Authors: Joy DeKok
“Take some deep breaths.”
“I’m trying.”
“Do it. I’ll get you something to drink.”
It was difficult to breathe with my head on my knees and my heart in my throat. I did my best.
“Drink this.”
I took a few sips of fizzing Diet Coke.
“Better?”
I nodded.
“Stacie, I have to know.”
As I looked into his dark blue eyes, the truth almost blinded me. “You really think I’d do that to you or to me again?”
“I can’t be sure. You made a life-changing decision without me. I’m angry. I’m trying not to be, but every day I still fight feeling betrayed. The trust I once had is gone.”
“How can you love me and not trust me?”
“Do you love your mother?”
Puzzled, I answered, “Yes.”
“Do you trust her?”
“To hurt me.”
“That’s where I’m at.”
“You think I’m like my mother?” Anger started to bubble inside my gut.
“I think you bought the lie. I did too for a long time.”
“The lie?” I narrowed my eyes along with my heart.
Great. Here comes a pro-life lecture.
I braced myself and prepared to do battle.
“The one about us—about married people. Where you have your life—your body—and make your own decisions, and I do the same.”
This new direction threw me, but I was pretty sure I could hold my own in this argument as well. “If we aren’t individuals, who are we?”
“I hope we are two people who are slowly growing into one. If we are always going our own way, we will become strangers. We will be the next statistics and signing divorce papers stating irreconcilable differences. Our friends will ask, ‘What went wrong?’ and we’ll say, ‘Nothing, we just grew apart.’ ”
“So you agree with our counselor—there is more than equality to a marriage?”
“All success demands common goals and dreams and most of all, flexibility. This is true in the marriage partnership as well. For example, I understand you making the decision to open your own office without me. I left you. The opportunity came, and although we were in counseling, you didn’t know for sure where I stood about us.
“But, the baby—we were together and you chose not to talk to me. Not to find out how I felt or what I thought. You didn’t even know how concerned I’d be for your health. Or if I wanted a child.”
“So whose dreams do we give up?”
“Neither. We adjust them to fit together. You want to protect children. I want you to. I want you to defend them and make the bad guys pay, and . . .”
As his voice drifted off, I watched him drop his head into his hands.
“And what?”
“And we both want a baby.”
I was out of words but Mike wasn’t.
“I have dreams too . . . about little kids. Sometimes I see a little girl who looks like you except she has my eyes. Sometimes I see a little boy who looks like me, but with your shining black hair. They reach for me and I go to pick them up . . . and they disappear. I can’t hold them.” Tears escaped from the corners of his eyes.
“Oh, Mike!” I got up and went to his chair. I knelt in front of him and took his hands. “Can you ever forgive me?”
“Yes, I can—I choose to. Can you forgive me?”
“For what?”
“For not telling you how I felt months ago—about abortion, marriage, and starting a family.”
“When did you know you didn’t want to wait any longer to have kids?”
“I watched you finish getting ready for work one morning. I relished the way you moved, your eyes and smile. Your grace and beauty have always fascinated me, but in that moment you were lovelier than ever to me. I found myself wanting children—little replicas of us. More than wanting—I desired them. But your goals were crystal clear. I couldn’t let what I wanted come before your dreams. Now I know you were pregnant at the time.”
Tears rushed down both our faces and I was forced to sniff. It was either that or rub my nose on his knee. There wasn’t time for anything else so I sniffed again—harder. We were on a relationship roll, and I couldn’t let anything, not even a snotty nose, get in our way.
“Mike, please forgive me. I’ve lived as if abortion were the right choice for a long time. I had no idea I’d regret it. Until this last month I didn’t know how much I wanted a child—our child. I need your forgiveness like never before.”
“I forgive you, Stacie. I love you. I need to ask again, can you forgive me?”
“Yes!” I murmured as I climbed into his lap.
As we held each other, I felt freedom knocking.
Chapter
11
Jonica
My birthday and Father’s Day fell on the same day.
Ben told me to go all out on a new dress and gave me a gift certificate for “the works” at my favorite salon. Then he invited Stacie and Mike to Sunday dinner at Gabrielle’s, our favorite fancy restaurant.
