Baby's Breath

Chapter 34: new hope

The house was dark, and I knew everyone slept. Dad snored up a storm. Sleep was not my friend, and I had lost tons despite how exhausted I felt. Emotions and the deep yearning to see how a newborn looked, rooted itself in my breast. Though I already knew because of Robert, Wesley, a few nephews and nieces—not to mention television—I needed this special quiet torture. The photo album was exactly where it always was, and rather than sneaking a few select photos, I took the whole thing into my room.

On my bed, by the warmth of the lamplight, I peeled the pages open until I came to the place where Mom was pregnant with Wesley. I had my eyes closed as regret, woven with fear, lanced through my heart.

I opened them. There lay a small baby—blond fuzz on his head, eyes squeezed shut, fists gripped small, mouth wide open. His face was round. He had smudges of birth blood, but he looked right at home on Mom's chest. Longing and fear took my breath away as I stared.

Mom sat in the bed chair thingy, looking bedraggled, but satisfied. She held little Wesley tight to her breast, though he wasn't nursing.

My hand trembled when I lifted it, my finger ready to touch the cold, flat image. Then, I lowered my finger and stroked it. "I love you little one. Why couldn't you stay with us? Why?" I sniffled, hating the empty feeling that death left behind. "Have you met Babykins, yet? I bet you both crawled over Heaven's grass—or do they have white marble streaked with gold?"

I studied more pictures, laughing as my heart ached with grief. Oh, how I missed him so much. So much. Being pregnant made it all the more agonizing since I was experiencing everything Mom once endured. The sad thing was that I never remembered her complaining about sore breasts. The awful hot shooting pains in the groin or tailbone. The lack of breath and constant peeing. What about these cramps that kept coming? Were those normal? Oh, how I wished I could talk to her.

I skimmed through every special picture of Mom and Wesley—some with me and my brothers as well as Dad.

Another photograph. Mom looked fresh, her short hair pulled into a flirty tail. She gazed down at Wesley as he latched tightly to her breast. His little fingers wrapped fiercely around her index. A smile spread across my lips. I remembered this, being the person who took this photo.

Mom had told me one of the best things about having a baby was breastfeeding. It gave her strength, peace, and love. I wondered how that was possible, but I could see it in her face as she watched my little brother eat.

Then came the last one. My heart came to a halt and a sudden sob exploded from my mouth.

Wrapped tight in a white hospital blanket with a little cap, Wesley's little eyes peered open. His face small and round and wrinkly. His image screamed for me to yank him from the photo and hold him tight. Fierce emotions of protecting him no matter what happened, became mine.

The new sensations staggered me and I gasped. Did Mom feel this way about every one of us? Was this maternal passion?

I sniffled again, but my nose dripped this time. My fingers quivered so badly, I had to flex them into a knot. After the trembling died a little, I eased the photograph from the sleeve and held it to my eyes. "I love you, little Wesley. Please forgive me for what I'm about to do with your nephew." I assumed Babykins was a boy. Why not? It felt right. So right.

Will Babykins look like him? My heart lurched and I tucked the photo into my book bag. I had toted it to my bedroom; slowly throwing in little things that would help me feel at home when Babykin's time came. I hoped with all my heart that we would both survive . . .