Love's Haven (4 page)

“She is, isn’t she?”

“So are you.”

“Brock, I miss Todd.”

“I know, Mara.”

“I love her so much. God gave her to me…but He took Todd away. Why? Oh, Brock…”

The nurse touched his arm. “We need to warm up your daughter now. And the doctor wants to finish with you, Mara.”

The baby was whisked away, and Mara felt the greatest emptiness she’d ever known. “Where is she?”

“They’ve put her in a warming bed,” Brock explained, still at Mara’s side. “They’re weighing her. Now they’re putting bands on her ankle and wrist. They’re stamping her foot with black ink.”

“She’s crying!”

“She doesn’t want anyone messing with her. She’s like her mama.”

Mara laughed. Brock took off his mask, and she could see the sparkle in his eyes. Well, it was done. She let out a deep breath—half in relief and half in trepidation.

“I’m a mother,” she murmured. “My baby has a mother.”

She studied the man whose hand she clasped. Your baby has a father, too, she could almost hear him thinking. But those were words she couldn’t bring herself to say. The child belonged to Todd. She always would.

The recovery room was small, with only a single bed. In delivery, Mara had been stitched and pushed and man-handled more than Brock thought was necessary, but what did he know? Now in the narrow bed, she was shivering like a puppy in an ice storm.

“All right, Mara,” the nurse said as she opened the door. “You can hold your daughter for a few minutes before we take her back to the nursery.”

Feeling superfluous, Brock stood to one side as the nurse laid the tiny blanketed bundle in Mara’s arms. He could barely see the top of the baby’s head, and that white
cap covered all the skin. Mara cooed and clucked as her lips trembled with emotion.

In a moment, Dr. Fielding, the doctor who had delivered the baby, stepped into the room, followed by Mara’s physician, Dr. Meacham, who had finally arrived. Brock shoved his hands into his pockets and thought about heading outside to look for a snack machine as everyone laughed, offered congratulations, admired the baby. He edged toward the door.

“And you must be Mara’s new husband!” Dr. Meacham, baby in his arms, swung around and gave Brock a warm smile. “This must have been quite an experience for you.”

“It sure was.” Brock tried to get a glimpse of the baby’s face. He could just see the tip of a small pink nose.

“Here, take a closer look.” Dr. Meacham held out the bundle. “Haven’t you held her yet?”

Brock took a step backward, his eyes darting to Mara. She was talking to a nurse. Brock looked at the physician again.

“Wouldn’t you like to hold her?” Dr. Meacham asked.

His mouth as dry as dust, Brock stared at the blanketed bundle. “I better not,” he mumbled.

“I think you’d better. Might as well get used to it now.”

The doctor set the baby against Brock’s chest. As he gazed down at the miniature face, Brock slipped his hands around the blanket. The baby’s weight, solid and undeniable, tightened his forearms. In the crook of his elbow, her round head nestled contentedly, her eyes shut tight and her pink lips making little
O
’s.

“What do you think?” Dr. Meacham asked.

For a moment, Brock couldn’t speak as emotion flooded through him. He touched her tiny ear, stroked a finger across her petal-soft cheek, then kissed her forehead. The strangest emotion was tugging at his stomach and swelling his heart. He’d never been in love
before, but he’d have sworn this must be the feeling. At the present moment, he would do anything for the baby he held. He’d lay down his life for her.

“She’s incredible,” he whispered.

Mara smiled at him as he settled the baby into her arms. He’d never seen anyone so beautiful as this woman looked to him right now. He told himself it was just the intensity of the moment, but he couldn’t deny a feeling he’d never known in his life. Somehow he had become attached to Mara. A thin silver thread connected them. It was a filament that might become tangled or frayed or stretched to the limit. But he didn’t think it would break.

M
ara had never seen such perfection. Maybe the infant in her arms was a little bit pink and wrinkly, and maybe her eyelids puffed out and her head was slightly lopsided. So what? She was the prettiest, sweetest little girl Mara had ever laid eyes on.

“You planning to let Daddy hold her one of these days?” the parent educator asked as she wheeled in a cart of supplies. Before Mara could protest, the woman swept the baby out of her arms and into Brock’s. “Now, Mrs. Barnett, you said you intended to nurse your daughter?”