On Saturday I found the perfect dress. The navy velvet bodice and flowing mid-calf skirt fit like it had been designed for me. After lunch I went to City Looks. I picked out a rose-colored polish for my nails. While the manicurist massaged my fingers and toes and polished my nails, I relaxed. Then I met with the hair stylist.
“What should we do today?”
“Short and stylish,” I said.
“Are you sure? We’d be taking off more than twelve inches of hair.”
“I’m sure. Can’t we donate it to some wig organization?”
“We can.”
“Go for it.”
I hoped to find a new me. Even though I knew a haircut wouldn’t change my childless condition or bring healing to Della or Stacie—and it surely wouldn’t bring about world peace—I wanted to look and feel different. I was tired of braids and clips to hold back my long hair.
Walking around the mall again, I found the right shade of navy shoes and a matching clutch bag. As I walked, my hair danced to the beat of my movements instead of hanging limp.
I headed for Mitchell’s department store, where I purchased a set of dangly sapphire earrings and had a makeover at the Esté Lauder counter. I purchased eye shadow, blush, lipstick, and a bottle of Beautiful perfume.
Smiling as I headed for the car, I wondered where I could talk Ben into taking me so all this would pay off.
At home, my man gave me the once-over and teased, “You look great. You want to go out? It’d be a shame to keep all this beauty to myself.”
“Sure.” A shy feeling stole over me and instead of the flirty promises I wanted to make, I blushed. The changes were big. I wasn’t sure what other people might think. Ben’s approval gave me a partial peace, but there were still those church ladies to consider.
We ate at our favorite pizza place, then went to the bookstore and drank fancy coffees. Later we held hands and walked around the lake while the sun set, sneaking in kisses when we thought no one was looking.
The sky darkened. A cool breeze moved across the lake, and we listened to the quiet honking of geese as they settled in for the night.
The popcorn man shut off his light, and street lights flickered on. In spite of the evening’s peacefulness, I dreaded the next day. Even though I had a gift for “Husband’s Day” hidden in my drawer, I didn’t want Ben to hurt anymore.
Father’s Day is so hard on Ben. He tries to keep it to himself to protect me, but I see it.
Please Lord, give us a break.
In the morning, I woke Ben with breakfast in bed. I had to get up before the sun peeked over the horizon to surprise my early bird husband. His singing is my only alarm clock, but on that morning, I beat him.
He enjoyed his scrambled eggs and toast. For a while, he played with the music computer program I bought him. We skipped the Father’s Day service at church and later met our parents for lunch to celebrate our dads and my birthday. My folks gave me a burgundy study Bible. Ben’s gave me a china teapot decorated with wild roses. We gave our dads gift certificates to the local tool shop.
Back home, Ben told me to go to my favorite spot in our yard. Sitting on the bench, surrounded by rose bushes, I waited. Ben brought me coffee on a silver tray. In the center sat a square blue box topped with a silver bow. It was almost too pretty to unwrap except it was obviously a jeweler’s box. Nestled in the navy velvet a band of diamonds and sapphires sparkled.
“Happy Birthday, Jonica!” Ben reached for my right hand and slid the ring onto my finger.
“I love it!” I held my hand out so the stones could shine in the light. Ben lifted my hand to his lips and kissed it.
The little boy next door saw us and yelled out, “Happy Father’s Day, Ben!”
“Get in here, Brady. He’s nobody’s father,” his dad grouched.
In the second before Ben moved away, I wondered,
Is that man just plain mean or incredibly stupid?
Ben went inside. For a moment I sat in the garden numbed by shock. Then I followed my husband into the house. I found him sitting on the stairs his head in his hands, shoulders shaking.
“Please look at me.”
He did. Nothing in our journey so far had prepared me for the savage pain in his green-gold eyes. Tears flowed down cheeks usually stretched in a big smile. Never in my life had anything hurt me as much as his anguish. Not even when my beloved grandparents died.
I could handle the arrows flung at me—but not the ones they hurled at Ben. He stood and held his arms open. I slid inside them, and we hung on tight to each other while we grieved. My cry changed from Why me? to Why Ben?
