A Labor of Love: a Bridget Jones fic CH 1/11

[eggsbenni221]

A Labor of Love
by Eggsbenni221, 10 chapters+epilogue
Rating: T
Chapter word Count: 5246
Summary: from the diary of Mark Darcy, 13 January 2006: “Why do you have to be so inflexible, Mark?” she exclaimed.
“Why do you have to be so irresponsible?” I replied. “It’s hard to let this sort of thing go when it happens all the time. Honestly, Bridget, sometimes I wonder if you’re capable of handling even the simplest things.”
“Well,” said Bridget, leaping to her feet and placing her hands on her hips, her eyes filling with angry tears, “I don’t know what the fuck we’re going to do then, because I’m pregnant!”

Disclaimer: Not my characters. credit where credit is due: Helen Fielding, Colin Firth, ETC., ETC.

Author's Note: I began writing this just over a year ago, well before the announcement about the third Bridget Jones movie, so this is entirely pre MATB book universe, although I've snuck a few classic film universe references in here and there, because I can. and because...duh. Colin Firth. I wrote much of this during a rather interesting and challenging period of my life, and there were nights when it was all that kept me sane. This story, and Mark's voice, have become very special to me, and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it. Typos are mine, and please be unabashed about Sherlocking me.


He wants to be like his Dad! You men,
Did you ever think as you pause
That the boy who watches your every move
Is building a set of laws?
He's molding a life you're a model for,
And whether it's good or bad
Depends on the kind of example set
To the boy who'd be like his Dad.
Would you have him go everywhere you go?
Have him do just the things you do?
And see everything that your eyes behold
And woo all the things you woo?
When you see the worship that shines in the eyes
Of your lovable little lad,
Could you rest content if he gets his wish
And grows to be like his Dad?
- Author unknown, “Like Father, Like Son”

