Page 160 of Unspoken Words
Ellie slowly raised her hand, her thumb and pointer finger separating the distance mentioned. “Oh, wow! That’s the size of a marshmallow.”
“Yes. Most people say peanut or jelly bean, but marshmallow will also do.”
I couldn’t remove my stare from the screen, from my child, my tiny, innocent, living, breathing baby boy or girl, who’d already been through so much and, yet, was alive and growing stronger—was already like his or her mother.
“Heart beat is 170 bpms. Nice and strong.”
“Connor?”
“Yeah?” I asked, dragging my eyes from the screen to meet Ellie’s.
“That’s our Marshmallow McBaby Head.”
Laughter burst from my chest. “What?”
“That’s our Marshmallow McBaby Head. That’s what I’m calling him or her … for now.”
Dr Goodman smiled and shrugged, so I reached for Ellie’s hand, brought it to my lips, and kissed her knuckles. “I think we can do better than that.”
Her eyes twinkled. “Nope. It’s sticking … literally.”
Chapter Forty
Ellie
The name Marshmallow McBaby Headlasted until my twentieth week of pregnancy when we found out we were having a little girl. I’d tried to convince Connor to name her Madonna or Mariah, but he was dead against it. Apparently, those names weren’t ‘unique’ enough, so we settled on Christina Bethany-Ella Bourke instead—a combination of Mum’s name, Chris’s name, and mine. Our choice was perfect, and I was fast becoming desperate to finally meet her and hold her, and to show her just how special and cherished she truly was.
Cradling my lower—and much fuller—belly, I was now into my third trimester as I gazed over at Connor who was constructing our angel’s cot, a drill in his hand, a pencil slotted behind his ear. My feet gently propelled the white, wooden rocking chair I was sitting on, a handmade gift from Connor’s father and my new favourite spot in my new favourite room in my new favourite house— Connor’s house.
I’d moved in the day Dr Webb and Dr Goodman finally discharged me from hospital, exactly sixteen weeks after I was admitted. And, yes, I’d counted every single one of those days, marking them in my notebook like I would the wall of a cave on a deserted island—one hundred and twelve dashes, to be exact. Honestly, I probably would’ve preferred the cave than my hospital room. At least the cave would’ve been peaceful and uninhabited. A medical professional free zone. No monitoring, poking, and probing every hour of the day. And it was probably safe to say that deserted island food would have been much tastier than the rubber mush I’d been eating.
But I hadn’t complained. Much.
Early into my second trimester—at roughly thirteen weeks gestation—Dr Webb had once again suggested I have a pacemaker inserted, but my heart rate, BP, and overall health were steady, so I’d refused the surgery, much to everyone’s displeasure. In no way would I risk my child’s life for a procedure that didn’t seem overly critical at that point in time. I knew I’d have to have it eventually, but while I was the sole protector of the miracle growing inside me, the answer was no. It would always be no.
Now at thirty weeks gestation and into my third trimester, I was starting to feel much more tired, rundown and sore. I had less energy, less patience, less fight. A cloud had formed above, growing day by day, its shadow transparent to all except me. When alone, I crept through its darkness, through the doubt of whether my daughter would grow up without me or whether I’d survive her birth and live long enough to hold her in my arms. But it was a cloud of doubt I had to keep to myself, for the sake of my family and Connor. And what lurked in its shadows was something only I could prepare for and with no one knowing.
“I wonder if she’ll have your dimples?” I asked as I jotted down:One ofthe first things I noticed about your father was his dimples. They popped like popcorn every time he smiled. Do Mummy a favour and poke them every night when he tucks you in. We must never let them fade.
“Maybe,” Connor answered. He glanced over his shoulder, his grey eyes bright, and nodded toward me. “She’ll definitely have your hair though.”
I twisted a tendril around my finger and jotted down:‘Don’t dye your pretty red hair. I know you’ll want to—Mummy wanted to dye hers. Be strong. Embrace the fire. It’s a gift.’
Connor screwed in the final screw and put the drill on the floor. “There. That ought to do it.” He stood up and stretched, his head nearly hitting the plastic crystal chandelier dangling from the ceiling above. He gave it a dirty look, which made me laugh.
“She’ll definitely have your height.”
“Maybe, maybe not. She might be short like you.”
“Hey! I’m not shor—” As if aware we were talking about her, she performed what felt like a roundhouse kick to my ribcage. “Sweet mother of all things motherly.”
“What?” What’s wrong?” Connor dropped to his knees before me, fear stretching his eyelids wide. Ever since I’d come home to rest, he’d had the stress levels of a New York Taxi driver.
“Nothing.” I took his hand from my knee and placed it on the spot baby Christina had just booted. “She’s just very happy today.”
Paternal joy shone from his silver eyes, and he flexed his fingers with pride and love. “She should be happy. She has the most beautiful mum in the world.”
“And the most clever dad, and loving grandparents and uncle.” I gestured to her nursery. “Look at this room. It’s gorgeous.”