Mara nodded. “I’m going to try.”

“You’ll be fine. It’s the most natural thing in the world.”

As the woman set out pamphlets and materials, Mara studied Brock. He was holding the baby as though she were a precious gem. His brown eyes had melted into pools of chocolate fudge, and the expression on his face spoke volumes. For the first time in his life, Brock looked…gentle.

How could that be?

Mara didn’t want such tenderness from him. It made her feel somehow connected to the man. True, Brock was her husband—but in name only. And he wasn’t the baby’s father. He really had no right to look at her daughter that way.

But he had helped through the birth. He had laid his money and his reputation—even his future—on the line for this child. He’d done it out of guilt. Mara had to remember that. Yet she had a sinking suspicion she couldn’t have gotten through the birth without him. She had wanted him. Needed him.

Did she want him now?

“All right,” the parent educator began. “Let’s get started.”

“I’d better go.” Brock held out the baby to any takers.

“No, it’s okay,” Mara said without thinking. “You can stay.” And before she could change her mind, the baby was lying in her arms, and Brock was seated on a chair in the corner while the nurse untied the strings of Mara’s gown.

“Now, you’ll want to find a comfortable position,” the woman said. “I recommend holding the baby at several different angles during each feeding.”

At the intimacy of the moment, Mara could feel the heat flush through her cheeks. She glanced over the nurse’s shoulder to see Brock, elbows on his knees and chin propped on his fist, staring at the floor between his boots.

“Now, first place the baby right here,” the nurse suggested, deftly tucking the little bundle into Mara’s lap. “All babies have a natural sucking instinct, so the moment you touch the side of her face, she’ll turn toward you.”

Again, Mara glanced at Brock. Head down, he was still intently concentrating on the floor. She focused on her baby. Tiny mouth pursed, the little one didn’t seem to have the slightest interest in nursing. Mara knew she would have to forget about the man in the room and concentrate.

“How can I get her to open her mouth?” she asked.

“Stroke her cheek with your finger,” the nurse said. “See? There you go. Oh, she’s hungry all right. Look at that!”

Mara smiled with satisfaction as her daughter settled comfortably. A sweet contentment filled Mara at the
thought that she was nourishing her baby. In the past nine months, God had provided a precious bond between mother and child. To Mara’s joy, she realized that bond had not been severed by birth. In fact, she felt closer to her baby now that she could look into her daughter’s tiny face and could see she was actually giving a part of her physical self to sustain this tiny, amazing life.

In a recent Bible study, Mara had learned the names God gave Himself through the ages. One name—
El Shaddai
—referred to a nursing mother’s breast. God saw Himself as nourisher, sustainer, fulfiller, the teacher had explained. And Mara now saw that in somewhat the same way as God cared for His people, she was tending to her child. The realization made her feel closer to her Lord, and to her baby, as well.

“This liquid is called colostrum,” the nurse spoke up. “It’s the first, most nourishing fluid. The colostrum helps provide natural immunities for your baby.”

“What about milk?”

“Your milk will come in by tomorrow, I imagine,” the woman answered. “But you want your daughter to take as much colostrum as possible.”

“This feels…all right.”

“
Today
it does. But tomorrow may be a different story. Most women experience quite a bit of soreness in the first days of nursing. I’m going to give you some special cream. I recommend you rub this in several times a day. Maybe your husband could do it for you?”

The nurse swung around to look at Brock, who jerked his attention from Mara to the window. He appeared to be fascinated with a tree that still had a few golden leaves clinging to it.

“I don’t think so,” Mara whispered to the nurse. The baby had dropped off to sleep, her eyelids as delicate as rose petals.

“Whatever is most comfortable for you. I’m going to
take her back to the nursery now, Mara, but I’ll come around later in the day to see if you need help again.”

“Thank you.” Mara pulled her gown together and tied the strings. “I’d really like to keep her here with me.”

Mara heard the longing in her voice as the baby was lifted from her arms.

“She needs to be warmed up again. It won’t be long before you’re in your own room, and you can spend all the time you want with her.”