Sunday 1 January
11.30 PM
So begins a new year. As I sit writing this in the spare room in my parents’ house, Bridget lies asleep beside me. I can’t help occasionally allowing my gaze to slide from the page to rest on her, wondering what she sees in her dreams. I hope her dreams are untroubled. If I continue to stare at her, I might never finish writing.
I wonder what she might think if she knew I’d decided to keep a journal; I suppose she’d tease me relentlessly, so I’ve sworn to myself never to let it fall into her hands. (Poetic justice of sorts if it did though, I suppose, or so she would likely argue). I don’t know precisely what’s motivated my sudden interest in developing the habit, but I’ve often wondered, after long days of work when my mind can’t settle to rest, if writing down my thoughts might offer some way of releasing all of my excess energy.
In keeping with tradition, Bridget and I have made the journey from London to spend the holiday with our parents-and, of course, the Grafton Underwood conglomerate of extended family-principally Una and Geoffrey Alconbury. If Bridget and I thought that their tireless analysis of our relationship would come to an end once we finally did what everyone suspected was inevitable and got married, we apparently miscalculated dreadfully. When we were single, everyone kept plotting to fix us up; when we started seeing each other, we couldn’t set foot in Grafton Underwood without someone asking us when we planned to get married. I eventually began to worry that everyone might suspect me of proposing to Bridget simply to silence the gossip, except for the fact that it did nothing to stop wagging matriarchal tongues insisting that we set a date and settle down respectably. I ought to have suspected, as no doubt Bridget did, that once we had married, the topic of conversation would turn to the fact that apparently her biological clock was so fast approaching its limit that a warning light had begun to flash on her ovaries.
I need hardly point out that I don’t subscribe to such prefeminist nonsense myself.
Frankly, given my marital history and the fact that my relationship with Bridget was not without its difficulties, I felt perfectly content to forego starting a family until we felt comfortably settled as a couple. Then, of course, there was Bridget’s ambivalence about becoming a parent. When we first seriously broached the subject, nothing I said seemed to convince her that, her trouble-magnetism notwithstanding, I had every confidence in her ability to be a wonderful mother. Eventually we arrived at an agreement to lay the subject aside for a time, and only during this past year have we really begun to try in earnest for a baby. Our lack of success has become increasingly frustrating, and Pam and Una have done nothing to help the situation.
Case-in-point: tonight. As usual, Bridget and I were invited (or coerced into attending) Una and Geoffrey’s turkey curry buffet, at which we’ve somehow become regular guests of honor since Una and Pam remain convinced that their match-making mischief on that fateful New Year’s Day years ago brought us together. For the most part, the evening progressed predictably; after circulating and making obligatory small-talk with everyone present, I withdrew to a corner and became engrossed in a debate about politics with my father, occasionally smiling as my eyes followed Bridget around the room. To give her credit, she holds her own at these gatherings far better than I do.
Eventually she made her way to my side again, and as she drew near, I noticed her struggling to suppress a yawn. Glancing at my watch and realizing that it wasn’t much past 9.00, I reached for her with some concern.
“You look tired,” I observed.
“I am, a bit,” she admitted, leaning into me as I slid an arm around her waist.
“We can sneak away early, if you’d like.”
Bridget smiled up at me. “You’d just love that, wouldn’t you? You look extremely bored, Mr Darcy.”
“I’d hoped it wasn’t that obvious,” I replied. “But since you asked, I’m languishing. And you?”
“It hasn’t been bad at all, actually.”
“Really, Bridget?” I asked, one brow raised in skepticism. “How much have you had to drink?” Before she could respond, Una breezed over, and I ought to have anticipated what happened next.
“Mark! Bridget!” she gushed, swooping in to peck each of us on the cheek. “So delighted you could make it.”
“Of course,” I answered, slipping Bridget’s hand into mine and giving it a reassuring squeeze.
“I feel like we’ve not had a proper chat all evening, and I was afraid you might not come, always working.” Una clucked disapprovingly. “Really, that’s no way to start a family. How much longer do you intend to put it off? Can’t wait forever, you know. Tick tock!”
“There, Bridget!” exclaimed Pam, scooting across the room to insert herself into the conversation. “You see? Una agrees with me. It’s just what I’ve been saying for years, and neither of you is getting any younger. You’ve gotten a late enough start as it is.” The truth forces me to confess that, at nearly 50, I didn’t particularly appreciate the implication that I might become a pensioner before I become a parent, but as I opened my lips to reply, Bridget, not surprisingly, beat me to the punchline with her characteristic forwardness.
“Well, here’s an idea,” she declared, raising her voice so that nearly everyone in the room could hear, “as it’s the new year, why don’t you all make a resolution to keep your noses out of my uterus!” While everyone reeled from the shock of her words, she dropped my hand and flounced off. Instinctively I made to follow, but paused when I felt a gently restraining hand on my arm, pulling me into a corner, and I turned to face my mother.
“Let her go, Mark,” she said into my ear.
“Mother, how can I just-do you honestly expect me to-I have to talk to her.”
“I’m not telling you not to. Just give her a few minutes alone. Trust me. Then take her home. You’re staying with your father and me tonight, aren’t you?”
“I-yes, yes, of course, that was the plan, but--”
“Well, you have a key. Take Bridget back to the house. I’ll make your excuses, although frankly I think there’s little need for any.”
I sighed, scrubbing my hands over my face in helpless frustration. “This is precisely the sort of scene I’d hoped to avoid,” I said. “I don’t know how much more of this I can take, Mother. I can’t bear watching what it’s doing to Bridget.”
“I can’t bear watching what it’s doing to you, Mark.” I winced; her words struck dangerously close to the corner of my mind where I’ve carefully concealed my own fears. As we looked at one another, I felt a lump rise to my throat and quickly withdrew my gaze. As I did, my mother leaned in to peck my cheek.
“It’s going to be all right, Mark,” she whispered. “Go on home. Your father and I will be along later.” With a nod, I patted her hand in gratitude and left in search of Bridget. In the hall, I found her emerging from the bathroom, her face tight and expressionless. She wouldn’t cry-not there, I knew-but when I slipped her into my arms, I felt a hitch in her breathing as she labored to suppress her tears.
“I’m such an idiot,” she mumbled, resting her head against my chest.
I smiled. “I don’t think you’re an idiot at all. The remark was well-called for, and in any case, everyone here is quite accustomed to your occasional bouts of verbal incontinence.”
“Mark, you’re not helping.”
“I’m sorry, darling,” I murmured, bending to peck her on the lips; up close, I noticed more clearly the lines of fatigue etched on her face. “Do you want to leave?” I asked. Bridget chewed pensively on her lower lip; then nodded.

