eyes.
“Maybe we’d better put off lunch until after we call the doctor,” Luke said panting, his arms tight around me. He held me strong against his chest.
“Good idea,” I chuckled, then was hit by another savage jab.
For the next ten hours, Luke never left my side. He sponged my sweating face, watched the bleeping monitors, and didn’t even notice the ragged welts my fingernails had clawed onto the backs of his hands. When the baby braced itself against my lungs and wrung out the air within them, Luke drew a breath for us all, and loosened my labor with his tranquilizing voice.
When at last the delivery-time came, they draped a concealing sheet to separate me from the happenings below. Luke held my hand and braved the curtained sheet.
Through his eyes, I watched the birth of my baby. As I bore down for a last, tooth-grinding push, Luke gasped, and shared the life-freeing cramp with me. His mouth formed an awestruck circle and moisture glistened in his eyes.
Seconds ticked by, and time hung suspended in that breathless heartbeat. Then, my baby sputtered toward independent life with a shrill cry.
Helpless and fragile, the newborn’s voice grew stronger, more determined, until its scream was boisterous. And with each life-reaffirming squall, I gripped Luke’s hand, choking back my own bittersweet tears.
“Is it okay, Luke? Is my baby all right?”
“Oh, Kelli,” he twisted, eyes brimming with emotion. “She’s beautiful. She’s perfect.”
“Can I see her? Can I touch her?” I sobbed, squeezing his hand with all my frail, drug-induced power.
“Better not, honey,” the nurse interceded, blocking what little view I may have sneaked.
“Oh, please!” I beseeched her, but my pleas fell on deaf ears.
Fortunately, Luke was not as sensible. With a puckered smile on his lips, he leaned away from me and reached toward my baby.
Although I could not see my baby, the instant Luke made contact with her, I felt her in my entire being. I could almost feel Luke’s strong hand caressing her. His hand tightened on mine and his face beamed with unadulterated joy. Luke stroked her little body, and whispered sweet phrases against her ear. Soon, her angry cries hiccuped away.
“Oh!” Luke chortled,