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Amia is crying. She hasn’t stopped crying, and I’m alone. J.R. is with his mother, and Kelley and Adam took Knox for ice cream. I am exhausted, and I hope J.R. comes back soon. He’s helping Ellie with the last-minute funeral arrangements for Roger. I’m ashamed to admit that I’ll be happy when all of this is over and things return to normal. Maybe we’ll go home soon, too. Maybe I’m being too hopeful, and maybe I’m being heartless, too. I’m not heartless. I’m sad. I’m overwhelmed. I’m really homesick.
I cradle Amia. I try to feed her. I sing to her, and I try to rock her. Still, she cries, and I’m beginning to think something is wrong. I remember that Knox didn’t like me much when she was a newborn either. Kelley was the only one with the capability to stop her crying. What is wrong with me? Why do I birth babies who hate me?
J.R. comes through the front, and I meet him with Amia in tow. She’s screaming, her hands balled into a fist. I’m sure I look like I’m about to lose my mind, and a part of me feels like I already have. Aren’t newborns supposed to sleep a lot? She’s a few days old now, and sleeping is not her favorite pastime.
“What’s wrong?” J.R. asks me over her screams.
“Babies hate me.” I sigh. “I’ve tried everything. I think something is wrong.”
J.R. takes Amia from me, and he cradles her in his arms. He holds her close to him, and then he looks down into her soft, blue eyes. He speaks softly to her, and like magic, she stops crying. The barn is so quiet now, it’s almost deafening.
“I don’t get it.” I push my hand through my hair.
J.R. looks at me, and I think he’s pitying me. I wish he wouldn’t look at me like that. I don’t want pity.
“Go take a shower, Rach. I’ve got this.”
“What if she starts crying again?”
“I can handle it,” J.R. assures me. “You need to go shower and then take a nap.”
“You look tired, too, J.R. I can’t go to sleep knowing you’re exhausted, too.”
“Go, Rach. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.” J.R.'s eyes move back to Amia. I peek at her face, too, and I watch as her eyes grow heavy.
J.R. is a magician. There’s no other explanation.
The hot water feels like heaven as it rolls down my back. I’ve always believed that a hot shower can cure anything, and at this moment, I stand firm in that belief. My body still hurts from birth, and my stomach is still swollen. Even with Amia on the outside of my body now, my body still looks pregnant. I stand beneath the water, close my eyes, and breathe. I allow myself to relax, even if only for a few moments.
When I’ve run all of the hot water out, I dry off and drag myself into the bedroom. J.R. is there, and Amia, too. He’s sitting on the bed with his back against the headboard, and he holds Amia against his chest. She’s asleep. He’s not. He’s watching me as I cross the room to dress.
I throw a big t-shirt on, and then I crawl into bed next to them. I won’t risk speaking. I won’t risk waking Amia up. I lie there, instead, looking up at J.R. He looks down at me, and I see the hint of a smile on his face. I miss touching his face, running my fingers through his hair, feeling him next to me. Pregnancy quite literally puts a wedge between things, and I think I’m looking forward to my body bouncing back to its usual self and being close to him again.
J.R. slides off the bed quietly, placing Amia in her crib next to our bed, and then moving back into the bed with me. He pulls the covers over us; I roll onto my side to face him, and then he drops his arms over my hips. His lips move against mine, and he whispers, “I love you.”
“I love you,” I whisper in return, and I put my fingers through his hair.
“Go to sleep.” He smiles at me.
I close my eyes, and then I think I’m asleep.
***
The house is solemn this morning. We’ll bury Roger today, and I’m not sure how J.R. is feeling. I can’t imagine that he’s feeling great, but he does hide it well. Regardless of the turn their relationship took, Roger was still J.R.’s father.
Knox is dressed—Amia, too—but J.R. is missing. He wasn’t in the bed when I woke up this morning, and he hasn’t made it to breakfast yet. I am beginning to get worried. Farm duties would have to wait today.
“Kelley, I’ve got to go find J.R.,” I say, passing Amia to her. I’m more than grateful to still have Kelley—and even Adam—here with us. I don’t suppose any of us would have gotten by the last few days without them.
“I’ve got this. Go find him,” she says, giving Amia’s tiny cheek a kiss.
I head outside, the sticky morning air clinging to my skin. I long for a breeze, but those are few and far between here. There is dew in the grass and a smell that has become familiar to me since we’ve been here but still unidentifiable. It’s quiet. Almost too quiet. On a normal morning, the chickens would be out of their coops making the enormously loud and almost irritating clucking sounds that they make. Today, though, it’s as if even the chickens are in mourning.
I take the trail around the barn toward the pond. I’m not sure why I go in that direction; but it feels right, so I follow it. The trail spirals down a hill and then back up another. As I crest the top, I spot J.R. He’s there on the rugged dock, his back to me, staring out across the murky water. He leans into the railing, his chin in his palm. J.R. is dressed for the funeral. He’s wearing straight, black pants and a black, button-up shirt. His hair is pulled back in a low ponytail. He takes my breath away, even in moments like these.
I quietly walk up to him, a part of me thinking I should turn around and go back to the barn. The other part of me knows that he needs me. Even if I’m not that great at offering compassion, sometimes a person’s presence is all that’s needed.
J.R. hears me as I step up onto the dock, and he turns to face me. “Rach, what are you doing out here? You should be careful walking down here.” His blue eyes are sad and wet, but he looks at me with a tenderness that I can’t explain.
