Page 99 of The Cabin
More importantly, we can focus on doing what we love, and raising this baby.
I stand in the open doorway of Nathan’s workshop, watching him. He’s oblivious, for the moment, absorbed in his latest piece. It’s a rolltop desk, modeled after an antique one he found on the side of the road on one of my house calls a few weeks ago. He made one copy of the desk, and it sold so fast he’s planning on making a few of them.
I love watching him work. His gaze is soft, sort of distant, as if he’s listening to a voice only he can hear. No two pieces he makes are ever alike; each one receives a unique thumbprint of artistry, a touch here and here, which makes it beautifully and uniquely itself. This one, for example, is getting an elaborate system of cubbyholes and hidden drawers which the previous one lacked.
Eventually, he notices me, sets his tools down and hurries over to me. “How long have you been standing there, honey?”
I lift up on my toes to kiss him. “Oh, not long, just a minute or two.” At that moment, the baby does a cartwheel, which I assume will be followed by an extensive program of calisthenics and gymnastics; I press Nathan’s palm to my belly over the movement. “Here, feel.”
His eyes close, and a smile of blissful joy lights up his features. He sinks to his knees, cupping my belly with both hands. “Hi, little one. You dancin’ for mama?” He kisses my belly with delicacy and gentility, as if I’m made of porcelain and starlight.
“Doing the conga, more like,” I say, with a wince and a chuckle. “Or maybe an Olympics floor routine.” I hiss as he or she twists, rolls, and then seems to kick and punch me in at least four different places. “Hoooo, wow. It has to a boy, because he’s as strong as his daddy.”
He keeps his hands on my belly, feeling. “Nope. Girl. She’s strong like her mama.”
“Guess we’ll find out in a couple months, won’t we?” I feather my fingers in his hair as he holds my belly in his big hands, and sings some tune to him or her, under his breath so I can’t quite make out what it is. “I have that ultrasound down at the clinic next week, don’t forget.”
“Won’t miss it for the world.”
Being over forty, I’m considered high risk, so I’ve gotten regular ultrasounds through my pregnancy. An unnecessary precaution, so far. The baby is huge, strong and healthy—so much so my doctor is planning on inducing me a couple weeks early, because the baby is looking to be big enough that if I were to go to term it’d be risky for me to try to deliver naturally, which is my plan.
He stands up. Grins at me. “I’ve got something for you.”
I tilt my head. “You do? What is it?”
He strides across the workshop, brings over a wooden box. He made the box himself, obviously. It’s oak, polished and stained to a glossy shine. There are no fasteners or metal, only cleverly joined wood. The top lifts off, and within is a bedding of straw, cradling a carving.
It’s us, I can see, before I’ve even lifted the carving out. Carefully, I withdraw the carving from its bedding. I know what it is immediately: a representation of our wedding photo, framed and standing on our mantle: Him and me, on our dock, at sunset. He’s wearing a tux, I’m in an ivory mermaid dress, my hair long and loose and curled into wide spirals. We’re facing each other, hands joined at our waists, about to kiss. Our bodies form a heart, framing the setting sun.
Nathan has captured this photo in white pine, in extraordinary detail, in figurines some six inches tall. Individual fingers, even eyelashes, tendrils of hair, his beard, the planks of the dock under our feet. It’s unpainted, just polished and stained, and the more beautiful for it.
My eyes start to sting. “Nathan, my god…it’s incredible.” I blink the happy tears away. “But…why? I mean, why today?”
He smiles, an amused smirk. “You mean you don’t know?”
I frown. “It’s not our anniversary, I know that. I may have pregnancy brain, but I know our anniversary.”
“Not our wedding anniversary, no.”
“It’s not my birthday.”
“Nope.”
I huff. “Are you really going to make me guess?”
He tugs on a lock of my hair. “One more guess, sweetheart. Then I’ll tell you.”
“It’s not the day we found out I was pregnant.” I hold up a finger to forestall him telling me—I have an inkling, and it’s forming into knowledge. “Oh! I know: the day we met.”
“Bingo.” He places the carving back into its nest of straw, and leads me out onto the porch of his workshop. The same rocking chair sits there still. “I was sitting here, reading. You pulled up in that car, and I saw you for the first time. It was three years ago, today.”
