Three Wishes (38 page)

Everything was done. It was barely noon.

She was in the family room, wondering what to do with herself, when Tom said, “Open your gifts.” They were gaily wrapped and stacked under the tree—gifts for her, gifts for him, even gifts for the baby.

She considered it but shook her head. “Nah. I'll wait till morning.”

“You didn't last year. Remember that?”

Grinning, she slid her arms around his waist. “Last year was my first Christmas. This year I'm more mature. But you can open yours, if you're impatient.”

“I already got mine, even besides this one.” He patted her belly. “Want to go to the diner for lunch?”

That was good for two hours. A movie at the mall was good for another two. It was dusk by the time they returned to town, blustery and gray, but Christmas Eve. Trees on the green were strung with bright lights. Every window in sight had a candle. The church at the head of the oval was bathed in white. The air was rife with wood smoke and pine.

Bree felt an odd unreality as they rounded the green, felt almost distanced from the holiday, though in its midst. She felt distracted. She felt
removed.

Back at the house, Tom built up the fire. She napped against him and woke up feeling like a ten-ton load. She wasn't hungry for dinner. She felt stuffed even before she began. So she nibbled while Tom ate, and peppered the meal with frequent reassurances, lest he worry.

The plan was to attend midnight services with the rest of the town. She had showered and was standing before the closet in her robe, doubting that even her maternity clothes would fit over her pitifully swollen stomach, when her water broke. For a minute she just stood there looking down, knowing what had happened but paralyzed. Then she came alive with a long, broken breath.

“Tom?
Tom!”

 

Tom was alerted by the alarm in her voice, well before he saw the puddle on the floor or the panic on her face. It was the latter that kept him calm.

“What do you feel?” he asked.

“Wet,” she said, in a high voice.

“Any contractions?”

“Not yet.”

“Okay,” he said. He knew what to do, had been holding mental rehearsals for days. After guiding her to the bathroom and helping her dry off, he sat her on the toilet seat, with instructions not to move, and called Paul Sealy.

She was still on the toilet seat when he returned, which said something about her fear.

He took her face in his hands. “Paul's on his way.” He kissed her eyes and her nose. “Let's get you dressed.”

She nodded and did what she could to help, but she was shaking so badly her contribution was negligible.

Tom didn't mind. He had enough energy for both of them. “Left leg . . . I've got it; now the right . . . that's my girl,” he soothed, and when the bottom half was done, he did the same for the top. “There . . . second arm, there you go. Now over the head. Good.” He combed her hair with his fingers. “Okay?”

She nodded convulsively. “Okay.”

By the time she was belted into his truck, she was feeling mild contractions. “What if it comes fast?” she asked. “What if we don't get there in time?”

“We'll get there in time.”

“Drive fast.”

Holding her hand the whole way, kissing it from time to time, he drove as fast as he dared. He wouldn't have minded being stopped by a cop and getting an escort, but it was Christmas Eve. He doubted cops were on patrol, in this neck of the woods at least. Houses were lit, people inside. The roads were quiet.

The last time Tom had made this trip at night, he had been terrified that Bree would die. A tiny part of him had the same fear now.

“I love you, Tom,” she said in a tremulous voice.

“You'll be fine, Bree. This is our baby being born. It's the best Christmas gift in the world.”

“Christmas. Oh, Lord.” She took a shaky breath and smiled at Tom. “Last chance to bet. What do you think? Wyatt or Chloe?”

“I'll love either one.”

“Bet, Tom. Just for fun. Loser does middle-of-the-night diapers for a week.”

“I say Wyatt.”

“So do I. What happens now?”

“We do diapers together.” Tom liked the thought of that, but it left his mind seconds later. Pulling up at the medical center's emergency entrance, assailed by the fear he had tried to assuage, he wondered—again—why he hadn't taken Bree back to New York, where the best doctors in the world would have assured that she'd live. The answer came with the appearance of Paul Sealy and the nurses they both knew and trusted, running out to help Bree into a wheelchair.

Tom wouldn't be separated from her. He held her hand when they wheeled her inside and took her upstairs, letting go only to pull scrubs on. Then he was leaning over her, talking her softly through lengthening contractions, trying to calm her, trying to calm himself—all the while fearing that he was on a runaway train on a downhill track with no hope of stopping, no chance of regaining control. Too quickly, she was changed, prepped, and wheeled into the operating room. Too quickly, she was given a spinal, the anesthesiologist was monitoring her vital signs, and a drape was put up at the spot where her belly began.

“I love you,” Tom whispered against her knuckles, taking heart in the strength of her fingers. Their eyes clung. When hers filled with tears, he kissed them away. Then he smiled. “You're beautiful. And so strong.”

“What's he doing?” she whispered.

“Getting the baby out.” He smoothed dark strands of hair back from her cheeks, which were pale but wonderfully warm.

“I can't feel it.”

“Remember he said you wouldn't? That's the spinal.”

“I love you,” she mouthed.

He mouthed the words back, brushing more tears away with his hand.

Then, from the other side of the sheet, came a pleased, “Well, well. It looks like we have a healthy, perfectly formed little . . .
boy . . .
who is . . . getting . . . ready . . . to cry.”

