Tara Quinn - Having The Soldier's Baby

“You know these are questions only you can answer.”

But that didn’t mean she liked that truth.

“A lot of people have disagreed with choices I’ve made in my life,” Christine continued. “One of them was choosing to use my mother’s money to build this clinic when I could have gone on to med school, or been a lawyer, or had any other life. But for me, this clinic is a part of her, and using my life to keep her legacy alive, to actually be able to give other people what she wanted most—the chance to have babies—this was my right choice. I’m happier today than I’ve been since I was ten and lost her.”

Emily believed her.

“You have to make your right choice,” Christine’s words fell softly between them. “I could tell you what I think, or give you pros and cons, but you’ve done a pretty stellar job of arguing both sides all on your own.”

No disputing that one.

“You know the paperwork you and Winston signed when you started with us gives you permission for the use of his sperm.”

She knew. Of course she knew. Her, and only her. That had been important to them.

“How do I know this is the choice he’d have wanted me to make?”

Therein was the crux of her self-torture. They’d never talked about one of them carrying on without the ever. It hadn’t been an option for them. Or a possibility she’d ever considered.

Hard to believe she’d ever been that naive.

“He’s not here, Emily. You think my mother would choose for me to be living alone in her parents’ home, dedicating my life to work? You think she’d choose for me to never have babies of my own?”

When she put it that way...not likely.

“You’re young. You’ve got a lot of years to have kids.”

“I’m childless by choice.” The brightly dressed woman smiled as she looked around her office. “This is my life. There’s no doubt in my mind that I made the right choice. And my point to you is...just because grief plays a part in your choice, that doesn’t mean it’s reactionary, and therefore invalid.”

Emily considered that for a moment before replying. “I’ve known since I was a teenager that I was going to be the mother of Win’s kids someday. I knew I’d have a career, that I’d be someone professionally, that that was important to me, but being the mother of his kids, being his wife, mattered more than anything else.”

“Do you still feel that way?”

Emily smiled and teared up a bit, too. “I think that’s pretty obvious, huh?”

Christine shrugged.

“I’m going to do this.”

No judgment came from the other woman. No sense that she was doing the right or wrong thing. That she’d made the choice Christine thought she should make. Or hadn’t.

But she felt a kinship with her.

“I’ve got the ability to have my husband live on, even after his death, to bring parts of him to life, to give him descendants. I can raise his children and love them as much as we both wanted to. I know his views on pretty much every aspect of raising children...we talked endlessly about schooling, about discipline—even eating habits we’d allow. And not allow. It’s crazy-sounding, but Winston and I...we were just meant to be. And our family was meant to be, too.”

She wasn’t rambling anymore. Wasn’t lost in the not-knowing. She and Winston had talked over every detail of child raising, of investing, of career plans, vacationing, homeownership, pet acquiring—but they’d never once talked about one of them not being there.

They’d never discussed death.

She knew how he’d thought about telling his children about sex, but had no idea what he’d think of her using his sperm to have his baby after he died.

So she couldn’t make this decision based on him. She was the only one left. The choice was hers alone.

The first big decision she’d ever made completely alone.

“It might not take,” she said aloud, still a bit shaky as a whole new set of worries came upon her. “This might all have been for nothing if I can’t get pregnant.”

“Nothing in your tests showed you to be infertile.”

“I know, but...”

“If nothing else, insemination gives you a better shot,” Christine said, more distant and professional now than she’d been. “If you’re still unsure, or thinking it might be better if it didn’t work, if you’re looking for an out...”

“I’m not!” She stood, and Christine followed suit. “I want this child more than anything...”

Christine’s smile was a surprise. But not as much of one as the hug the other woman reached over and gave her.

“I know,” the health director said. “And now you do, too.”

Chapter Three

“My name is Winston Hannigan. I am a chief petty officer first class.” He rattled off his serial number. “I was deployed as a sand sailor under the Individual Augmentee Combat program two years and four months ago. For the past two years I have been living with the enemy.”

They could shoot him dead on the spot, lying there on the ground, hands behind his head. Part of him wished they would. Most of him wished it.

They were US Army. A sergeant and a private, based on the uniform markings. Both heavily armed.

As he’d been before they’d stripped him of his guns and ammo and the blade in his boot. His US-issued boot, with holes in the sole, worn with his pale gray kuchi dress and loose pants.

No one from the United States was going to believe he was still on their side. Most days he questioned it himself.

The string of curse words that followed sounded unbelievably good to him—issued as they were in his native tongue. Even the word traitor attached at the end of it made him want to weep with relief. It had been so long since he’d heard American English.

He wasn’t a traitor. Hadn’t betrayed his country’s secrets. But he’d done what he’d done. There was no undoing it. And no way to live with it, either.

He just wanted it over. Was ready to die, just like his heart and soul had already done. Winston Hannigan, married naval officer with a future at home, had been buried in the Afghan desert ages ago.

Hungry, thirsty, tired, Winston didn’t argue when he was hauled up roughly, his shoulders half coming out of his sockets. Didn’t care at all that the servicemen restrained him and threw him in the back of their off-road vehicle. He’d been on the road for three days with a goal that could go one of two ways: he’d get out of the desert or die in it.

The way he figured, that Jeep, the excruciating jars as it bumped along at top speeds, was helping him reach his goal. Maybe both ways.

* * *

The actual insemination wasn’t painful. In a room with mood-enhancing new age music playing and the lighting low, other than the small bright light positioned for the doctor, and the lavender candle she’d brought burning not too far away, it was all over while she was still mentally preparing for the ordeal. She tried to doze while waiting the appropriate time before she could get up and go home. Thought about what she’d have for dinner—some kind of treat to celebrate.

Couldn’t land on anything.

Wasn’t happy about that.

She did a lot of math in her head. Financial reports, estimating amounts of money needed per year to raise a child, adding in incidentals for vacations and the unforeseen, college account deposits and even possible competition fees if he or she was into sports or dancing.

She counted months. If the insemination took, she’d have a March baby. Counted days, fourteen of them, until she would know if the process was successful. She could take a home pregnancy test earlier than that, but according to Dr. Miller false positives were fairly common any earlier due to low hormonal counts.