We made the drive to my parents’ house in silence, Bridget nodding off despite the short distance. After rousing her, I shepherded her inside and upstairs to our room. When I returned several minutes later, having retrieved our belongings from the car, I found her sitting cross-legged in the center of the bed, her eyes unfocused as she gazed through the window. I leaned against the doorframe for several moments, watching her twisting a lock of hair around her index finger. The tension building in the air kept me from crossing the room to her and scooping her into my arms.
“Bridget?” I murmured. Her gaze flickered in my direction, but she didn’t speak. Stepping away from the door, I perched on the edge of the bed and rested a hand on the small of her back. When she didn’t draw away, I slipped an arm around her and pulled her into my lap. Still silent, she curled her legs beneath her and snuggled against my chest.
Never knowing Bridget to hold her tongue for so long after an altercation with her mother, I pulled her closer and pressed a kiss to her temple. “You know it doesn’t matter,” I whispered. “What any of them say-none of it matters.” Bridget wrapped her arms around me but still made no reply. “Bridget,” I said, tracing the edge of my thumb in rhythmic circles along her back, “you can tell me what’s bothering you, you know.”
With a deep breath, Bridget lifted her head and met my eyes. “What if they’re right?” she asked in a barely audible whisper.
“Right about what, precisely?”
“Just that--” She hesitated. “What if we’ve-what if I’ve waited too long? What if, no matter how hard we try, we couldn’t now? What if we might have been able to if I’d just listened to you and stopped fussing about accidentally leaving the baby in a shop or something idiotic like that? Because if it’s my fault, Mark…”
“Oh, Bridget.” As tears filled her eyes, I leaned back on the bed and drew her head to my shoulder. I held her silently for several minutes, my own throat constricting with tears as I stroked her hair.
“I’m sorry, Mark,” she managed between sniffles. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
I kissed the top of her head. “You’re tired. That’s all.”
“Maybe, and everything-everyone-Una and my mum-they just set me off tonight. I always brace myself for it. It’s like I’ve got to put on this emotional armor to deflect all of their babbling, and usually I can, but tonight-I don’t know. It just got under my skin. I hate trying so hard! I hate that we even have to try!” she burst out furiously. “Why is it so easy for some people? Why can’t I ever do anything right?”
“Bridget, listen to me.” I cradled her face in my hands, forcing her to meet my eyes. “This isn’t your fault. You know that, and I can’t stand to see you blaming yourself. You’re not cursed; you’re not unlucky; you’re not being punished for choosing to live your life the way you need to live it, for making decisions that make you-that make us happy. When have I ever blamed you?”
“You haven’t, but--”
“Precisely, and I don’t care what anyone else thinks. This is our life. It’s our marriage. We do things according to our timeline. Not your mother’s, and certainly not Una bloody Alconbury’s. This isn’t your fault. Sometimes these things just take time.” I paused. “It isn’t-it isn’t anyone’s fault.”
“Oh, Mark.” Bridget pulled back and looked up at me, tears still spilling over her cheeks. “Mark, I’m so sorry. God, how insensitive of me.” Knowing what had crossed her mind, I held up a hand to silence her. “No, it isn’t fair,” she protested. “Here I am, going on about my problem when you, I mean…”
I swallowed. “When the problem could just as easily be me,” I finished.
“No, that makes it sound like-I didn’t mean--”
“I know what you meant, Bridget. What’s the point of dancing around it?”
Bridget sighed. “I know. It’s not that I haven’t thought about-I mean, we haven’t really talked about it…”
“And I’d rather not, if you don’t mind,” I interrupted.
“Mark,” she whispered, sliding her arms around me, “don’t be like that. Please. You don’t have to pretend with me. If there’s something bothering you, if you need--”
