Post Epilogue
SIENNA
I wake up early with the sunshine streaming through the open curtains of the bedroom in the cottage. The window is open, and I can hear the waves slapping the shore outside, the gulls calling boisterously to each other between land and sea before the new day gets started.
I’ve grown to love these sounds. The shush of the water across the shell-littered beach. Kyle’s key is the lock each time he arrives back from the States. His regular greeting, the one that makes my heart race: “I’m home, leoin.” The click-clack of his footsteps across the flagstone hallway as he explores the cottage to find me.
When he gets back later, we’ll take a picnic down to the beach and watch the sunset, and we’ll walk back to the cottage, hips bumping, and Kyle’s arm wrapped around me.
I cannot wait.
The lethargy that has taken over since our wedding a month ago and the family’s subsequent departure, is still in full swing. I told myself that it was the excitement of the wedding celebrations. The constant chatter of conversation while everyone was there. The sightseeing excursions, the barbecues, the meal-planning and the relentless flow of alcohol and champagne that had left me feeling exhausted.
Not that I was drinking. I was happy to watch everyone else enjoying themselves while the baby performed somersaults inside me.
Our wedding day was blissful. Blue sky overhead, warm grass underfoot, and everyone we love watching us recite our vows. Kyle had never looked more handsome in his open-necked white shirt and silver-gray pants. No suits. No ties. No lengthy ceremony.
We wanted it to be intimate, filled with love and joy and laughter.
Moira kept her shoes on, but she looked young and fresh in a floaty chiffon dress and a wide-brimmed hat.
I wore a simple white dress that belonged to my maternal grandmother. I never met her. She died the year before I was born, but I keep a photograph of her and my mom in a silver frame beside my bed, next to a picture of me and Kyle.
The women in our family die young.
I try not to dwell on this, but it’s always there, lurking in the back of my mind, just waiting for me to latch onto it and examine in more depth. Even though I keep the thought at bay, I wonder if it’s contributing in some way to my lethargy, and my continued reluctance to get back into the studio. Like a silent voice urging me to enjoy every moment with my child when he or she arrives, because life is too short.
As usual, I counter this with the eternally grateful reminder that Nick didn’t win. He didn’t beat me. He tried to knock me down, but he failed because good always triumphs over evil, or at least, that’s what the fairy tales would have us believe.
And I do believe in fairy tales these days.
Kyle might not be the angelic Prince Charming of ancient lore, but he is my prince. My soulmate. My happy-ever-after.
Shaking my head at my hormone-fueled musings, I plump the pillows up behind my head and haul myself into a sitting position. I reach for the novel on the nightstand, The Wolf and the Dove , an epic historical romance, the main characters of which are uncannily like me and Kyle in my head, as pain grips my abdomen.
I drop the book onto the floor and tears well in my eyes as my bookmark flies across the floor losing my place in the story.
I stare at my neon-pink toenails, painted badly because I can’t reach my feet with my swollen belly in the way, no matter which position I contort myself into. I practice breathing, in through my nose … hold … out through my mouth.
I’m sweating by the time the pain subsides.
I’d planned on staying in bed for a while—I’m almost at the end of the novel, only fifty pages to go—and Kyle isn’t flying back from New York until this evening. But I have to retrieve my bookmark, and the bottle of water on the nightstand is empty, and I need to clean the refrigerator.
Besides, there’s no way I’m going back to sleep now.
The practice contraction has left a dull ache blooming in my pelvis, my pulse racing, and my thoughts mulling over all the stuff that I still need to prepare before the birth. I was putting it off until after the wedding, and never seemed to get around to it, but I guess today is as good a day as any. There’s still a month to go, but you never know , as Moira keeps reminding me every time she calls.
I smile as I swing my bare legs over the side of the bed. I can almost hear the relief in Moira’s voice when I speak to her later and tell her that I’ve packed my bag and the baby’s bag ready for the hospital.
She was still trying to change my mind about having the baby in Ireland right up until the day they flew back to the States.
It was Terry who finally convinced her. “You were adamant that you were going to have Emily at home, remember, love?” He winked at me, like it was a private joke we’d concocted between us.
“Where did you have her?” I asked.
“At home.” Moira said. “Just like I wanted.”
