and vulnerable, my single consummate dread surfaced, and I could no longer hide from its sickening truth.
“Perhaps you wouldn’t have known the difference, Luke,” I reaffirmed, “but your birth mother would have. Just like I will.”
Unthinkingly, my hand moved to my belly, and I systematically rubbed the half-shaped bundle of cells sailing within. No matter what I did, no matter how I handled this “surprise” calamity, I would always know, would always question my decision. Therefore, I realized that in the final analysis, my only genuine choice was to pick the alternative that would trouble my heart the least.
From across the semi’s cab, Luke leaned slightly toward me. Tenderly, he, too, massaged my swollen curve. Like always, his smile was merciful and benevolent.
“Whatever you decide, Kelli, I’ll support you and do all I can to make it easier. All I ask is that you search your soul, make sure that your choice is the right one for you, Kelli. Make this decision for yourself.”
The rest of our trip passed by in a haze of silent miles and profoundly intense self-scrutiny. I worried about everything from money to my folks, from that moment to my deathbed. But mostly, I worried about the baby.
When we reached the city limits of my hometown, Luke automatically pulled off the highway and parked the rig behind the gas station where I’d worked. I looked at him. My inner turmoil was gone; my soul was at peace. I’d made my decision.
“I’ll go with adoption, Luke. Just tell me where to start and I won’t bother you again.”
A tremendous sigh of relief blew from his lungs as he took my hand and raised it to his lips. Lovingly, he kissed my knuckles, his expression warm and compassionate.
“Although it wouldn’t have changed how I feel about you, Kelli, on behalf of adopted kids everywhere, I’m grateful and thank you for making this impossible choice. But just as importantly, you are not now, nor will you ever be, a bother to me. I’m fond of you, Kelli, more fond than you know. I have been since the beginning of this incredible adventure, and even beforehand. I was sincere when I said that I would do all I can for you—”
“That is so sweet and so just like you, Luke.” My voice wobbled and my never-far-from-the-surface tears threatened to undo my fledgling maturity. “But none of this is your affair, certainly not your fault. You’ve already gone above and beyond friendship. Surpassed duty—”
“Sssh. . . .” Luke pressed a chivalrous finger to my lips, and bumped my nose with his. “Don’t say any more. Just give me a big hug and then I’ll take you home. Together, we’ll explain to your folks where we’ve been.”
“That’s unnecessary,” I said, although the prospect of seeing my parents—by myself and unprotected—filled me with unqualified panic and misgiving.
Another pseudo-serious warning and Luke gathered me close to his heart. He warmed my icy fear with his firm, self-confident embrace. The safe, homey thud of his heart soothed me. Like always when in his arms, wrapped in his gracious attention, I felt safe, sure. My baby did, too. With the pure hope of a child, I wished I could stay swathed in his sureness forever.
Wriggling nearer still, I spread my hand over his shoulder, pressed my breasts to his ribs. I looked up at him.
For a moment, I stared into his dark eyes, hoping that my heartfelt gratitude could be conveyed by this guileless gesture. My fingertips fluttered to his lips, then traced the intimate fullness of his mouth. His eyes softened and he bent his head to return my gaze. The scratchy roughness of Luke’s chin on my cheek seemed to stir my sensitivities in a brand-new way.
As if in slow motion, our lips touched. The light and airy pressure was a gossamer promise of things to come. Despite my pregnancy, in Luke’s eyes, I felt virginal, clean, and unsoiled—a pristine lady in white. Once again, I basked in his tenderness. It was a rebirth I had no right to feel.
Starry-eyed and flushed, my body coursed with the most feminine of yearnings. I felt sensual sensations I’d never experienced before, not even with the father of my baby. I felt faint, fevered, and completely unprepared for the gruff rumble of Luke’s rigid ouster. Though his features retained a trace of his more kindly demeanor, the determined set of his once-pliable mouth shocked me back to reality, centered me on the task at hand—facing my folks.
My folks. The mere thought of them sent a chill up my spine and weakened my knees.
With Luke’s reliable bulk bolstering my sagging spirit, I handed my parents my decision, and girded myself for their virtuous reprimand. But true to Luke’s prediction, they were more happy to see me return safe and sound, than they were at my hard-won decision. They didn’t mind the adoption plan and allowed me back into the house.
Before he left on his turnaround haul to Michigan, Luke accompanied me to a local women’s clinic, and held my hand through the embarrassing question-and-answer counseling, patiently reading dogeared magazines while I underwent my physical examination.
The clinic proved a godsend of help and reassurance. They even hooked me up with a sympathetic doctor and a reputable adoption agency.
As my gloom gave way to springtime blossoms, the weeks passed in supercharged emotions. Although I’d left him high and dry, my boss welcomed me back without dissension. My high school had more to say, though, and they were infinitely hesitant to permit me back to class. Still, once they learned that I would not “brag” about my condition, and I assured them that I would not “show” before graduation, they capitulated, and reluctantly let me finish out my senior year.
My ex-boyfriend had absolutely no interest in our baby. He avoided me like the plague. But somehow, I didn’t care. Indeed, I was glad to be rid of him—an immature, selfish little boy.
Through it all, I had one unvarying, uncompromising champion in my corner: Luke Jameson.
Luke called me every night, and sent me postcards from random truck stops. Every two weeks, he came through town and took me out to dinner and a movie. Luke listened to my troubles, and stroked the burgeoning roundness of my belly as though the being inside was an object of phenomenal delight. Luke giggled like a first-time father every time an errant foot or fidgety fist nudged his loving hand.
Despite our closeness and obvious physical attraction toward one another, by mutual, unspoken agreement, we did not fool around sexually. We never kissed or touched again, but we did constantly hold hands. Our emotional bonds grew more personal, but our physical relationship stayed strictly platonic.
Since I intended to give the baby up for adoption, I struggled to remain unattached to my little bundle, which I frequently referred to as “the fetus.” Nonetheless, some things are easier said than done.
As my belly protruded, bounced around, and ruined my sleep, I couldn’t help but talk to it. Late at night and early in the morning, I told it my life story, and dreamed aloud its prospects with some loving, caring family. My hands became a safeguarding shield around it’s shifting, kicking orbit. With all my might and no-nonsense logic, I endeavored not to love it. I desperately tried not to think of my unborn child’s postpartum future.
As my due date grew nearer, winding down to a last few days, I was surprised to see Luke in a pickup truck, instead of his usual eighteen-wheeler. He wasn’t scheduled to arrive for days. I was, however, immeasurably joyous to see him. But I’d never felt larger, more uncomfortable, or more unlovable. The baby had been too quiet and my back ached fiercely.
