A well for water.
Our trips here, I always pretend that Ryke and I are stranded in the rainforest together like Blue Lagoon or Swiss Family Robinson.
This time we have company.
A naked three-year-old presses her itty-bitty fingers to a floor-length window. She gasps with wonder and awe, nose to the glass. I smile wide, knelt behind her as I dry her sopping wet hair. I clasp a cotton towel around the dark brown strands, beads of water rolling along her tanned skin.
Palm fronds pat the window, no blinds or curtains, but Ryke unknowingly captivates our daughter. Right outside, Ryke balances on the deck railing and clutches a rope, one tethered to a tree about ten or fifteen feet from safety. No pool, no lake, just the rainforest to swing towards.
I whisper close to Sulli’s little ear, “Do you want to see, Daddy?”
She nods like I offered the world’s greatest chocolate bar.
I drop her towel, lifting the softest naked baby in my arms, and nuzzle her nose with a quiet declaration, “I love him too.” I unlatch the door. Ryke childproofed every exit the first moment we arrived. We’re high up in the trees, and we both kept picturing Sulli running off the deck in glee and falling to…well, it wouldn’t be a happy ending.
As I slip barefoot outside, I keep Sulli tucked against my hip. Ryke turns to us, and I whistle suggestively at his six-foot-three build and dark, dangerous eyes that say, I fucking see and fucking hear you, Calloway.
I wag only my right brow.
He almost smiles, but his hard gaze descends to my topless body, breasts exposed, only wearing neon-green cotton panties. He raises his brows at my feet, which are currently very friendly with the grimy deck. “Didn’t you just have a fucking bath?”
“I prefer being dirty with you.”
Now he smiles.
“Can I touch?” Sulli asks, reaching towards the rope. Her inquisitive green eyes swing between her dad and me. Ryke makes a come hither motion with his fingers.
I edge closer, not about to drop our totally clean baby on the deck. Having Sulli around has changed our dynamic more than we even thought.
Little things: we never used the claw-foot tub before. We always took cold showers on the deck together. Now with a toddler in our midst, Ryke spent an hour gathering four pails of water from the well, heating the liquid on the wood-burning stove, and filling up a bath.
Bigger things: I’m not teetering on the railing next to Ryke. Where I would be if I didn’t have Sulli in my arms. But I’m not barred from this action either. I swung on the rope yesterday while Ryke had Sulli in his arms.
In this gentle, quiet moment, we both let Sulli inspect the rope. We did consider strapping Sulli to Ryke’s chest and letting her swing that way, but we decided not to test it after the wind shook the branches and I had trouble returning to the railing.
“What’s this fucking called, Sul?” Ryke asks.
“Rope.” She hugs a portion to her chest, as though cuddling with her stuffed starfish. “Can I swing? Pleeeease.” She peers up at Ryke with big pleading doe eyes. He has yet to say no to this innocent, earnest expression.
He mumbles beneath his breath, “Fuck.” He rakes his hand through his thick hair.
I sway side-to-side, Sulli swaying with me. Ryke meets my gaze, not uncertain. He knows we can’t allow her to swing, but he scowls, hating that we have to tell Sullivan no to something she might love.
I whisper to him, “Hey, at least she asked.” We didn’t teach Sulli to ask is it okay if I do this? but she does more often than she springs towards things.
“Pleeease,” she pleads again, gripping the rope in a toddler stronghold.
I kiss her chubby cheek, struggling to say no as much as Ryke, but some events can’t be given approval. Regardless, we’re here in Costa Rica with a daughter we thought we might never have. No matter what happens, no matter where we go, we’re living an awfully big adventure.
I begin to smile at Ryke, our eyes never drifting, and I murmur, “The danger of it all.”
Towering over me, his dark features break, light streaming through. He messes my hair, the evening sun shining between palm fronds and bathing his bare chest. I watch Ryke carve out this moment, soaking in my features and his daughter’s, almost disbelieving that this is his life. That we’re all together. That we’re here with him.
“Please?” Sulli asks pitifully this time, her brown hair frizzing.
Ryke bends and kisses Sulli’s head. “When you’re fucking older.”
She looks to me for a different answer, but Ryke and I are almost always on the same page when it comes to Sulli. “You’re too little to hold on for long, and you’ll slide alllll the way down.” Really, she would fall over twenty-feet, but we try not to instill fear or scare her with talk of death.
Sulli frowns. “How old?”
I stretch my free arm out wide. “Really, really old.”
As though promising us, she says with such conviction, “I’m really, really old now.”
“Yeah?” Ryke hangs onto the rope, still standing on the railing. He scratches his ankle with his right foot, acting like he’s grounded when he’s definitely not. “How fucking old are you?”
“Seven.” She’s three.
I mock gasp. “You’re seven?”
“I’m old like you and Daddy.” Sulli reaches an arm towards Ryke, but sensing the risk, he refuses to take her from my clutch. Thunder rumbles, dark clouds starting to blanket the sky.
“We’re all seven then?” I distract Sulli, prying the rope out of her fingers. I let the excess hang off so Ryke can swing. He mouths to me, bed?
I feign confusion and mouth, sex?
Another change: he would physically push me or maybe playfully kick me if I didn’t have Sulli in my arms. He stops himself and just says, “Cute, Calloway.”
Birds chirp over the echoing thunder, a resplendent quetzal nest nearby. Sulli spent two hours just oohing and awing over their lime-green tail feathers, gorgeous red breast, and constant chirruping yesterday. I think the noise eases her mind away from the rope too.
She rests her cheek on my chest, twisting a strand of my blonde hair around her finger. “Daddy is eight. You’re twenty-somety-two-ey. I’m seven.”
I walk backwards to the door, eyeing Ryke all the way. “Did you hear? Our daughter is already seven.”
“Fuck that.” Ryke grips the rope. “I’m not aging up my three-year-old.”
I’m not aging up my three-year-old. It’s more than just a declaration. It’s how we’ve lived thus far.
We intake all these moments like they could be our very last. The last time we hold a toddler. The last time she tugs at my hair. The last time she asks us to swing. We take nothing for granted.
She might even be our one-and-only. We agreed not to open the door to surrogacy until Rose is certain she’s ready, and we’re not in any hurry to have another baby.
Rose thinks I’m selfless, but she’d put me before herself in this situation. I’m your sister, she’d say, but she doesn’t have to make this sacrifice for me. Rose deserves whatever size family she envisions, and I won’t restrain her from those dreams.
“Who’s three?” Sulli asks.
“You are, silly.” I plant a slobbery, playful kiss against her cheek, and she laughs, kicking her feet. I gently shut the door behind me, and then let Sulli down. Coconut patters closer to us, tail wagging.
Coconut loves Sullivan as though she’s the soul of my happiness. She protects the baby, nudges Sulli’s cheek with a wet nose, just until Sulli laughs and hangs onto Coconut’s soft white fur.
While we were packing for Costa Rica, Sulli asked, “Is Coconut coming?”
“Do you want Nutty to fucking come along?” Ryke wondered.
Sulli nodded. “She’s my best friend.”