I held her as she cried at the edge of our bed. The air felt warm, even with the breeze of the air conditioner flowing through the room. It was the third time Camilla had miscarried.
An experience taken for granted by so many seemed out of reach for my Camilla.
It pained me to see her like this. She wanted so little, yet gave so much to the world. The number of times she had helped a stranger in need, volunteered at the church, or worked at shelters for the less fortunate had always inspired me to be a better man for her.
My hand cradled the back of her head as her tears soaked my chest. I reassured her that everything would be fine, a truth I knew with no doubt. Pulling her closer, I engulfed her in my arms. With a kiss atop her head, I whispered, “We will have a child of our own.” Her body softened as she continued to weep in my embrace.
We grew up together, fighting pirates on our make believe ship, chasing down ghosts with our imaginary gadgets. We were inseparable until the elders got involved, separating us when I was just eight years old.
Our parents forbade us from even speaking to each other after that, forcing us into separate social circles. I found solace in video games, while she became the cheerleader who enjoyed tailgate parties in an open field. Looking back, it’s obvious we were both depressed, searching for the connection that had been stripped from us.
Now, two years into our relationship, we had been trying to have a child, one that in our eyes would bridge the gap, transcending the judgment of so many.
Camilla had lost hope after so many miscarriages, a fact our parents had rejoiced in proclaiming it was the will of God.
Despite the ridicule and even threats of imprisonment from my uncle, the local sheriff who fancied himself the arbiter of morality and bringer of justice, our hearts belonged to each other. We finished each other’s thoughts and connected in a way deeper than past lovers. Nothing else mattered once our love emerged.
An event I’ll never forget.
It was a usual Saturday afternoon when she walked into my room unannounced. I was standing in front of my dresser, completely exposed. I froze for just a second before grabbing a shirt to cover myself. But she had already seen everything.
The silence broke as I uttered, “Why are you in here?”
She stepped closer, brushing up against me, pulling the shirt away.
She knelt and looked up at me with innocent eyes. My mind was frantic, failing to find words. There was nothing I could do but embrace her head as she took me in. My eyes trembled, out of control, with every flick of her tongue. Was she enjoying this as much as I was? But why now, all of a sudden?
The thought of us had crossed my mind a thousand times throughout high school, but never did I imagine it could really happen.
It was a lot to take in, as I finally came to my senses. She stood up, pushing me onto the bed. Her lips merged with mine as she kissed me, then rested her head on my chest.
I finally spoke. “Camilla, what just happened?”
She looked up at me and smiled, clinging to me.
I never found out what she was thinking that day. But here we are, two years later.
Her eyes, still red from crying, glancing up at me. “Why does God keep taking my baby?”
I pulled her close. “Honey,” I said, “I’ve found a specialist who can help us.”
She uttered in a soft voice, “Caden, hold me.”
She continued to cry for a few minutes as I eased her onto the bed. I lay next to her for several hours, holding her as she drifted into a peaceful slumber. She needed the rest. Her pain had exhausted her.
The next morning, I called the specialist and made an appointment. It was a week out, the earliest he could fit us in but my sister agreed to go with me. It was time to finally have our baby.
Over the next week, Camilla found the strength to keep a smile on, but I could tell she was masking her struggle. She was meant to be the mother of our child. Nothing would stand in our way, not even the loathing glances from our parents as we continued attending my family’s church. This was our life, and we would live it on our own terms.
Monday morning came. It was time to see the specialist.
Camilla was nervous, but hopeful. She held my hand as we drove an hour to the appointment, finally pulling into the parking lot of the doctor’s office. She emerged from the car and into my arms as we walked to the door.
Her hair whipped across my face as a storm gathered overhead. A sudden downpour began to shower us, lightning drawing nearer with each strike.
She smiled again as I gripped her tight, covering her head with my coat. The world may be against us, but our love was eternal.
After signing in, we waited only a short while before the doctor was ready to see us.
Camilla and my sister Bridget joined me as we walked back to his office together.
We discussed the procedure with the doctor and agreed it was the best option.
Bridget would be our surrogate.
It was no surprise to me Bridget had always had a bold personality.
I first noticed it when we were teenagers. She had walked up to one of the Italian boys she admired, kissed him smooth on the lips, then looked back at our grandmother and said, “What are you going to do about it?”
The feud between our Irish and Italian families had dragged on for generations, though no one even remembered why. Bridget and I certainly didn’t understand where the hate came from, but it didn’t matter either way. It was time to bury the hatchet.
Several weeks passed after the procedure had taken place, and now Bridget was carrying the first child between our families. Her face became a little rose colored as she began to visibly glow, even among the occasional glances of disapproval.
Our families were a stubborn bunch, but as days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, attitudes changed. Hearts soon found warmth again as the baby became a greater reality each day.
Camilla and Bridget became inseparable. Camilla attended to Bridget’s every need, from cooking, to putting lotion on her belly. Their bond grew stronger each day, leading up to the birth of our daughter, Olive.
A peaceful branch between two families, melting away the dreadful hate of a long forgotten feud.
