On the 4th Day of Christmas…The Gift
The Gift
By Robin Delany
The Smith Bedroom, Dec 24, 12:05 a.m.
Hattie lay on her side in front of Dylan, who draped a hand over her waist from behind. She kept her eyes trained on her bedside table and wiped at her watering eyes.
"I know we wanted to be pregnant by this Christmas, but it'll be okay, Hattie. We have each other, and that's all that matters." Dylan rubbed her hair, and his soft voice made another sob break from her throat.
"I know." She wiped again as fresh hot tears spilled over. "I should be happy for what we have."
After a year and a half of treatments and three failed rounds of in vitro fertilization that had depleted their savings, they'd spent the last five months trying to face reality. She was barren. Barren. What kind of a-hole came up with that ugly term? Like her insides were a desert, or something. She ran a finger along the ruffled pillowcase that she'd so often imagined a tiny form laying on, suckling at her breast, its little fingers wrapped around her big one.
Dylan kissed her cheek. "We may not have a baby, but we have a lot."
She stared at the ceiling, not wanting to see the ruffle, but really, it didn't matter. Everything brought her loss into focus these days. Was it considered a loss when you never had something in the first place?
"For the past five months, I've been trying to count my blessings. I really have." She held a hand up so he could see her fingers as she counted them off. "I've got a loving husband, a supportive family, and the career in journalism I’d always dreamed of. I know I've got a lot. More than so many others, in fact. I just can't make my heart accept what my head tells it." It didn't matter that she'd wanted a child far longer than her career. Or that she'd owned about fifty dolls as a girl and taken meticulous care of each one. She'd even made little outfits for her egg in Home Economics class.
"I know, sweetheart." He rubbed a knuckle down her cheek. "Try to sleep. Life is always a little harder when you're coming down with a cold. You'll feel more optimistic in a few days when it's passed and you have more energy."
"I think it's probably a mild case of food poisoning," Hattie moaned.
"That's the last time we buy sushi from a gas station."
She swiped at the last of her tears. "You can say that again."
"That's the last time we buy sushi from a gas station."
She giggled, and elbowed him playfully. "Go to sleep."
The Smith Bathroom, Dec 24, 6:05 a.m.
"I could loan you some money to try again," Mama said.
"After all these years of trying, I don't think there's anything left to do." Hattie sat on the edge of the tub, one hand holding her cell, the other covering her eyes. Her whole body ached and she'd had strange vivid dreams that agitated what little sleep she'd gotten. What the heck was her brain trying to tell her by having a giant octopus chase her across a parking lot? Ridiculous. Yet she'd woken in a sheen of sweat.
"You can try it again. Did you ask the doc—?"
"I don't know. Look, I'm not feeling well. I have to go."
"What's wrong, honey?" Mama's voice pitched higher, the way it did when she was concerned. "Are you sick?"
Her stomach roiled. "I think I have food poisoning. I'm nauseous and tired, like Dad was that time he ate the mystery container in the fridge when you weren't home to make dinner."
"Ugh. I still can't believe he did that."
Hattie smiled, practically hearing the eye roll in Mama's tone. Her stomach heaved.
"I'll see you when your flight gets in." Hattie pressed a hand against her mouth.
"But Hattie—"
She dropped the phone and voided her stomach for the second time that morning. And it was only six. This was going to be a long Christmas Eve.
The Smith Living Room, Dec 24, 12:05 p.m.
Hattie cuddled with Dylan on the couch, picking at the bland turkey sandwich he'd made her.
"Now she thinks I'm dying of the plague."
Dylan laughed. "When you stubbed your toe, your Mama thought it was the plague."
"She's a little overprotective." Hattie tried to keep her mouth straight and failed. "She means well, but she's a diagnoser. During my childhood, I had ADD, PCOS, and any other syndrome with an acronym. By the time she gets here, she'll have my symptoms all figured into an official diagnosis and the pharmacy on standby with penicillin."
"I bet she will." Dylan's smile widened to show more of his teeth, and he tugged a strand of her hair. "So, what do you think I gave you for Christmas? What's your guess this year?"
She set the sandwich on the plate at her feet and leaned into him again, resting a hand on his stomach. "I'll bet it's a bowling ball. You've been wanting one all year. I bet you got one for me so you can use it when I say I don’t want it."
