Even then, the sound caught slightly in his chest.
“Fine. Cecelia.”
I looked at him.
Even then, the sound caught slightly in his chest.
“Cecelia?”
“My grandmother used to sing that song with the name in it.”
“You said she sang everything badly.”
“Still counts.”
“That’s not a reason to name a human being.”
“It made you smile.”
“You said she sang everything badly.”
“Cecelia,” I said quietly.
The baby kicked beneath his hand.
Mark’s eyebrows lifted.
“See? She voted.”
“She kicked you.”
“Strong approval.”
The baby kicked beneath his hand.
I covered his hand with mine.
“Cecelia.”
This time, it sounded like our daughter’s name.
We’d wanted her for years.
Then, six months into my pregnancy, Mark got sick.
We’d wanted her for years.
The doctors gave him no more than three months. He probably wouldn’t live long enough to meet her.
***
One evening, we sat on the porch again while Cecelia kicked hard enough to make my shirt move.
Mark watched the spot for a few seconds, then rested his hand over it.
“If they can use anything when the time comes, I want to donate.”
I turned toward him.
The doctors gave him no more than three months.
“Please don’t talk about dying while she’s kicking.”
“That’s exactly why I have to, sweetheart.”
“Mark.”
His thumb moved slowly across my stomach.
“If I can’t watch her grow up, maybe somebody else gets more time with their family.”
“Don’t make dying sound noble. I’m already angry enough.”
“That’s exactly why I have to, sweetheart.”
His eyes lifted to mine.
“I’m scared too, Sal.”
“I don’t know how to do this without you, Mark.”
“You don’t have to know yet.”
“What if I never know?”
He was quiet for a moment.
“I’m scared too, Sal.”