“We will never hold babies born of our love. Would our little boy have your smile and my eyes? A little blond-haired girl will never look up and call me Daddy.”
I wanted to say something—anything to comfort the suffering man in my arms. No words came. So we continued to cling to each other, praying we’d survive this shipwreck we called our lives.
A few minutes later, he held me away from him and said, “Thank you for saying nothing. Your quiet love is all I need right now.”
Stacie
Father’s Day dawned bright and beautiful.
While Mike showered, I made the bed and prepared my surprise for him. I released a bunch of pink and blue balloons I’d been hiding in the guest room closet. I paced the room, batting at the helium-filled plastic bubbles.
When the door opened I stood still holding my poster. It read, “I’m positive.”
Mike stepped out of the bathroom, a towel over his head as he rubbing his hair dry.
“What do you want to do after brunch?”
“Celebrate.”
“The brunch is the celebration.”
Then he lowered the towel and saw the balloons.
“Stacie?”
I held the poster higher and peeked out around the side. His whoop echoed in the tile bathroom behind him.
“Happy Father’s Day!”
We hugged, and his kiss held a tenderness that seemed to me reverent. Then, our stomachs growled.
“Are you sick yet?”
“No. Not all women get sick. Maybe I’ll be lucky. Right now I’m starved. Let’s hurry. I don’t want to miss a morsel, just in case my luck changes.”
In the car Mike instructed me on my new health regimen. “No coffee or wine from here on out. I won’t drink them either. That should make it easier on you. And I think you should walk instead of jogging. And no lifting.”
“Yes sir.”
I giggled at the look on his face. He hadn’t expected me to give in so easily. Surrender was not one of the main goals in my life but I wanted to give this baby the best chance possible to be healthy, and I intended to be an excellent mom from conception on. I didn’t tell him, but I’d started drinking decaf the moment he said he wanted children too.
My dad joined Mike’s parents and us for breakfast. I handed our dads foil-wrapped boxes. A silver one for my dad, gold for Mike’s. They pulled out engraved money clips.
A second of silence followed, then the two men asked in unison, “For real?”
“Uh-huh.”
When she read the engraving Mike’s mom whooped and grabbed her son in a big hug. I had a moment of staggering fear.
What if she found out about the grandchild she’d never know? Would she be so happy for us then?
I forced the anxiety away.
“Now I know where you learned to whoop,” I muttered to Mike with a wink.
“What do they say?” asked a confused Mike.
“Grandpa.”
My dad took my hand, his eyes guarded. “How are you, sweetheart?”
“Fine, Daddy.”
He kissed my cheek and whispered, “I’m so happy for you. For us.”
At home we rode the elevator with a woman and her young son. “Happy Father’s Day, mister,” he said as they exited on their floor.
“Thanks, pal,” Mike returned as the door closed.
Chapter 12
Jonica
Dressing for our night out, I tried to put the pain aside. The new dress, hairstyle, and makeup helped me feel feminine. In recent months I’d come to see myself as less of a woman. I patted my empty womb, expecting an echo. There was absolute stillness.
Ben’s arms slid around me from behind. “Ready?”
“Almost.”
I left his sweet embrace to fill my little clutch with powder, lipstick, and a lace trimmed hankie.
Please be with Della, Lord.
Since Don’s death, I found myself uttering little prayers for her often. When I saw her at church she looked thinner, and her voice wobbled when she spoke. I was afraid she was fading away.
At the restaurant, the Cutters waited in the foyer. We met Mike for the first time. His dark eyes danced as he took my hand and said, “Hello.”
Stacie hugged me. “I love your new ‘do.’ It’s so different and yet so you.”
Her reassurance mattered.
She wore a black, fitted sheath that stopped just above her knees. Her red nails and lips glistened in the soft light. When she took Mike’s arm they looked like movie stars—all elegance and glamour.
Our husbands pulled out our chairs for us, and we all settled in to study the menu. After ordering, the guys talked about work while Stacie and I sipped lemon water and listened.
I ate succulent shrimp and filet mignon, well done. For dessert the waitress brought pieces of turtle cheesecake—mine decorated with a single candle. I blew out the flame, and breathed a silent prayer.
Please let me shine for You into the lives of Mike and Stacie.