“Bridget, Don’t. Please.” More roughly than I’d intended, I pulled away from her. “I can’t do this. I just can’t. thinking about it-talking about it-dissecting the problem from every angle, again, and again, and again-it’s so exhausting. So God damn exhausting.” No longer able to resist the threatening tears, I closed my eyes and lowered my head into my hands, a hard knot of pain in the pit of my stomach. Bridget sat quietly beside me, one hand resting on my knee. Regaining control of my breathing, I lifted my head and placed my hand atop hers; then enfolded her in my arms again.
“You didn’t deserve that,” I whispered. “I’m sorry. I just-I don’t know what to do any more. It just never occurred to me that I wouldn’t-that I might not be able to-I want to give you everything, Bridget.”
“Mark, this isn’t just about me. This is about both of us. Isn’t it what you want too? Because if it’s not-if you’ve changed your mind--”
“Of course it’s what I want,” I insisted. “But The thought that there’s something you need, something you want that isn’t mine to give-I don’t think I could bear that.”
“You know it isn’t your fault any more than mine, Mark.”
“I know,” I said, resting my chin on the top of her head. “And it’s not about casting blame; we can’t keep talking about it in that context. Maybe we’re trying too hard. Maybe-maybe, I don’t know; I’ve wondered if we shouldn’t leave off trying for a while. Maybe our own anxiety is the problem.”
“I’ve thought about that too,” agreed Bridget. “I still want to try, but maybe we’re overthinking this. And in the end, whatever happens, we have each other. That’s all I really need.”
I kissed her. “That’s all I’ve ever really needed.”
“I wonder,” said Bridget as we drew apart, “if my mother will ever stop harping on the issue?”
“Probably not,” I said. “And be honest. You’d start to worry about her if she stopped.”
“You’re more right than I want to admit,” said Bridget. She tilted her head up to kiss me; then disentangled herself from my arms and stood, signaling her intention to ready herself for bed. Given our rather somber moods, I didn’t initially anticipate amorous activities appearing on the evening’s agenda. Yet as I slipped beneath the duvet, I couldn’t help allowing my gaze to slide over Bridget’s form. Standing before the mirror, she frowned at her reflection, though I observed nothing untoward about the lacy negligee that hugged her hips and offered a favorable view of her breasts. I recognized it not as a recent purchase, but one I gave her a number of years ago-well-worn and slightly frayed at the edges, and just the thought of its soft cotton against my fingers always brings a smile.
Noticing my eyes on her, Bridget met my gaze in the mirror. “Is something wrong?” she asked, her frown deepening.
“Hardly. In fact, your relentless self-scrutiny puzzles me exceedingly.”
“I just wondered-I mean, do I look a bit fat?” Fortunately, I had the good sense not to roll my eyes, as my reflection would have caught the expression. Frankly, I never know how to respond to this question. It always seems like a trap of some sort. In truth (and in my entirely unbiased opinion) Bridget was looking particularly ravishing tonight, but years of practice in marital diplomacy have taught me that there are far cleverer ways to convince her of this truth than boldly complimenting her.
“If that’s an invitation for me to have a closer look,” I said casually, “I accept.” When she didn’t appear to have heard me, I slid from bed and crossed the room to stand behind her. Wrapping my arms around her, I pulled her to my chest and bent to nuzzle her neck. “Come to bed, Mrs Darcy.” Turning to face me, Bridget rose on her toes and locked her mouth on mine. I need hardly record in detail what followed, but sufficed to say, if my intention was to cheer my wife, I believe I succeeded.
As Bridget drifted off to sleep, she reached out a hand and linked her fingers through mine. “Mark?”
“Yes?”
“Mark, do you think we’ll ever, you know…” Her voice faltered.
Gently I raised her hand and traced my lips along her palm. “It’s going to be all right, Bridget. whatever happens, it’s going to be all right.”
I can’t deny to myself that anxiety about the future-about our ability to have the family we want-sometimes plagues me, but at the end of the day, we have each other, and really, this is what matters most. All in all, turkey curry buffet fiasco notwithstanding, not an altogether bad start to the year.