As the nurse walked toward the door with the baby, Mara turned toward Brock. At this moment of loneliness, she couldn’t help wishing for her husband. Then she remembered she had Brock Barnett. He certainly wasn’t Todd, but he was all she had. He would have to do.

“Stay?” she asked him, suddenly exhausted again.

He nodded.

“By the way,” the nurse asked. “What’s your daughter’s name, Mara?”

“Abigail,” Mara said softly. “I’ll call her Abby.”

“That’s a beautiful name.”

As the door shut, Mara studied her hands as they lay limply across the empty space where her baby had nestled. The wedding ring Todd had given her circled a pale finger. She felt tired and alone.

“Abby,” she repeated, lifting her focus to the small window. “It means, ‘Her father was joy.’”

Brock nodded, his face solemn. “Todd would like that.”

For the next three days, the hospital became the whole world as Mara adjusted to motherhood while little Abby got used to life outside the womb. Neither transition was easy. Mara’s milk did begin to flow, but it took Abby quite a while to figure out how to nurse effectively. In the meantime, Mara grew tender and sore, and she seemed to have either too much or not enough milk.

The hospital room itself was pleasant enough, pale blue walls with a pastel border around the ceiling. A window looked out on the streets of Las Cruces, placid and cold for the Thanksgiving holiday. A clean bathroom provided a warm shower. A sofa catered to the guests who came to visit—her pastor and his wife, neighbors from the apartment complex, Mara’s former coworkers at the private academy where she had taught some years earlier, members of her Bible study group. Bouquets of pink carnations and white roses jostled for space on the wall shelf, while boxes of tiny ruffled dresses gathered in a corner. Mara couldn’t imagine her baby getting big enough to wear them.

Little Abby hated bath time and diaper changes, and Mara wasn’t crazy about them, either. Her stitches and tired body made movement difficult, though she spent a good bit of time walking the floors of the neonatal unit. She showered and changed into a gown Brock brought in a suitcase, and once or twice she almost felt normal again. Then she would begin to ache or her chair would require a doughnut-shaped cushion, and Mara remembered that she had changed forever.

Her entire life felt new, different, and in some ways, unpleasant. When Sherry had arrived breathless and apologetic an hour too late for the delivery, Mara was basking in the afterglow of Abby’s birth. But two days later when her friend breezed into the room with a meal of leftover turkey, a spoonful of stuffing and a bowl of cranberry sauce, Mara stared at the paper plate as if it were the saddest thing she’d ever seen.

“I’m married to him,” she said. “Brock Barnett.”

Sherry set the plate on the rolling tray and perched on the edge of Mara’s bed. Her dark brown eyes sparkled as she waved a hand in dismissal. “Not that I would know—since I’ve never strapped the bonds of matrimony and
motherhood around my own neck—but I’d guess it’s just your hormones talking, Mara. You’ve heard about the baby blues? You know, post-partum depression? They say you feel sad for no reason at all.”

“No reason! Sherry, I’m a widow who married a man I don’t even like.”

“You like Brock.”

“How could I? Thanks to him, I don’t have a husband.”

“Brock
is
your husband,” Sherry countered firmly, “and you do like him. When Todd was alive, you got along with Brock.”

“I tolerated him. He’s so self-assured and smug. Like he’s king of the world. Strutting around in those jeans and boots. Driving a fancy car. Trying to buy off his guilt. I don’t know…he’s just so cocky.”

“Who wouldn’t be? Brock Barnett is rich and handsome and educated and successful—”

“Please, Sherry!” Mara groaned. “Spare me the buildup. He’s been so unbearably nice these past few days. It’s almost sickening. He packed all my stuff and moved me out of the apartment. He brought over lotion and shampoo and a new box of talcum powder. Expensive, designer-brand talcum powder, Sherry. He’s bought Abby everything from diapers to booties to a velvet Christmas dress she’ll probably be too big to wear by December. This morning it hit me that I was actually looking forward to seeing him walk through the door. You’re right. I don’t hate him as much as I should. And I hate myself for that.”

“Let it go, Mara.”

