Thumping. That's the best word I have to describe the incessant beats against my insides. We've moved past the flutters and the swoops and are firmly in the phase of the thumps. They come before the wallops, thank goodness, but I know that it won't be long before the thumps are a distant memory of gentleness compared to the hard hitting wallops that will assail my internal organs. Owen was the same way, and at least I am not surprised by it this time around. What does surprise me is the frequency with which I am awoken by the thumps. This time around I am not able to maintain an even remotely normal sleep schedule, as my sleep is interrupted by my unborn baby several times a night.
I roll myself over to face the bare back of James Buchanan Barnes, who is still sleeping soundly and blissfully unaware of my current wakefulness. He's lying on his right side, his breaths come steady and deep and are accompanied by a gentle whir of clicks as gears turn slowly, almost methodically, while his metal arm is at rest. I scooch closer to him and the light scent of hydraulic fluid and oil mingles with the more musky smell of a man whose days are spent caring for a property and for his son after the child gets out of school. The way he smells is as familiar to me as anything I've ever known.
We've shared this bed for three years, integrating him in the life I'd built with our son, Owen, and after six years since I first came here, the property in the shadow of the mountains is more ours than not. I finally coaxed a small garden to eventually take root with the help of our neighbor, Maggie, and a small tabby cat joined the family last year when Owen begged for a pet. She spends most of her time outside, keeping the mouse population in check.
This time it wasn't a surprise when I fell pregnant. James began dropping hints a year and a half ago, saying how he'd always wondered what I looked like carrying Owen, that I was probably radiant.
"Yeah," I'd laughed. "Like a radiant planet."
He stayed quiet about it for a little while, but pretty soon the questions would trickle in more frequently, and then the discussions followed. We talked at length about whether we'd ever want another child, whether it was still safe enough to do this again, and when the hypotheticals turned into serious details, I knew that we were deciding to go down the road.
I sigh in the tiny frustration when the thumps hit my abdominal wall, a steady rhythm that rolls me over onto my other side and towards the man who sleeps beside me. I trail my fingertips up his side and receive a shudder in response. If I can't sleep then neither will he. It's mean, I know this, but I want his company since it was missed the first time around.
When James moans from being pulled suddenly from his dreams the noise slips into me like thick, warm syrup and spreads through me to unexpected places.
"Your baby is awake," I murmur into his back, pressing my lips against his warm skin. I measure my body against his, molding it to fit but the convex curve of my growing belly prevents me from being a true 'big spoon'. The strong kicks continue to beat at the place where my bump meets the small of his back.
"How come it's only 'my child' when it wakes you up, Al?" he says, but there is a gentle jest in his voice and the nickname he calls me. He rolls over and puts a warm hand on me. He's unable to contain the grin that splits his face when the baby thumps his palm.
"Because you did this to me," I say and press a kiss to him.
"And I'd do it again," he replies. He inches closer for another kiss and a heat rises in my body.
"We'll see about that," I say. "I'm not sure I'll let you put me through this again." I bite his lower lip and he smiles again, laughing a little when I grab the sensitive skin. Things escalate quickly and we are a sleepy haze of caresses and drawn together limbs and lips.
"You didn't seem to mind it," he says between caught breaths against my hot skin. I want to devour every part of him that I can lay my hands on and my fingers find their way beneath fabric and elicit a low laugh from him.
But before we can strip away the sleeping clothes, a small knock on our door interrupts our rush of hormones and desires, followed by a little voice.
"Momma?" Owen calls and the door cracks open just slightly. James, whose breaths still come quick and heavy, flips onto his stomach and brings a wandering hand to rest on a more chaste area of my body.
"Come on in, Punkin," I call and sit up slightly to see Owen ease himself into the room. He's rubbing sleep from his eyes and his alligator is tucked under his arm. I reach out for him. Despite being in the first grade and often declaring his independence, there are still times like these when he wants us.
"I had a bad dream," he says. He crawls up onto the bed and wriggles into the space between James and I. James loops an arm around his son and I settle myself down again to watch the two of them work out the nightmare together. There are still times when James will wake up covered in sweat and stay up half the night trying to chase the memories from the backs of his eyes. But I know that he grounds himself in the quiet of our house and will visit our slumbering son, just to remind himself where he is.
Owen tells us about the dream, and while James is absorbed in the task I rub my hand up and down my belly and then run it over Owen's back, soothing him and I can hear it in his voice when he starts to drift off to sleep again. James reaches over the boy and puts his hand back on the bump and receives strong thumps in response. A wave of contentment rushes through me at the four of us being connected in the moment. It overwhelms me.