Thursday 12 January
10.00 PM

The first few weeks of the New Year have largely proceeded without incident, serving up the usual weighty portions of work and wintery weather. I must apparently have offended some deity or other, however, because I’ve been roped into attending a dinner party hosted by my least-favorite colleague at chambers: Louise Barton-Foster. I can think of far less painful ways to spend an evening, some of which involve self-inflicted paper cuts and bathing in lemon juice, but as everyone else at chambers plans to attend, they shall certainly notice my absence.
Bridget has been acting oddly the last week or two-tired and out of sorts, and she complained of feeling poorly this morning. I’ve told her not to worry about tomorrow and that I’ll suffer through the dreadful dinner at Louise’s on my own, but she’s insisted she’ll be perfectly fine, and really, aside from a bit of minor stomach upset, there seems nothing particularly the matter. We’ll just have to see how she feels tomorrow.

Friday 13 January
7.15 PM

Good god! I’ve been an idiot. What have I just done? My rational mind has never quite held with all of that superstitious nonsense about Friday the 13th, but I shan’t forget this one in a hurry. I don’t know if the thoughts racing through my brain at the moment will slow down long enough for me to give a coherent account of what’s just happened, but I must sort through everything somehow.
When I left for chambers this morning, Bridget seemed slightly improved, though she had decided, as a precaution, to work from home. I still thought it my duty as a supportive husband to remind her that she could withdraw her offer to accompany me to Louise Barton-Foster’s dinner party. After giving her clear instructions to ring or text me if she changed her mind later in the day, I left for work and, once at chambers, forgot entirely about the evening’s engagement in the flurry of meetings, filing briefs, and an afternoon in court. Only when Louise reminded me did I recall the commitment.
To cheer myself on the drive home, I indulged in a pleasant few minutes wondering what Bridget might decide to wear for the evening, mostly because I felt sure that the more I focused on her during dinner, the less likely I would be to roll my eyes at the insipid conversation. Since I had to return to chambers after court, I arrived home a bit later than planned and hoped that, by some miracle, Bridget might have finished dressing. To my dismay, however, I found her in the bathroom, perched on the edge of the tub, her face tense as she stared down at her lap. I hesitated in the doorway, sensing a thick, tangible tension in the air.
“Bridget?” I said gently. When she didn’t lift her head, I spoke more forcibly. “Bridget, are you all right?” Almost imperceptibly, she shook her head. When she raised her eyes to meet mine, her gaze seemed oddly unfocused, as if she didn’t quite register my presence in the doorway. “Bridget, we’re going to be late if you don’t get a move on.”
“I’m-not sure I can go, after all,” she whispered. I sighed and raked a hand through my hair, endeavoring to suppress my rising frustration from the strain of the day. Bridget’s last-minute change of mind hardly surprised me, and yet I felt irritated nonetheless.
“I wish you had told me, because I was already a bit behind time, and I’d considered driving straight to the dinner from chambers, but of course, it never would have occurred to you to pick up the phone and let me know you’d suddenly changed your mind.”
Bridget’s eyes snapped into focus, and she fixed me with an icy glare. “You could be a bit more understanding,” she accused.
“I’d like to be, Bridget, but I distinctly recall telling you before I left this morning that if you didn’t feel up to coming with me tonight, you need only have let me know.”
“Why do you have to be so inflexible, Mark?” she exclaimed.
“Why do you have to be so irresponsible?” I replied. “It’s hard to let this sort of thing go when it happens all the time. Honestly, Bridget, sometimes I wonder if you’re capable of handling even the simplest things.”
“Well,” said Bridget, leaping to her feet and placing her hands on her hips, her eyes filling with angry tears, “I don’t know what the fuck we’re going to do then, because I’m pregnant!” I stared at her, my eyes riveted on her lips as she spoke. In hindsight, her behavior these past weeks revealed itself to me with such obvious clarity that I wondered how I could have missed the signs: her irritability, her uncharacteristic tiredness, her inexplicable bouts of illness that dissipated as quickly as they’d appeared. Yet the words sounded foreign to my ears, shimmering in the air between us like wisps of a dream we couldn’t quite catch hold of. I could feel my mind reaching out for something solid to cling to, and as my eyes swept the room, I saw the pregnancy test beside the sink, large and looming amidst the clutter of toothbrushes and razors. I wondered briefly when Bridget had done the test and why she hadn’t wanted me to be with her, though I suspected it wasn’t the most appropriate moment to raise the question.
“Bridget,” I said finally, “I don’t-you-you’re--what?”
“I think you heard me the first time, Mark,” she said softly.

God, I’ve been a Bloody idiot. Of course I wish now I hadn’t said what I did about Bridget being incapable of handling responsibility, but isn’t that why we’re always advised to count to ten before speaking when we’re angry. With no clue how to dig myself out of the hole I’d managed to create, I left Bridget to compose herself and came back downstairs to try to sort out the mess in my head in solitude. Reaching for a bottle of scotch, I poured myself a generous measure and downed it quickly, allowing the alcohol to burn away the tension building in my chest.
“Bridget is pregnant,” I murmured to the empty room. “We’re going to have a baby.” I shivered; ‘baby.’ As I spoke the word, sounding it out, testing its validity, I tasted fear pooling at the back of my throat with the scotch. Our discussion on New Year’s day now seems to have been an ironic reminder of how little we are in control of the whims of nature. There we were, on the point of abandoning the endeavor, and already, without our knowledge, nature was quietly at work dispelling our fears. Without the reality of an actual child, the word has always seemed to float in the air between us-a shimmering, insubstantial soap-bubble of a notion. If I can feel the weight of it, the substance of it settling on my shoulders, I can’t even begin to imagine what Bridget must feel-literally and figuratively speaking. How can I accuse her of being irresponsible when here I sit, hiding from the reality of what we’re about to face-a reality, more importantly, that I claim to have been longing for with such intensity that to think of it sometimes feels like a physical ache? Is this the sort of man-the sort of father-I want to be?