He lifted an eyebrow. "And I bet you got the ultimate box set of Sex in the City for me."
"Wasn't that what you wanted?" she asked with wide eyes. "I swore it was on your list."
He smiled down at her and tweaked the tip of her nose. "You're the best thing in my life. You know that?"
"Of course I am." Hattie laughed, stretching to kiss him. "I love you, too."
The Smith Dining Room, Dec 24, 6:05 p.m.
Thud.
Hattie rubbed a hand over her face. Thud, thud.
She pushed away from the table and went to the door, pausing a moment before opening it to see Mama and Papa walking toward the house. Her stomach was rebelling again, but this time, it seemed, the rebels had pipe bombs and machine guns. Or at least pitch forks.
After hugs and kisses, hauling in bags and gifts, and an hour of work related small talk, Mama stood. "I've discovered the problem."
Hattie sneaked a sly glance to Dylan. "Oh?"
"Yes, and I've got just the thing for you here in my bag." Mama walked to where her purse sat on the kitchen counter and opened it. It must be an herbal remedy, if she had it in her purse. St. Johns Wort? Noni juice, perhaps?
Mama drew a long box with a light blue cover and a picture of a pregnancy test. Hattie's mouth fell open and a stone dropped into her stomach.
"That's cruel, Mama. I'm sick, and I'm tired, and now you shove this in my face?" She thrust a hand toward the disgustingly cheerful blue cover.
Dylan came to stand next to Hattie and put his hand on her shoulder. Papa looked away as if unaware of the conversation, as he had during every fight she and Mama had since her childhood. Hattie frowned. How diplomatic.
"That's right, sweetheart. You're sick. You're tired. When I called at eight o'clock, you said the smell of the pot roast was bothering you, and when I called again at two-thirty, you yelled at Dylan to take out the trash before it made you—what did you call it?—ah, yes, before it made you hork. You're pregnant, dear. Now take the test."
Hattie couldn't even let herself wish it in the smallest part of heart. It had been too long, there had been too many 'no's to have a 'yes' with no help. To have a yes at all. She clenched her jaw to keep her chin from trembling. "Mother, do you know what the doctor told me on our last visit?"
Dylan stiffened at her side, and Mama shook her head.
"That's because I couldn't bear to tell you. He said we'd be better off looking into a surrogate, since my body wasn't inclined to accept implantation." She stormed to the cabinet and pulled out the brochure he'd given them, and threw it on the table. It skittered off the edge and landed on the carpet at Mama's feet.
Mama bent to pick it up, studying the cover image of a couple standing on either side of a pregnant woman with their hands on her belly and insipid smiles on their faces.
"I can't give you grandkids. It's not going to happen. Face it." Hot, angry tears rolled down her cheeks.
"All right, now you listen to me, Hattie Jane Smith. You will walk into that bathroom and take this test. If it says negative, I won't say another word." She shook the box and the test clacked around inside it. "But until then, I'm going to harp on this like the cruel mother I am."
"Fine!" Hattie scowled and snatched the box from her hands. "But after this, you'll never mention children to me again. Understand?"
Mama nodded, her chin lifting an inch. Hattie huffed and turned. From the edge of Hattie's vision, a smile lifted Mama's lips. The woman may have given birth to Hattie, but she would be the death of her one of these days.
The Smith Bedroom, Dec 25, 12:05 a.m.
Hattie lay on her side in front of Dylan, who draped a hand over her waist from behind. She kept her eyes trained on her bedside table and wiped her watering eyes.
She sniffed and lifted the diamond bracelet he'd given her at the stroke of twelve. "We have to give this and your stereo to Mama for Christmas, you know. The insulated socks don't seem like enough anymore."
He kissed her cheeks. "Yeah, and we may have to get her a new car too."
She used a fingertip to wipe a tear from the ruffled pillow. "Don't go giving it all away. We've got more than just us to think of now."
"That's right. We did it, sweetheart," he whispered, his breath tickling her ear as his palm rubbed her lower abdomen. "We got our baby for Christmas."
I hope you enjoyed my little contemporary Christmas story, and I'd like to invite you to visit with me a bit more. I'm taking part in a blog hop all week (Dec 16th-23rd) Please join me on my blog for a chance to win a signed copy of Jillian Stone's An Affair With Mr. Kennedy, and a chance at the grand prize, a Nook Color.
