clinic. James was a very devout Catholic, so he asked the
clinic how he could provide a specimen without selfgratification.
I wasn’t too judgmental of such indulgences,
but I officially converted for him and decided to support
all aspects of doctrine.
The following months of nuptial consummation,
then rushing the specimen over to the clinic, was taxing to
say the least.
But it did work. Forty-five days before James was
called up again, we had conceived.
Our miracle baby.
Then James went to war, leaving me pregnant and
alone. By the third trimester, a young man in uniform
notified me of his death. Killed in action. The report said
his Humvee ran over an IED. He was driving it at the time
and took most of the explosion.
After the funeral, James’s sister and I were left to
care for things. Becca was going to be my doula. We stayed
after at the restaurant where the memorial dinner was held.
Becca got pretty inebriated. I may have had a couple of
glasses of wine myself. Not too proud of it, but it had been
the worst few days of my life.
It only got worse when that pick-up truck teed us
on the intersection with Forrester and Bailey. Becca was
killed and I went into labor.
48
My miracle baby would not survive.
Father Williams exhumes a heavy grunt, as he
repositions himself. I can’t help but moan. His eyes widen