A/N – Well, I think there's one more chapter after this one, then one more sequel. At least that's what I have planned.
One never knows when one's muse is a chubby little cat who sucks up to one's husband more than to oneself. (Beastly traitor)
I don't own Woody or Jordan, or Garret, or Crossing Jordan. This guy in LA owns them all, and he's so distracted by his new toy that he doesn't care about us anymore. Have no fear - there are Fanfic writers who care!
And VS7 writers who really care. Imagine reading a script of a beautiful CJ story, lovingly written, re-written, beta-read, checked for continuity and accurate characterization, all done by people who are receiving no payment whatsoever. We're including doctored pictures and some music, too.
We are all amateur writers of fiction (some have published non-fic). Amateur is a word which derives from the latin amator, meaning lover. Therefore we are lovers of writing, lovers of CJ, lovers of working hard for no money... well, writing and CJ anyway. We premiere on September 30th, we've kept it to a PG14 rating. Find us at CrossingJordanEncyclopedia dot com. Feel the Love!
"You are insane. Completely cuckoo!"
"It's called 'tradition'. 'Looking to the past', 'honouring your parents'…"
"Hillary Bird Hoyt? In your dreams!"
This had been gist of their naming argument all day. She refused to allow her daughter to be saddled with a dumb name.
"Come on, Jordan, remember when we first met? It was over that lady robber in the bank. Remember what you said? You said 'Not Bill, Hillary.' My parents can't be here to enjoy her, so this would be a way to connect her with her family and our first meeting."
Jeez, this give and take crap was getting annoying. Why couldn't she see, it was perfect?
She had her fingers over her eyes, getting more annoyed by the second.
"Bird?"
"It's pretty. Like her. And you…"
"Forget the suck-up routine, Hoyt. I won't name my child after a dead bank robber."
"You named your cats after an axe-murderer and six alcoholic beverages."
The look on her face communicated the poor timing of that comment.
He sighed. The baby was sleeping in a bassinette beside the hospital bed her parents were sitting on. Jordan threw herself back onto the raised half of the bed, exasperated. Woody absent-mindedly stroked her leg. It had been two days, and they were almost ready to go home. Still, no name for their little one. He needed to give his daughter this key part of her identity.
His frustration was clear in the tired voice. "Do you have any suggestions? Or are you just going to shoot me down again and again?" She didn't like Barbara, Jackie, or Nancy. She hated Hillary. And he knew better than to mention Betty or Edith again.
"I figure I'll just shoot you down. Until you get it right, anyway." Her eyes were closed in exhaustion. Recovering from childbirth and nursing a hungry newborn was tiring work. She felt no urgency to name her child. A few days wouldn't make any difference, and this was a decision she wanted to make carefully.
The nameless little one started to fuss a little. Woody rose and picked up his daughter. He was again enamoured by her beautiful blue eyes. She didn't seem hungry, she wasn't desperately screaming. (She was good at screaming). She was just wiggling around quietly, eyes peacefully open.
Woody sank down into the uncomfortable armchair. He held the baby in one arm as he put a pillow on his lap, the way a nurse had shown him. He rested her little upper body on the pillow, and lovingly took in her gaze. He knew from his reading that her visual acuity was best at around 10 to 12 inches, so he leaned in. Her movements were random squirms, not organized or purposeful. He knew better than to expect a smile, but he didn't care.
Jordan, meanwhile, had actually drifted off. Baby was demanding to be fed every three hours, sometimes even more frequently. Her milk was just coming in, and she felt like a mother cow. Her breasts were huge and uncomfortable. Plenty of food for baby, plenty of discomfort for Mama. She vaguely felt jealous of Lizzie again. She didn't get double-d cups! And she could sleep while she nursed. Jordan sure couldn't. Nursing was going well, she couldn't understand why some women had trouble, but she still envied Lizzie.
They were asleep, all three, when Garret arrived. Woody had returned the baby to her bassinette, and fell asleep in that uncomfortable chair. Jordan hadn't moved an inch since she'd spoken to Woody. He looked at them, with the love of a grandfather. Tears came to his eyes as he thought of Abby, his flesh-and-blood daughter whom he hadn't seen in nearly a year.
He placed a small gift on the night stand.
Garret knew how important sleep was, and quietly let himself out again. He returned to the morgue with a peaceful story.
When Jordan awoke later, the baby was working up a steam. So far she was just fussing but the scream would be soon. Jordan looked around for Woody, but he was nowhere. She moved over and took her baby in her arms. Trying to remember which side she'd nursed last, she settled down to feed the starving child.
A few minutes into the late night snack, Daddy re-appeared.
"Hey! Good morning – I mean good evening. You two look pretty comfortable."
Jordan's happy eyes met his. "This nursing thing is good drugs."
"I think the baby-gift fairy visited." He gave the small parcel to Jordan.
She read the card and smiled. "Garret. What the hell would he buy for a baby?"
She ripped the paper off and her smile got wider. Garret had bought their daughter a pair of tiny drumsticks. "Great. Noisemakers. She's only two days old."
Woody looked at her thoughtfully for a moment. "I got an idea, so I ran down to the computer in the lobby. Remember Millie?"
Jordan made the shape of a gun with her fingers and 'shot' her husband down, one more time.
"No, I don't mean Millard, that's a boy's name, but I Googled Millard's wife's name. Guess what it was?"
"Not Hillary, or Edith? Or Nancy, or Jackie?"
"No, Millard's wife was Abagail." He paused and picked up the drumsticks.
"Abagail." Jordan looked at Woody, then the drumsticks. Then she looked at her daughter again. "Do you think Garret would mind?" She already knew the answer to that one. "Do you think Abby would mind?"
"We can ask. I also checked Calvin Coolidge's wife. She was Anna Grace. If we want to avoid confusion we could call her Grace Abagail."
Jordan had to take a moment to switch the baby to the other side. As she settled against her mother's breast, she seemed to sigh and visibly relaxed. "No, Abagail Grace sounds better. We'll call her Gail."
She paused, looked just a little dubious again and asked, "Did you look up what Abagail means?"
"Father of Exultation."
With a thoughtful look Jordan considered this. She'd started to speak when a loud squishing sound announced that little Agabail Grace had filled her diapers. A spark shone in Jordan's eye as she released little Abagail from her breast and handed her to Daddy. "Here you go, Exultant Father."
A yellow stain started to soak through the tiny sleeper legs. He spoke to his daughter. "Gail. Yep, I think it's Gail. And I think your Mom just dumped a poopy baby on me!"
"I get hard labour, you get poopy diapers." Beat. "I win."
He rolled his eyes and wondered if she'd ever stop bringing that one up.
He took his soggy child over to the bassinet and took some time changing her. As soon as the diaper came off she wet the blankets she was lying on. Her Daddy was briefly glad she had female plumbing, or he'd have had a face full of baby urine.
Jordan was asleep again. Dreaming of a blue eyed nine year old girl named Gail, running around a tiny apartment being chased by a calico cat.