I will pay with a day of extraordinary tiredness. A day where my head rests in my hand more often than I would like and I take a quick nap in my office instead of working on dictations. But there is a soccer game this afternoon that I am needed at, and the demands of my working schedule seem less and less important as the time for leaving draws near. I've cut back my hours at the clinic, letting the other docs take the load and have discussed the plans to step down to part-time after maternity leave with the supervisors.
I leave early and drive to the park where the game will be, meeting James in the parking lot who is fielding a soccer ball with Owen beside the car. He's got the sleeves of his flannel rolled up to the elbows, unbuttoned to reveal the white t-shirt underneath and his metal arm flashes in the mid-autumn sun. The story was easy enough to pass off, that it's part of a government program of new types of prosthetics for veterans, and in a town this size we only had to convince a few influential people of the story and everyone else followed suit. The strange looks and whispers have died down, and most accept that it's just a part of him.
James carries two folding chairs and we follow Owen to the field where the rest of his team is "warming up" for their game. When six-year olds play soccer, there isn't a whole lot of real play going on. Mostly we will spend the next hour or so watching a huddle of them chase the ball around the field while a good-natured referee tries to make sense of who actually has control over the ball and who doesn't. I don't envy his job, but it is entertaining to watch the pack move along as one. Owen has perfected his toning down of his strengths, running at the speed of the other kids and letting others kick goals. There have been times though when he's gotten carried away and launched the ball from halfway down the field to sail into the goal.
"I got a call from the doctor today," I say to James, who actually spends very little time in his chair, preferring to pace and cheer whenever the pack gets close to either goal. He turns towards me and his brows are knit together in concern. I forget how new this is to him.
"What did they want?" he asks.
"Just to schedule the cesarean," I reply, keeping my tone light. "I wanted to run it by you though to make sure that you had blocked off a chunk of time with Steve so that you could be home."
"Right," he says, running a hand through his hair and reminding me so much of a young Paul Newman.
Every so often there are requests from Steve for James to come along on missions that take him away for a week or so at a time. But we both know that he could never turn down the requests. I endure these, knowing that Steve is just as much a part of our family and that there will always be loyalty and affection between the two of them that I should never get in the way of. But we had agreed that James would stay for the birth and for the duration of my leave. I didn't need to be worrying about him on top of the stress of a newborn.
"He knows I need that time," he assures me and comes to sit, the worry in his brows still there.
"Are they sure it's normal?" he says offhandedly, breaking out the conversation that has clearly been going through his head. "To go automatically to the surgery for the second baby? You don't even get to try?"
"Yes," I say reassuringly. "It's what is safest for me and for this one." I press my hands on the spot where the baby is and give it a scratch. As is it's habit it stays quiet during the day.
"And you're okay with that?"
"I have to be. But yes, I'm okay with it as long as you're there with me this time."
The look on his face is excitement mixed with fear, a look he had the first few days after choosing to stay with us those years ago, and I take his hand and give it a squeeze to let him know that there isn't anything to worry about. We will make it through together, the same way we've handled everything else that's come our way.
Something at the end of the field catches my eye, a man in a baseball cap pulled low over his face is striding our way, shoulders hunched and his hands buried deep in his pockets. I can see him over James' shoulder and he turns around to see what I'm focused on when he notices my gaze drifting.
"The hell?" he lets out as the man approaches us and we catch a blonde haired, blue eyed smirk under the cap. It catches me so far off guard that I let myself fall back into the chair and I shake my head.
"Steve," James says to his friend, who reaches out a hand and the two embrace quickly and pound each other on the back, their usual greeting and goodbye combined into one gesture.
"Hey, Buck," Steve says and I just give him a weak wave. Whatever has brought him unannounced to our corner of the country can't be good. And sure enough his words don't do anything to soothe me.
"We have a problem," he says, keeping his voice low and glancing around as he talks. James swallows hard and his jaw clenches.
A problem. Nothing good ever came from that word and in my chest a long forgotten fear begins to stir, raising it's head slowly and stretching out to my limbs. I reach for James' hand, but he's out of my reach and I strain so far but can just barely graze the tips of my fingers on his wrist. He turns to look down at me and when his eyes meet mine their expression causes the fear to drop all the way to my feet and I have to look away.
The pack of kids runs by us, chasing after the ball and I lock on to Owen's smiling face, rushing after his friends and blissfully unaware of the gears already in motion to rip his world out from underneath him.
I have to protect him.
I have to protect us.