“It wasn’t my choice, you see,” Terry continued. “But I wasn’t going to argue the point with a pregnant woman.”
Moira, realizing that she wasn’t going to win, took my hands in hers and looked me directly in the eye. “If you want me to be here for the birth, you only have to ask, Sienna.”
I haven’t asked.
This is Kyle’s last trip to the States until after the baby arrives. There’s no way he’s risking being on the other side of the Atlantic when our baby is born.
I walk barefoot through to the kitchen, fill a glass with fresh orange juice from the fridge, and peer out at the sea. It’s like a sheet of shimmering blue glass. A butterfly flits around the wildflowers growing knee-high on either side of the path leading to the front door. I never imagined this would be my life one day; the universe clearly had other plans.
I rinse out my empty glass when I’m finished and stand it upside down on the drainer. Then I open the door to the fridge and start shifting the food from the shelves to the kitchen counter. I’ve already started on the salad drawer at the bottom when the next contraction rips through my belly.
Panting, I lean over the counter, eyes closed, and suck in deep breaths, trying to breathe through the pain which is unlike any of the practice contractions I’ve felt before. My belly is solid as a rock. It feels tight, like someone has wrapped a metal band around me and is tightening the screws.
When it subsides, I cross the room and sit down heavily in one of the chairs around the pine table, trying to rub the ache away.
“I’m not in labor.” I say the words out loud as the fridge starts beeping at me for leaving the door open. “Okay, okay, I hear you.” I go back and close it.
The food sits forlornly on top of the work surface, wondering what’s next. Ripe, juicy tomatoes, locally caught salmon, a block of cheddar cheese, crisp apples, Greek yogurt, and jars of pickles.
I check the time on the oven clock. 6:15.
I fill the basin with soapy water, finish emptying the fridge of its contents, and spray it with antibacterial spray. When it’s spanking clean, I replace the food, fill the coffee machine with water, and move onto the oven. Might as well be productive as I’m awake early.
The time reads 6:23 when the next pain hits.
This one is stronger than the last and leaves me feeling drained when it passes.
But, determined to finish cleaning the kitchen, prepare the new bassinet, pack the hospital bags, and run some errands before Kyle gets home, I crack on with the oven.
Then I start pulling everything out of the cabinets. The more I look, the more fingerprints and smears I find. Packets of biscuits that I’ve opened on a craving and left to go stale. Crumbs that I never spotted before. A squeezy jar of honey that has dripped onto the shelf.
I spray and scrub and work myself into a frenzy, stopping whenever a pain rocks my belly, withdrawing into myself, and breathing through the agony. By the time the kitchen is spotless, and my damp hair is clinging to my forehead and the back of my neck, the contractions are coming every five minutes.
The clock on the oven says that the time is 9:42.
I must be in labor.
I didn’t want to acknowledge it, but the pains are getting stronger. I can feel them in my back as well as in my belly, and each one is lasting longer, leaving me drained as they fade.
I’m not due for another four weeks though.
And Kyle isn’t due back in Ireland for another six hours.
Perhaps if I soak in the tub for a while, it will slow the labor down or even stop it completely.
I leave the faucets running and grab a fluffy towel from the rack. The smell of the lavender-scented candles in the bathroom soothes away the lines that I can feel between my eyes, as I drag my hand back and forth through the warm water.
It’s fine, I tell myself. The information that I received via the maternity app said that the practice contractions would become more frequent closer to the due date. I’m worrying about nothing.
I drag the oversized T-shirt that I wore in bed over my head and am about to climb into the tub when water gushes out from between my legs.
It’s followed by a pain that keeps me on my knees, panting, while I grip the side of the tub and wait for it to pass.
“Fuck!”
I clamber unsteadily into the tub and lean back, submerging my belly.
I haven’t prepared my overnight bag.
The new sleepsuits that I bought for the baby have been washed and sorted into various piles according to size, but I haven’t unpacked the bottle sterilizing unit or collected the stroller or thought about formula if I have problems with breastfeeding.
I feel my uterus tightening as another pain crashes through me. The warm water helps. A little. But there’s no denying that our baby is too impatient to ride it out for the next four weeks.
At this rate, she isn’t going to ride it out for the next four hours.
I have too much to do to waste time soaking in the tub.