11.30 PM

I’m still marveling at how much my life has altered in the past few hours, and I feel at once elated and nauseated by the conflicting emotions swirling around inside me like an inexpertly mixed cocktail. As I sat alone, I rested my head on my hand, turning Bridget’s news over and over in my mind. Strange, I thought, how intensely I had longed to hear her speak those words; just days ago, I was worrying that the moment would never come to pass. As I replayed our conversation on New Year’s Day, the reality of our situation rushed upon me in a dizzying wave of relief.
“My God,” I whispered. “We’re going to have a baby. It’s all right. We’re all right.”
“I know.” I lifted my head at the sound of Bridget’s voice and turned to see her standing behind me. Our gazes locked; I rose and took a step toward her, and the next moment she was in my arms, her hands clasped behind my head as her mouth sought mine. I pulled her down onto the sofa beside me, tears of relief and joy blurring my vision as I held her close.
“It’s all right,” she said, echoing my words. “We’re all right.”
“Bridget,” I murmured, combing my fingers through her hair. “Darling, darling Bridget.”
“You’re really happy?” she asked, pressing her cheek against mine.
“Happy? God, yes! I’m so sorry-about what I said to you, about my immediate reaction. I didn’t mean to seem so-indifferent.”
She smiled up at me. “Well, I can’t say I blame you. I don’t suppose I should have sprung it on you like that.”
“It was-well, rather a shock,” I admitted. “Odd, really, considering-well…”
“Considering we’ve been trying for it for ages, but you’ve sort of conditioned yourself not to expect it,” Bridget finished. Reluctantly I nodded. “It’s funny,” she continued. “I was starting to suspect just after we talked about, you know, leaving things alone for a while. I might have begun to suspect sooner, if I weren’t in denial. God--” she giggled. “It’s almost funny to think of it now-that whole time Mum and Una were going on about the fact that my ovaries were probably going to shrivel up and die any moment, and I was already pregnant!”
“They’re going to be utterly unbearable when they find out,” I said.
“My mum will probably take all of the credit,” Bridget laughed. “Like she was working some weird incantation on my uterus or something.”
I groaned. “Don’t put it past her. Your mother is just insane enough to think that.”
“It’s still so hard to believe though. I mean, it’s one thing to talk about, but now I’ve got this-this thing, this little person inside me and I don’t know how I can-how I’m going to-I’m so scared, Mark.”
“And you think I’m not?”
“Mark, you’re never scared.”
“Well, I’m sorry to have to disappoint you in this instance, but I’ll have you know I’m terrified.”
Bridget slipped her arms around me. “You’re going to be a wonderful father, at least-if you’re sure, if you’re absolutely still sure it’s what you want. Is it?”
For answer, I cupped her face in my hands and kissed her. “Of course it’s what I want. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
We fell silent as I held her against me, my hands working at the knots of tension in her shoulders. I wondered if, like me, she was imagining the tiny person forming inside her-nestled between us like a precious secret. I wondered if, like me, she was sketching its form, imagining the touch of tiny fingers, wondering if she’ll have my eyes or if he’ll have Bridget’s smile. Still, beneath the excitement lay a small kernel of resentment-one I knew I had to examine and discard before it rubbed away at the shine of what should have been one of the happiest moments of our marriage.
“Bridget?” I murmured.
“Mmm?”
“Bridget, why didn’t you wait for me; to do the pregnancy test, I mean? I would have been here-if I’d had any idea you suspected-I’d have wanted to be with you.”
Bridget sighed. “I’m sorry about that. I should have told you.” She reached up to brush her fingertips against my cheek. “It’s just, you know, we’ve been disappointed before. I didn’t want to get your hopes up and then dash them again. I thought if I wasn’t, you’d never need to know, never need to feel the disappointment, and we’d just keep trying if we wanted to.”
Slipping her hand into mine, I raised it to my lips and kissed it. “That’s not how it works, Bridget,” I answered. “Whatever we do, we do it together.”
“Well, I’ve got to have an appointment with the doctor. Just to make certain. You’ll come with me?”
“Of course.” I caressed her cheek; then gently slid my hand down her side to rest on her waist before bending my head to kiss her again. “I love you, Bridget.”
“I love you too, Mark.”
Eventually we made our way to bed, and I’ve been lying awake for hours, watching Bridget, holding her, imagining the rhythm of the tiny heart that must be beating in time with hers. It’s a refreshing change, for once, to find sleep eluding me for a pleasant reason. If I thought the events of my life lacked the kind of literary merit worthy of daily record, that seems about to change.