“I’m trying. But when I look into Abby’s eyes, all I can think about is Todd. He was so excited about the pregnancy. He couldn’t wait to be a father. He talked about holding her and teaching her things, you know? Three months of my morning sickness…that’s all he got.”

Sherry pulled a tissue from the box by Mara’s bed. “Here you go. You can’t wish this sadness away, so you might as well feel it. I think it’s part of grieving for Todd.”

“It is, but I can’t forgive Brock for what he did, even though I know I should. I’ve heard countless sermons on the topic, and I never thought it was that difficult. If we want God’s forgiveness, we’re supposed to forgive others. But this is so different…so hard. I’m not even sure I know how to forgive Brock, Sherry. Besides, I can’t let go of Todd. Not now.”

“Abby is Todd’s daughter, Mara. Of course you can’t let his memory go. You never will, and you never should.” She paused a moment. “But you’re right about Brock. You do need to forgive him.”

Mara stared at the door through which Brock had come and gone at least twenty times since Abby’s birth. Half the time, he was wheeling the baby into the room in her bassinet. He rarely stayed while Mara nursed, and they barely spoke to each other. When they did talk, they discussed only the most mundane, factual matters. But he was there, consistently there, as though he belonged.

“If I shouldn’t let go of Todd,” Mara said, fingering the ring on her hand, “and if he’ll always be Abby’s father, how can I forgive myself for marrying Brock Barnett?”

“Because you know why you did it.”

“I don’t want to live in his house, Sherry.”

“Why not?”

“Because…” Mara conjured the image that had been bothering her all morning—Brock at the breakfast table, freshly showered and dressed in a denim shirt and jeans. She could almost smell his aftershave. “Because I don’t want to see him.”

“You won’t see him. He’s a rancher. He’ll be out feeding cows or whatever. You know, up at sunrise and to bed at dusk. Besides, you’ll be busy taking care of Abby.”

Mara pondered this for a moment. Sherry was probably right. Todd had told her Brock’s home was a sprawling adobe ranch house with two separate wings and a courtyard in between. She and Brock probably could live side by side without ever setting eyes on each other. Just as well.

“I can’t believe I’m going to add an annulment or a divorce to my résumé,” she said with a long sigh. “Married, widowed, married, divorced. Good grief. How long do you suppose Brock will want to stay married?”

“Given what you’ve told me about his track record with women, what do you think? I imagine he’ll decide he’s had enough domesticity after a month or two, and he’ll want to go back to having fun.” Sherry shook her head. “Please don’t worry so much about it. The Bible allows divorce.”

“Because of the hardness of our hearts. That’s what Jesus said about it. I don’t want to become a hard-hearted, unforgiving, bitter woman, Sherry. What am I doing?”

“Just relax. You’re in God’s hands.”

“This can’t be part of His plan for me. I asked Him for help—not for Brock Barnett!”

“Well, he’s who you got. Just make sure Brock signs everything, so your baby is legally protected the way he promised.”

“He brought the papers in and showed them to me yesterday. Things couldn’t be better for Abby.”

Mara tried to project the future Sherry had outlined. She and Abby would live alone in the big house until Brock’s hormones came calling. Then they would move out, the marriage would be annulled and Mara would fend for herself, as she had before and could again.

“Brock married you out of a sense of obligation, Mara,” Sherry reminded her. “He feels it’s his duty to keep Todd’s daughter out of the welfare system. He knows he was responsible for Todd up on those cliffs at Hueco Tanks, and now he’s responsible for you two.”

“He thinks he can buy my forgiveness. And God’s.”

“Why not? He can buy everything else. Brock Barnett’s wayward soul is not your responsibility right now, Mara. The only thing you need to be thinking about is Abby. Brock can take care of himself. As soon as he’s figured out a way to settle you and Abby into some other satisfactory situation, you’ll be able to walk away. In the meantime, why not take advantage of his remorse?”

“Oh, Sherry!” Mara had to laugh at her friend’s cynicism. “I’m not as mercenary as you.”

Sherry shrugged. “Maybe not, but a big house, two maids, a swimming pool and a car of your own are nothing to sneeze at. You’re getting a cushy ride on ol’ Brocko’s guilt trip.”