From the Sunday's Child arc.
"Veronica," Holly says from the other end of the couch, eyes closed and hands busy fanning her face with a fat book of baby names.
"Nope," you respond. "Veto. The kid in the comic strip and the nickname 'Ronnie.' No way."
"Alright," she says, opening the book to a random page with a sigh. "What about Madeline?"
"What? The girl who hangs out with French nuns?" Your wife's shirt is pulled up and over her belly, and her skin sticky with summer heat.
"She didn't hang out with nuns, Gail, she was in an orphanage run by nuns."
"Well, there you go, our kid's not an orphan, we're not giving her the name of a famous orphan. And before you say it, no 'Annie' either." You take a quickly melting ice cube out of the glass of water on the coffee table and make a fist around it, letting the cool drops fall onto Holly's rounded belly.
She hisses, but not uncomfortably.
You grab another ice cube.
"No orphans, okay." She flips a few pages and looks up at you, "do you have anything against pilots?"
You arrange your face into one of contemplation, "no, don't think so."
"Okay," she says, "what about Amelia?"
"Hol, Amelia Earhart disappeared somewhere over the ocean, do we really want to give our kid the name of someone who didn't just fail but disappeared into thin air?"
Before she can respond she gasps; the baby is active tonight. It still amazes you how you can watch your kid swim around in her mother's belly, trace her movements through the ripples and ridges she creates on the surface of your wife's stomach. You drip some ice water over a little bump you think is a foot, and then massage the water into Holly's skin, feeling the press of something human and miraculous against your fingers.
"So, no Amelia. But what about Jacqueline, there was a famous pilot named Jacqueline?"
You sound it out, feeling how the name fits in your mouth. "Jacqueline Stewart … Jackie Peck … Jack Stewart-Peck. Maybe, but it's missing something. It just sounds … ordinary." You're not sure why, but it just doesn't feel right for the foot knocking against your palm.
"Okay, one more name and then bed?"
You can hear your wife's exhaustion in her voice; she's been working hard to get the lab ready for her imminent leave of absence. More than once she's fallen asleep on the couch almost immediately after dinner.
"Okay, slugger, one more and then to bed."
Holly makes a show of flipping blindly through the pages before dropping her finger to a random line on the page.
"Oh," she says, "I think you'll like this one."
"What is it," you respond, your toes curling in anticipation.
"Glinda. It means pretty."
It takes you a minute to realize why the name sounds so familiar.
"Glinda, Holly? Like, Wizard of Oz Glinda? The good witch?"
Your wife's laughter rings in your ears, soaks into you and echoes around in your heart. You can feel the wide smile on your face and don't even bother to try and hide it.
"I'm not even going to deign that with a response, Holly Stewart," you say as you gently pull down her shirt and move to stand up. "Now let's get you off to bed before your flying monkeys come out."
