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E S T E L L E
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FEBRUARY
IT STARTED SLOW.
Painful and slow.
But with an urgency that terrified.
The skin around my distended belly rippled with pain as the contraction wrenched me from sleep.
Gasping, I jerked in Galloway’s arms.
No, I’m not ready.
I’ll never be ready to face this.
Another ripple tore a louder gasp from me, rousing G.
Damn, I didn’t want to wake him.
He’d only fuss, and he’d hardly slept at all this past week, worrying about me, constantly looking at the calendar to pinpoint when I was due. I hated that he gave me his food, willingly hurting himself to ensure I had more than I needed. He was far too kind. Too generous. I didn’t deserve it after the way I’d acted.
I twirled my flax wedding ring. Already, it was almost non-existent with wear but the weight of our marriage and bond of love seared into my flesh like a tattoo.
I adored him.
And I was so sorry this had happened when we were so unprepared.
The contraction tightened again, stealing my breath.
He roused, his eyes opened, hazy with sleep but sharp with protectiveness. “What is it?”
I shook my head, holding up my hand to signal I couldn’t talk.
He shot to his knees, his eyes wild.
He acted more panicked than I did. But that was because I’d got better at hiding my fear.
Ever since our fight, I’d been very conscious of how I came across to him. My thoughts had remained locked on my baby. He was now (as awful as it might seem) second best. I couldn’t help it. It was my body making me pick the most important.
And for now, the soon-to-be-born baby was more important.
Not that I could ever tell him that because I loved him. With all my heart.
My heart had just expanded to encompass more.
The contraction faded.
I relaxed.
It could just be another false alarm.
I’d had a few of those the past week. Sometimes, it was hard to tell what was preparation and what was the rowdy baby in my belly.
I’d been afraid I wouldn’t carry to full term. But by some miracle, I had. (Mainly thanks to Galloway’s constant monitoring). However, I was about a week early. Was that a good thing or bad? Was the baby fully grown or not? Was it too big for my body or would I deliver without injury?
So many questions.
So many terrors.
And no one to give me answers.
I had no way to tell if it was a boy or girl, healthy or deformed. But I knew from the strength of its kick that it wanted out. It stupidly wanted to enter a world where I couldn’t guarantee its safety.
“Stel...is it the baby?”
I stroked his cheek. “Don’t worry about it. Just a cramp. Go back to sleep.”
He sat up instead. “Let me get you some water. Do you need to use the bathroom?”
The concern and hopeful fear in his gaze undid me.
I smiled softly. “I love you, G.”
His shoulders slouched. His hands came up and captured my cheeks. He kissed me long and slow, tasting and worshipping me all at once. “I love you more.”
I laughed as he gathered me in his embrace. “I don’t think we need to debate who loves who more.”
Rearranging his grip, he hauled me to my feet. With him acting as my crutch, he guided my waddling pregnant form from our house to the smouldering fire outside.
The stars shone fiercely, determined not to give up their velvet patch as the horizon slowly brightened.
“Wait there. I’m going to get you a coconut. You need to drink and nibble on something.”
I’d learned not to argue.
There was no point.
He never listened anyway.
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The sun slowly set on the most painful day of my existence.
The false alarm hadn’t been false at all and the banding agony only grew stronger and more painful as morning became afternoon and afternoon became evening.
I didn’t want to eat or drink.
I couldn’t move without Galloway’s aid.
I was tired, cranky, and in tears fearing what would happen.
The nightmare that’d haunted me for months seemed to come true the longer I was in labour. Contraction after contraction, my body tried to deliver my child, but contraction after contraction, it failed.
My water didn’t break, and slowly, my energy dwindled. I rode the pain rather than fought with it to push.
The children had spent the day by my side, alternating between bathing my sweaty body with seawater and holding fresh coconut juice to my lips. Galloway hovered like a heartsick parent, looking as if he’d happily go to war with death itself if it meant I would be safe.
The hopelessness in his gaze quadrupled my heart rate until I struggled to breathe.
And now, the moon took centre stage again, and still, I struggled.
How long did labour normally last for? Three hours? Three days? I didn’t have much more to give if it was any longer.
Don’t give up.
You can’t give up.
I couldn’t leave him. Leave them.
The night I’d taken Galloway as my husband was the night I’d vowed not to die in childbirth.