Page 23 of Faith Notes
Chapter 9
Grayson
27 Weeks
“GRAYSON.”
I’m standing at the stove, cooking bacon, when Georgia yells my name, and I don’t even stop to think before sprinting her way, my heart dislodged into my stomach.
I take the steps two at a time as Georgia yells my name for a second time.
My heart is hammering hard by the time I reach the top, afraid of what I might find.
Georgia calls my name again from the direction of the baby’s room, and I hold my breath as I head in that direction.
Outside the door, I take a minute to slow my breath because whatever I might find inside, Georgia needs me to remain calm for both of us. I can’t lose my cool while she is in the middle of losing hers.
When my breathing is regulated, I lift my hand and crack open the door, only to be left confused when I find my wife sitting in the rocker we bought last week and looking as cool as a cucumber.
“Georgia? What is it? What’s wrong?” I ask, keeping my steps even and unhurried as I approach her.
Her eyes widen as she takes me in, and then she doubles over, a strangled sound escaping her lips.
Sinking down on my knees in front of her, I search for the source of her pain because the strangled sound is turning into breathless gasps, so much so that she can’t get words out.
“Peach, talk to me. Please talk to me,” I beg. “Tell me what it is so I can help you.”
This only causes her to gasp harder, and I feel so helpless in that moment that my hands fall to my knees as I try to figure out what to do.
Just as I am on the verge of calling an ambulance, she looks up at me with tears in her eyes and a smile on her face.
Laughing. She was laughing.
I should be angry, but all I can feel is pure relief rushing into my lungs.
She laughs again, and I find myself smiling back at her.
“What?” I ask again, this time less hysterical. “What has you in such fits?”
Taking a deep breath, she catches enough air to finally speak around her wheezes. “You…are….just…just…look…”
She points to a mirror that’s sitting on the floor, and I turn my head to the direction she’s pointing—coming face to face with a man who looks deranged. It takes me a minute to realize it’s me.
My hair is a mess like I ran my hand through it a million times on the way up here. There are grease spots on my shirt where the bacon popped up and a wild look in my eyes. But the cherry on top of this picture is that I’m still holding a fork, clenched tightly in my fists.
The reality of what Georgia saw when I walked in sinks in, and laughter bubbles to the surface until my wife and I both have tears streaming down our faces.
“Is this why you called me up here?” I ask, trying hard to gain control of myself. “To make fun of me?”
Georgia shakes her head, her ponytail bouncing with the movement.
“No,” she says, laughter still on her lips and happy tears on her face. “This is.”
She reaches forward, grabbing my hand and placing it over her rounded stomach.
At first, I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing, but as my laughter dies and I start to focus, I feel it.
It’s just a tiny flutter against my hand, but I feel it.
