“He might have liked that.”
“I think so.”
Three years after the wedding, Eleanor became pregnant.
Her joy arrived tangled with terror.
She told Caleb beside the woodpile.
He dropped an entire armful of logs.
One landed on his boot.
He did not react.
“Pregnant?”
“Yes.”
Caleb stared at her stomach.
Then his scar.
Eleanor saw.
“No.”
“What?”
“Do not begin punishing yourself for something that has not happened.”
Caleb swallowed.
“What if the baby—”
“Has something unusual?”
“Yes.”
“Then we learn.”
“What if—”
“We learn.”
He looked toward her.
Eleanor continued.
“We are not raising a child inside fear before the child even arrives.”
Caleb nodded.
His eyes filled.
Then he knelt in the snow and pressed his forehead carefully against her stomach.
“There is nothing to hear.”
“I know.”
“What are you doing?”
“I don’t know.”
She laughed.
Pregnancy changed Eleanor's body.
That brought Henry’s old voice back.
Weight.
Size.
Worth.
One morning she stood in front of the mirror and began crying because her dress no longer closed.
Caleb entered.
Immediately stopped.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“That is clearly false.”
Eleanor wiped her face angrily.
“I’m enormous.”
Caleb looked confused.
“You were always—”
He stopped.
Terrible start.
Eleanor glared.
Caleb’s eyes widened.
“I meant—”
“Choose your next words as though survival depends upon them.”
“It may.”
He took a breath.
“I meant I have always known what your body looks like.”
“That isn't helping.”
“And I have always wanted you.”
Silence.
Better.
Caleb continued carefully.
“You are carrying our child.”
“Your body changed.”
“That doesn't make it wrong.”
Eleanor looked toward the mirror.
“I know.”
“No.”
“You know intellectually.”
“Different thing.”
She looked at him.
The mountain man who had once believed his scar made him unlovable understood.
Caleb came closer.
“May I?”
Eleanor nodded.
He wrapped his arms around her from behind.
Both looked at their reflection.
Scarred man.
Heavy pregnant woman.
Neither resembled the polished couples printed in advertisements or romance books.
Caleb whispered:
“We look like people who survived things.”
Eleanor smiled through tears.
“Very romantic.”
“I’m improving.”
“You are.”
Their daughter arrived during a rainstorm.
Caleb nearly fainted.
Not during the difficult parts.
After.
When the midwife handed him the tiny baby.
He stared.
“She's small.”
The midwife laughed.
“Most newborns are.”
Caleb held the baby like sacred glass.
Eleanor, exhausted, watched.
The child yawned.
Caleb cried.
Eleanor whispered:
“You’re doing that frequently now.”
“What?”
“Crying.”
“Your fault.”
“Good.”
The baby was healthy.
No unusual scar.
No deformity.
Caleb examined her chest too often during the first weeks.
Eleanor finally stopped him.
“She is fine.”
“I know.”
“Then stop looking for disaster.”