The cry came, lusty and long. Bree broke into a smile, but it swam through the tears in Tom's eyes. He touched her face, kissed her, touched her neck, kissed her, so relieved,
so relieved
that she was alive and happy and his. “A boy,” he breathed.

“I'm
so glad,”
Bree cried, laughing.

Her laughter died on a fast, indrawn breath when the nurse appeared on their side of the drape with the loosely wrapped baby. He was red and wrinkly, clearly in need of something more than the cursory wiping they'd done, but he was the most beautiful thing Tom had ever seen. It struck him then, as it hadn't quite done during the months when process had overshadowed product, that this was his flesh and blood. This little thing was a human being. It was the little boy he and Bree had made.

His hand shook when he took the baby from the nurse, and his touch was awkward. But nothing would have kept him from it. Holding his minutes-old child had been a fantasy of his, but only half. He satisfied the other half by carefully placing the tiny bundle in Bree's waiting arms.

She was crying again, smiling as widely as he. He felt light-headed, and no wonder. A huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Bree was alive.
Alive.
And they had a son.

 

At right about the time when midnight services were in progress, Bree was wheeled to a room not unlike that in which she had stayed the year before. This time, though, the air was festive, and she was wide awake and full of energy. The fact that once the spinal wore off she would feel the pain of the surgery didn't matter. She loved Tom. She loved the baby. And she was alive.

From where she lay, she had a front-row view of Tom's face as he stood by the baby's crib, at the foot of her bed. She loved his awe, loved his love, loved his excitement and pleasure and gratitude. She loved life, even loved the
afterlife
that had enhanced her appreciation of all this. She felt bold and strong, felt so very happy that if she died right then, she would have died luckier than most.

It was a heartrending admission, but not one that she had time to dwell on. Julia and Jane arrived shortly thereafter. They had been tipped off when she and Tom hadn't shown up at church, and when a call to the house went unanswered, they'd headed here. Since it was the holiday, and since they swore they were next closest to Bree after Tom, the nurses let them in.

“He's beautiful, he's beautiful,” Jane said.

Julia didn't speak, but the look on her face, in her eyes, said the same thing, and when she went to Bree, took her hand, and held it tight, Bree heard even more. Julia was happy. She was pleased for Bree and pleased for Tom. She was proud of the baby—though not even yet aware Bree wanted her to be godmother to Wyatt. That request was in the note accompanying the gift Bree had left at Julia's house for Christmas day.

Minutes later, Flash arrived. He was followed by Liz and Abby. No one cared about the hour. It was the holiday, and a nicer thing couldn't have happened. Bree lay in bliss, feeling no pain at all, with her husband sitting close by her side and their son asleep at the foot of the bed.

 

By two in the morning, the nurses shooed away everyone but Tom. By three, Bree shooed off him, too.

“You need sleep,” she said.

“No, I don't.” He had one arm over her head, the other holding her hand. Clearly, he didn't want to move.

“Well, then, I do.”

“I'll stay and watch you sleep.”

“I won't sleep if I know you're here, but if neither of us do, who'll take care of the baby tomorrow? I won't be able to do much, and I'll feel awful if I know you got no sleep at all. Besides, the baby won't be doing anything more for a while.” She had already put him to her breast, though her milk wasn't in yet. Tom had changed his first diaper. They had oohed and ahhed over every inch of baby body, from tiny fingers and toes to Bree's mouth, Tom's eyes, and a thatch of auburn hair that came from God knew where. “Sleep for a few hours. Then call Alice and your dad. Load up the camera, and come back at eight. Maybe by then they'll let me up. You can help me to the bathroom, kind of like old times, y'know?”

He didn't budge.

She gave his hand a teasing shake. “I'll be here.”

He breathed a sigh of relief. “You will, won't you.” He kissed her, then went to the crib and kissed the baby. When he returned to kiss Bree again, there was a catch in his voice. “You are the most wonderful woman in the world.” He sandwiched her hands between his and brought them to his mouth. “Know what I'm imagining now?”

She shook her head.

“Growing old with you,” he said. “Watching the baby grow and have babies of his own. Walking down a lane, slowly when we can't go faster. Sitting on the porch in the sun when our creaky old bones need the heat. Aren't those incredible pictures?”

They were. They lingered with Bree long after Tom finally left, and they had her smiling into the night. Up until then, she hadn't dared think so far ahead. Now she could, and the thoughts brought a certain serenity. It swelled within her, as light, bright, and buoyant as the being of light that had started all this.

Were the wishes real? She believed that they were. She had conceived a child because she wished it, which meant she wouldn't have any more children, but that was fine, so fine. She had Tom and Tom's child, and a happiness that knew no bounds at all. The being of light had been good to her. She owed it deep, deep thanks.

Closing her eyes, she conjured it up. There was no waiting this time. It was right there, had probably been there all along through such a momentous night. She felt its love and approval, and the warmth of its smile. She smiled back when it opened its arms in welcome. Feeling radiant and ethereal, maternal and loved, she released a long, slow, satisfied breath and went up for a hug.

17

T
om couldn't sleep. He tried to only because Bree had asked, but kept jumping up to check the clock, striding from room to room, bursting with pride and relief. He wanted to go right back to the hospital, but he knew Bree needed sleep. So he busied himself readying his camera for the first photographs of his son.