Having The Soldier's Baby. Tara Taylor Quinn
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woman, Emily hugged herself.
Wednesday, June 26. Winston’s baby was growing inside her!
She prayed that wherever he was, he knew. And was smiling, too.
* * *
He’d been by the house twice. Once when he’d first arrived in San Diego. He’d rented a car and driven up to Marie Cove just to see the home he and Emily had purchased together. To see if he could tell if she was still living there.
The curtains had been the same—which didn’t say a lot. The yard had been manicured in a way that pleased him—which was saying a lot, but not that she was still living there. He hadn’t hung around long enough to notice anything else. Where she was hadn’t mattered. What mattered was knowing she was okay.
He’d requested that someone he trusted on base ask around for him. And had toasted her with a few beers when he’d heard that she was still at the same firm, with the same home address. He knew nothing more than that. Hadn’t wanted to know.
If she was remarried, living with someone, it was none of his business. He wished her well from the bottom of his heart. Needed her to be happy.
The second time he drove by, he’d meant to stop. In light of the agreement he’d made with the naval psychiatrist, he’d asked if he could be the one to let his wife know he was still alive. After all, he wasn’t assuming a new identity. Which meant that they had to divorce for her to be free to continue living her new life. No one but him was going to be able to convince her of that. And her seeing what he’d become, understanding from the moment she heard he was still living that her husband was never coming back, was mandatory for her well-being.
But that Wednesday in June, a week after his first meeting with his shrink, he drove a different rental car right by the house he now knew to still be Emily’s home, without even slowing down. Thing was, it struck him, turning onto that street, that the house was still his, too. His name was on the title.
Which made things messy. He didn’t do messy these days. His life had one dimension left, and messy didn’t compute there.
So he drove on by.
* * *
There were just too many cribs in the world. And not enough to choose from in the stores. Pulling into her driveway Saturday, just before noon, Emily barely noticed the car parked out front. Her mind was on the four-in-one convertible crib she’d seen online—the one with the drawer underneath and the far side that was taller than the others, like a headboard. She’d hoped to find it that morning, to have a chance to make sure in person that it was easy enough for her to manipulate alone before she purchased it. And she wanted it in white. Or brown. Half of what she’d seen was gray. As popular as the color was apparently becoming in the home design world, she just couldn’t bring more gray into her life. And most particularly not into the nursery.
It wasn’t until she’d pulled into her garage, pushed the button to close the door behind her, entered in through the kitchen and heard a knock on her front door that she thought of the car out front. A dark, expensive-looking sedan. In the back of her mind she’d figured it belonged to someone visiting the family across the street. The Bloomingtons had a lot of extended family, and an endless number of weekend get-togethers. They had a lovely backyard pool. Had invited her over a few times...
Reaching for the front door handle, she wondered if the visit was just that—another Bloomington family invitation. It was June, soon to be July. Warm and sunny. Made sense they’d be having a pool party...
Stopping just short of unlocking the door, she peered out the peephole.
What?
She knew the white dress uniform of the naval officer, thought maybe she recognized the female chaplain who accompanied him. And maybe the other guy looked familiar, too, a medical something or other. The team that had come within a day of Winston going missing two years before had looked eerily similar.
With a sick feeling, she stood still for a moment. Even with a mental rundown of every loved one she could ever remember having, she couldn’t come up with someone they’d be there to tell her about. She’d already lost the only navy officer she’d ever loved.
Were they there about the baby? Winston’s heir? No. She shook her head. That made no sense. But thinking of the small life inside her gave her the strength to straighten up and open the door.
“I’m Senior Chief Petty Officer Greg Hall...” The man introduced himself and the chaplain and medic with him. She stood frozen. “May we come in?”
Standing back, she let them enter, closed the door, showed them to the couch in the living room. Two years before, she’d brought them to the dining room table. And had had trouble eating at the table for weeks after they’d left.
She didn’t use the living room much anymore. She was always in her office, where she had a comfortable lounger and television, or going to bed, when she was at home.
That would change, though. Now that she was going to be a family.
And then it hit her.
“I already got the letter,” she said, before Officer Hall could do more than settle on the edge of the chair across from them. “I know Winston’s been proclaimed dead.”
“That’s what we need to speak with you about, Mrs. Hannigan.” Officer Hall, a man looking to be close to forty with a hint of silver at his temples, spoke as his small team watched her.
They were ready to react, she supposed, to needs she might express. Whether emotional or physical. Nice of them, really. But quite unnecessary at this point.
She’d held it together the last time a team had visited her, too. Back then she’d been certain that Winston would return to her.
“That letter... I don’t quite know how to express this...it’s unusual, to be sure...”
She waited. Felt for the guy. What, her death benefits weren’t going to be as described? She could tell him she didn’t care, but knew that the navy had its protocols. That there was probably a manual description Officer Hall was attempting to adhere to. Protocols were there for good reason, Winston always used to tell her.
Chaplain Blaine, her tag read on the navy blue jacket, leaned forward, almost reaching out a hand that, instead, landed on her own knee.
Hall coughed. “Are you here alone, ma’am?”
“Yes.” If you didn’t count the baby.
“And, since your husband was declared dead, are you in a relationship...?” He cleared his throat. “Is there anyone else who could or should be here with you?”
Frowning, Emily looked from one to the other of the three of them. All in their uniforms. Looking so...uncomfortable. She didn’t get it. She’d already been told Winston was dead.
What could they tell her that would be worse than death?
“I don’t need anyone here with me,” she said. “I live alone. And no, I’m not in a relationship, though what that has to do with anything...” She let her words trail off as she heard the defensiveness in her tone. They were good people doing their jobs. Apparently a very difficult one that morning.
Stomach churning, Emily was taking a breath to ask what was going on when Officer Hall spoke.
“We’re here to tell you that your husband is not dead, Mrs. Hannigan...”
He said more. She could hear the drone of a male voice. Felt eyes on her. Met the gaze of the redheaded chaplain and locked there.
Your husband is not dead, Mrs. Hannigan.
Was she going crazy? Had he really said those incredible, beautiful, miraculous words? But...
There was compassion in the chaplain’s gaze. Along with other things she couldn’t decipher at the moment. But one thing was pretty clear. There was no light of joy. No sparkle. With jerky