Page 92 of Harper

Pastor Mac listens patiently as I come to terms with the frustration of having lost time in my daughter’s life. Ironically, he plays devil’s advocate sometimes. When I assure him that I could’ve raised my daughter on my own, he takes Harper’s side of things, and asks me to paint a picture of how that would’ve looked. Grudgingly, I’ve come to admit that while I could’ve raised Moriah Raven, it may not have been the best choice for her—a childhood with me would have lacked so many of the gifts the Calvins have given her. She had two parents who were present—an at-home mother who baked cookies and did art projects and took her hiking, and a father who had plenty of time in the evenings to read to her and coach her soccer games on the weekends.

I’m coming to realize that adoption by the Calvins didn’t give her less of a life; it gave her more of one. And as Mrs.Stewart pointed out a few weeks ago, there’s still plenty of time for me to get to know her when the time is right.

Pastor Mac is a big fan of the Calvins.

Their name is lucky, he says, as John Calvin was a principal figure in the Protestant Reformation. I tell him that I can use all the luck I can get, and he pats my shoulder with a chuckle and says, “Sheriff, you’re alright.”

I’m starting to believe him. If I’m not alright yet, I’m more and more confident that I will be. Someday.

The only thing Pastor Mac—or anyone else, for that matter—can’t help me with, is where Harper Stewart fits into my life now. She’s the mother of my children, yes. I will do anything I can to support her throughout this pregnancy and figure out ways to co-parent with her. Part of me will always love Harper. But how can we be anything more to one another when there’s no trust between us?

While I’ve started to understand why she chose adoption for Moriah Raven—and I’ve even started feeling some respect and gratitude for her decision—it doesn’t change the fact that she’s a liar. For ten years she kept a secret that shattered my life when it finally came to light. If she’s that good at keeping secrets, what else don’t I know? And how could she ever be my partner again if I can’t trust her?

I have a lot of deep thoughts circling my head when I open the door to the clinic on Tuesday morning. And all of them scatter to the wind when Harper, who’s sitting in the waiting room, looks up at me and smiles.

My fucking heart lurches.

My traitorous soul sings.

A thousand memories surge to the forefront of my mind.

I do my best to keep my expression merely cordial, but I can’t help the love I feel, the longing I feel for dreams that—apparently—aren’t quite dead yet.

“Hi, Joe.”

“Hey, Harp. All good?”

“Yep. Dr. Kim sent everything they needed from Anchorage. All I had to do was check-in.”

I sit down beside her, trying to look casual, though my heart’s thrumming so loudly, I’m surprised she can’t hear it.

“You feeling okay?”

“Yep.”

She’s ever-so-slightly cooler with me than she was on Saturday night. Maybe she’s nervous. Before I can ask, someone calls her name.

“Harper Stewart? We’re ready for you.”

She hops up, gesturing for me to follow, and we’re led to a tiny room where Harper disrobes behind a curtain before sitting on the padded chair and placing her feet in stirrups. She holds a white paper sheet over her waist and hips. I stand by her head. We both stare at the grainy picture on the monitor.

“Hopefully this won’t be cold,” says the technician, sitting on stool between Harper’s legs.

I hold my breath as we stare at the black-and-white images that appear on the screen. And then—oh my god—there it is: our baby. Even without help from the technician, I can easily make out a head, two arms and two legs. He or she wiggles white in a black pond, a fluttering heart visible. A miracle in the making.

“You ready to listen to your baby’s heartbeat?”

Harper reaches her hand back to me, and without thinking, I take it, braiding my fingers through hers as I gruffly murmur, “Please.”

The technician switches on the doppler, and this…this…this astonishing, divine sound fills the room. Whoosh-a, whoosh-a, whoosh-a, races his or her heart, so fast, I stare at the screen with wonder, my fingers tightening around Harper’s.

She cries and laughs at the same time, and I lean down to press my lips to the crown of her head, forgetting for a moment that she lied to me, that I can’t trust her, that I don’t know what to do with my love for her.

“Great heartbeat,” says the technician. “One hundred and eighty beats a minute.”

“That’s normal?” asks Harper, sniffling softly.

“Absolutely! One-seventy is average. This is perfect.”

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