Ken Waters knew all along that his second wife Julie wanted children. He thought he did, too. But now that it’s a reality? Well, that’s a different story.
“Baby,” he said, his voice dull. His fingers tracked through his chestnut hair. What if he lost another child? That would just kill him. Never once had it ever entered his mind that he might lose his beloved four-year-old Katrina; and when he did, his mind railed.
Katrina skipped into his thoughts—know how much I love you, Daddy?
Too much, my little Katrina, too much.
There’s no such thing as too much, Daddy.
Five years had come and gone; still, there was no accepting the loss that hibernated like a grizzly in winter within the vacuous cavern of his mind. Fatherhood a second time around aroused the hidden beast.
Pacing about the manse in Cohasset, Massachusetts, Ken mumbled, “If only I had known that night as I tucked you into bed that it was going to be for the last time, I’d’ve hugged you tighter, breathed in the essence of baby shampoo that lingers on those blond ringlets that flounce about your head. I’d’ve read one more story, kissed that button nose of yours a thousand times more, told you that I love you so much more than just a mere too much.” No, there’s just no way of getting over little Katrina’s loss.
So it was that with each passing day, Ken lost sight of new bride Julie and all the positive things she had brought to his life. Her voice and complicated simplicity vanished quicker than the snap of fingers. No longer did he see the fairness of her face or her expressive cocoa eyes accentuated by lashes that picked up the golden hue of a summer’s morn. Even her honeysuckle perfume failed to penetrate the defensive walls that he had built around himself. Eyes that gleamed in the sunlight and the engaging smile that outlined cheekbones that blushed like ripe peaches became lost in the darkness of tormented nights.
All the changes Julie had made to the manse failed to keep the ghost of Regina at bay. He fought off the ghost with denial, haphazard activity, and single malt Scotch—way too much Scotch. Nothing worked.
Ken tried to get away—on business trips, so he claimed. That was a lost cause, for everywhere he went, everything he saw reminded him of Katrina. He couldn’t even pick up a book and read, for she wasn’t there, snuggled up on his lap, listening to his every word. Worst of all, he dreaded the return to that manse, for Regina was there. She was always there. As a result, he stopped leaving the manse; therefore, he didn’t have to return. Drowning in booze was so much easier.
Day after day, Ken sat alone in his office on the first floor of the manse. Rarely did he think to shower his five-foot-ten frame or to shave. More often than not, his mind was conjuring up one of the happiest days of his life, the day Katrina was born; and it seemed as though he was in the delivery room all over again. Cold, stainless steel scissors ringed his fingers as his hand contracted to sever the umbilical cord.
Then the obstetrician picked up the newborn and offered her to Ken as though Ken were a great deity.
Ken gawked at the tiny life. His arms were limp at his sides.
A grin wrinkled the obstetrician’s green mask. “Go ahead. Take your daughter. She’s not going to bite.” A great belly laugh shook the delivery room and then he added, “Well, not until she gets you under her spell anyways.”
Ken swiped his hands up and down his pant legs then gingerly took the babe. She was so tiny in his computer wiz hands. His heart overflowed, and he wanted his voice to soar high above the clouds and into the heavens beyond to proclaim that here was a miracle. But he was tongue-tied. The newborn had taken his breath away. He kissed the tiny nose and somehow managed to sputter, “She’s smiling at me.”
Chuckles filled the delivery room. “Not quite yet, my friend,” blustered the obstetrician.
Nobody’s telling me that my baby girl didn’t smile at her Daddy, thought Ken. He turned to Regina and cold reality slapped him down, for it was more than obvious that the entire event repulsed her.