Climbing back out, water puddling around my feet, I wrap the towel around me and wander back into the bedroom. I need to let Kyle know. He can’t miss the birth. He’ll be devastated if he doesn’t make it home in time.
My fingers tremble when I unlock my phone and hit the green button on Kyle’s number. The call goes straight through to voicemail. He’s several thousand feet above the ground, of course he is. Even if I leave a message, there’s nothing he can do that will get him back to Ireland sooner.
The next contraction leaves me feeling dazed and sore.
I can’t think straight. I can’t remember the procedure for being admitted into the hospital. But I need to get dressed, get my overnight bag ready, and clear up the mess in the bathroom from where my waters burst.
One thing at a time. I don’t have the bandwidth to think beyond pulling on some clean clothes. Not with the image flashing in and out of my mind like a beacon of Kyle working on his tablet, mid-flight, oblivious to our baby’s imminent arrival.
Dressed, I ride out the next contraction on my knees, leaning over the side of the bed, balling up the sheet in my fists. The instant it passes, I mop up the bathroom floor, empty the bathtub, and stuff toiletries, clothes, and underwear into an overnight bag.
Another contraction.
They’re getting stronger. I’ve stopped timing them, and I remember that it’s the first question the midwife will ask when I call the hospital: how far apart are they?
In the kitchen, I grab the notepad that I usually use to make grocery lists and note the time. I barely have a moment to remember where I left my phone before the next one rips through me.
“Shit. Shit. Shit.”
Kyle isn’t going to make it.
I’m overwhelmed, not with fear that I’m doing this alone, but with sadness for my husband. I can’t even begin to imagine his disappointment when his flight touches down, and he realizes that he’s too late. It’s the kind of missed moment that stays with a person forever. I only hope that one day, he’ll look back on this and be able to laugh about the terrible timing.
I call Emily next. With the growing certainty that the birth is happening today, right now, and that there isn’t a chance in hell of slowing it down, I’ve achieved a clarity that I’ve been missing for longer than I can remember.
Emily doesn’t pick up. She’s in Ireland for the summer but has been staying at Eoghan’s family home for the past few nights. I don’t leave a message.
Without considering the time difference, I try Victoria next. She answers while I’m in the throes of another contraction.
“Si? Sienna?”
I suck in a deep breath and exhale noisily.
“What’s going… Fuck! Are you in labor? You’re not due for another month.” She must cover her phone with her hand; I can hear her muffled voice speaking to someone else. Then, “Sienna, is Kyle with you?”
“No. He isn’t due back until this evening.” I’m shocked at how normal I sound between pains, almost as if they’re happening to someone else. “I just wanted to check that he made the flight.”
“He left earlier than scheduled, Si. Said there was something he had to do when he got back to Ireland.” She pauses. “I thought he’d have been home by now.”
“What? What did he have to do?”
“I don’t know, Si.”
I put the phone down on the bed and focus on my breathing through the next pain.
“Is Emily with you?” There’s no mistaking the panic in Victoria’s voice now.
“No.”
“Where the fuck is she? Have you called the hospital? Or what about the security team? They’ll take you, Sienna.”
“The security team?” I’m only half-invested in the conversation now.
Where is Kyle? What was so important that he didn’t even tell me he was flying back earlier than planned?
My phone vibrates with call-waiting. I don’t even say goodbye to Victoria.
“Kyle?”
“No, it’s Emily. Guess what, Sienna, I got married!” She squeals at me from the other end of the call.
My next contraction sucks the impact of her announcement out of me before I can even begin to process it.
“Sienna?” Her voice buzzes at me through the speaker. “Sienna, what’s wrong? Oh no. Oh no, no, no, no. You can’t be having the baby. Not today. Please tell me you’re not in labor.”
“I’m in labor,” I pant into the phone.
“Is Kyle home?” Pause. “He’s not back yet, is he?”
“Emily…” The contractions are so close together now that I can barely stop and think between them. “I’ve got to go.”
“Sienna, wait?—”
My fingers are slow and clumsy. I log into the maternity app, locate the number for the maternity unit, and press the green button.
I’m still on the phone, talking to a softly spoken midwife called Frances who is timing my contractions and talking me through what will happen when I arrive at the hospital, when someone opens the kitchen door at the back of the house and calls out my name.
