Navy Blues

“Right,” she answered, forcing some enthusiasm into her voice. It was working out exactly as she’d planned it: they would both wake up in the morning, feel chagrined, make their apologies and go their separate ways once more.

Only it didn’t feel the way she’d anticipated. It felt wrong. Very wrong.

Steve was in the living room before she moved from the bed. Grabbing a thin robe from her closet, she slipped into it as she rushed after him.

He seemed to be waiting for her, pacing the entryway. He combed his fingers through his hair a couple of times before turning to look at her.

“So you want to forget last night?” he asked.

“I … if you do,” she answered.

“I do.”

Carol’s world toppled for a moment, then quickly righted itself. She understood—it was better this way. “Thank you for the poinsettia and candy.” It seemed inappropriate to mention the terrific lovemaking.

“Right.” His answer was clipped, as though he was eager to be on his way. “Thanks for the dinner … and everything else.”

“No problem.” Stepping around him, Carol opened the door. “It was good to see you again, Steve.”

“Yeah, you, too.”

He walked out of the house and down the steps, and watching him go did crazy things to Carol’s equilibrium. Suddenly she had to lean against the doorjamb just to remain upright. Something inside her, something strong and more powerful than her own will demanded that she stop him.

“Steve,” she cried frantically. She stood on tiptoe. “Steve.”

He turned around abruptly.

They stared at each other, each battle scarred and weary, each hurting. Each proud.

“Merry Christmas,” she said softly.

“Merry Christmas.”

* * *

Three days after Christmas, Carol was convinced her plan had worked perfectly. Thursday morning she woke feeling sluggish and sick to her stomach. A book she’d been reading on pregnancy and childbirth stated that the best way to relieve those early bouts of morning sickness was to nibble on soda crackers first thing—even before getting out of bed.

A burning sense of triumph led her into the bathroom, where she stared at herself in the mirror as though her reflection would proudly announce she was about to become a mother.

It had been so easy. Simple really. One tempestuous night of passion and the feat was accomplished. Her hand rested over her abdomen, and she patted it gently, feeling both proud and awed. A new life was being nurtured there.

A baby. Steve’s child.

The wonder of it produced a ready flow of emotion and tears dampened her eyes.

Another symptom!

The book had explained that her emotions could be affected by the pregnancy—that she might be more susceptible to tears.

Wiping the moisture from the corners of her eyes, Carol strolled into the kitchen and searched the cupboard for saltines. She found a stale package and forced herself to eat two, but she didn’t feel any better than she had earlier.

Not bothering to dress, she turned on the television and made herself a bed on the sofa. Boeing workers were given the week between Christmas and New Year’s off as part of their employment package. Carol had planned to spend the free time painting the third bedroom—the one she planned to use for the baby. Unfortunately she didn’t have any energy. In fact, she felt downright sick, as though she were coming down with a case of the flu.

A lazy smile turned up the edges of her mouth. She wasn’t about to complain. Nine months from now, she would be holding a precious bundle in her arms.

Steve’s and her child.

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