“Sienna?” A ginger-haired man appears in the bedroom doorway looking sheepish. I recognize him from the security team’s cottage; he stands out front every morning with a giant mug of coffee and stares at the sea. “I’m Paddy. Victoria called me. I’m going to take you to the hospital.”
I’m in too much pain to argue.
He carries my bags and links his arm with mine to help me into his car, then he goes back to the cottage and locks up for me.
The journey passes in a haze of pain and panting.
By the time I’m admitted to the maternity unit and taken straight through to a delivery room, I feel as though I need to push.
“Just pant through this next contraction.” Frances has a cloud of fine blond hair secured into a ponytail at the nape of her neck, plump rosy cheeks, and a permanent smile. She looks exactly how she sounded on the phone. “I need to see what’s going on before we meet your baby.”
“My husband…”
“Is he on his way?” Frances rests a warm hand on my belly as it grows solid again.
Inhale… Exhale…
I didn’t even tell Kyle that I’m in labor.
“You’re doing really well, Sienna.” Frances drapes a cool cloth across my forehead. “The difficult part is done. We’re ready to get this baby out now.”
I experience a fleeting pang of sadness that Kyle is going to miss the most special moment of our lives, but then I’m riding the wave of the next pain, and Frances is telling me to push while another midwife grips my hand firmly.
Everything else is a blur.
With each pain, I squeeze my eyes shut and push. It’s all I can think about. Even when Frances tells me that she can see the head, it barely registers that she’s talking about our baby.
Then, I hear a familiar voice.
The door to the delivery suite opens, and Kyle is there. He comes over, kisses my forehead, and squeezes my hand. “I got here as soon as I could.”
“Just in time, Dad.” Frances smiles. “Ready, Sienna?”
Kyle sits beside my bed, cradling our baby in his arms.
Our son is cocooned inside a pale-blue baby blanket sleeping soundly. He looks just like his father, and I can already picture Kyle cheering him on from the sidelines at football practice when he’s older.
“What shall we call him?” Kyle’s eyes are gleaming.
I was so convinced that the baby would be a girl, I haven’t given boy’s names much consideration. I finish the last slice of toast on the tray in front of me and wash it down with a mouthful of lukewarm tea. I’m still ravenous.
“I like Skye,” we both say at the same time.
We both blink and chuckle in unison.
“Skye?” In sync a second time.
I don’t even know where the name came from, but now that it’s out there, it feels perfect.
I lay back against the pillows and watch my husband and son. With baby Skye delivered safely and the midwives giving us some space to be a family, I replay today’s events in my head. I poke about until I uncover the snippets of vague conversations that have been itching away at the back of my mind.
“Victoria said that you left New York earlier than planned.”
Kyle peers at me, and I can visualize him dragging himself back to reality, to a world that only exists outside of this fresh tiny bubble we’ve found ourselves in. “I’m glad I did. I can’t believe this little one decided to come a month early.”
He’s going to be an amazing dad. I already know that they’ll be inseparable: my boys.
“Where did you have to go?” I ask.
His smile lights up his face. Kyle stands, settles the baby gently in my arms, kisses the tip of Skye’s nose, and then pulls out a small plain keyring holding two silver keys from his pocket.
“The keys to our new house.”
My eyes flicker back and forth between Kyle and the keyring dangling from his index finger. “New house?”
“Our son is Irish.” Kyle shrugs. “I figured we should make a home here for him. Permanently, if that’s what you want.”
My chest is filled with so much love right now, I feel like I could explode. What did I ever do to deserve such a perfect life?
“It is.” I lean closer to Kyle and kiss him on the lips. “I have everything I ever wanted right here.”
“Me too.”
Gazing at the beautiful baby boy in my arms, it occurs to me that we all guessed the wrong gender: me, Victoria, Moira, even Emily.
Emily!
I remember now. Something she said to me on the phone when I was in labor. Something about getting married. I must’ve been delirious with the pain; everyone will laugh when I tell them that’s what I thought I heard.
Kyle perches on the side of the bed and takes a selfie of the three of us to send to his mom. He types the caption: My perfect family .
Thank you so much for reading my Kyle and Sienna’s story, if you enjoyed it please leave me a review.
If you enjoyed Kyle and Sienna’s story you will love Ruby and Harry’s spicy read in forbidden Dark Vows.
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