Chapter 10 Cage
CHAPTER TEN
cage
India is seven months pregnant, and I can't stop staring at her.
She's sitting at the kitchen table, sorting through seed catalogues for the spring garden. Her hand rests absently on her belly, which has grown to the point where she complains daily about not being able to see her feet.
I love it.
The belly. The complaints. All of it.
"You're staring again," she says without looking up.
"I'm allowed to stare."
"It's creepy."
"It's appreciation."
She glances at me, a smile tugging at her lips. "Appreciation of what exactly?"
"You. This. Everything."
"That's vague."
"I'm not good with words."
"You're getting better."
I am. Slowly. Therapy helps. The VA counselor I've been seeing via video call once a week has been worth every uncomfortable session.
India insisted on it after I woke her up with a nightmare two months ago. I tried to tell her I was fine. She told me I was full of shit.
She was right.
The nightmares still come. Probably always will. But they're less frequent now. Less intense. And when they do come, India is there. Holding me. Reminding me where I am. Who I'm with.
That I'm home.
"What are you thinking about?" she asks.
"How different things are from a year ago."
She sets down the catalogue. "Good different or bad different?"
"Good. Definitely good."
A year ago, I was alone in my cabin, drinking too much and avoiding people. Now I'm living in this cabin with India, preparing for a baby, and somehow part of this town whether I planned to be or not.
"You have that look," India says.
"What look?"
"The one where you're processing something heavy and trying to decide if you should share it."
I cross to the table and sit across from her. "I'm grateful."
"For what?"
"You. The baby. This life. All of it."
Her eyes soften. "Me too."
I reach across and take her hand. She laces her fingers through mine automatically. We sit like that for a moment, the kind of comfortable silence that only comes from truly knowing someone.
"Wyatt asked if I wanted to help with search and rescue training," I tell her.
"What did you say?"
"That I'd think about it."
"Do you want to?"
"I don't know. Maybe." I rub my thumb across her knuckles. "It would be one weekend a month. Teaching wilderness survival, and basic rescue techniques."
"That sounds perfect for you."
"Does it?"
"Cage, you're literally the most prepared person I've ever met. You could teach that in your sleep."
"It's not about knowing the material."
"Then what's it about?"
I'm quiet for a moment. "Being responsible for people again. What if I make the wrong call? What if someone gets hurt because I didn't see something coming?"
"Then you deal with it. Learn from it. Move forward." She squeezes my hand. "You can't avoid responsibility forever because you're afraid of failing."
"I know."
"Do you? Because it sounds like you're still punishing yourself."
She's right. Again. She's annoyingly right most of the time.
"I'll tell him yes," I say.
"Good. You'll be great at it."
"How do you know?"
"Because I know you."
Simple as that. She believes in me even when I don't believe in myself.
I stand and pull her to her feet. She comes willingly, wrapping her arms around my neck as much as her belly allows.
"Have I told you today that I love you?" I ask.
"Not since this morning."
"I love you."
"I love you too." She kisses me softly. "Even when you're being stubborn and self-doubting."
"That's most of the time."
"I know. It's exhausting."
I smile against her lips. "Sorry."
"No you're not."
"Not even a little."
We're still standing there, holding each other, when there's a knock at the door.
India groans. "Who's that?"
"I'll check."
I open the door to find Ma Keegan standing on the porch, holding a casserole dish.
"Ma," I say.
"Cage. I brought dinner. Figured India's too tired to cook, and you're hopeless in the kitchen."
"I can cook."
"You can heat things up. That's not the same." She pushes past me into the cabin. "India, sweetheart, how are you feeling?"
"Fat," India calls from the kitchen.
"You're pregnant, not fat, there's a difference." Ma sets the casserole on the counter. "I made your favorite, chicken pot pie."
"You're a saint, Ma."
"I know. Cage, have you built the crib yet?"
"Three weeks ago."
"Good. What about the changing table?"
"Done."
"Car seat?"
"Installed and inspected by Wyatt."
Ma nods approvingly. "You're more prepared than most first-time fathers."
"I had a good teacher." I gesture to her.
She waves me off, but I can see she's pleased. "You just needed someone to tell you what to do. Now sit both of you. Eat while it's hot."
We don't argue. You don't argue with Ma.
She serves us generous portions and then hovers while we eat, asking questions about the nursery and the baby names and whether we've decided on a pediatrician.
"Dr. Merritt said he'd handle it," India tells her. "At least for the first few months."
"Good. He delivered half the babies in this town. He'll take good care of yours."
It's strange, being included like this. Being part of the community instead of just on the edges of it. But it's also nice and comfortable in a way I didn't expect.
Ma stays for an hour, fussing over India and giving me unsolicited advice about diaper changes and sleepless nights. When she finally leaves, she hugs us both and tells us to call if we need anything.
"She's been here every day this week," India says as we watch her drive away.
"She cares."
"I know. It's sweet, it’s also a little overwhelming."
"Want me to tell her to back off?"
"God no, she'd cry."
"Ma doesn't cry."
"Ma absolutely cries. She's just sneaky about it."
I pull India close again, my hands resting on her belly. The baby kicks, a strong jab against my palm.
"He's active tonight," I say.
"Or she."
"Or she."
We decided not to find out the sex. India wants to be surprised. I just want the baby to be healthy.
"What should we name it?" India asks.
"We've been over this a hundred times."
"And we still don't have a name."
"We have a list."
"A list of names we both hate."
She's not wrong. Every name suggestion gets vetoed by one of us.
"What about simple names?" I suggest. "No weird spellings. Easy to pronounce."
"Like what?"
"Jack. Emma. Sam. Kate."
"Those are nice. Normal."
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
"No, I like normal. Normal is good." She pauses. "What about your team? Any of their names work?"
I'm quiet for a moment. "Marcus. Ahmed. TJ."
"I like Marcus."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. It's strong. Classic." She tilts her head back to look at me. "Would that be okay? Naming him after your friend?"
"More than okay." My throat tightens. "Marcus would have liked that."
"Then Marcus if it's a boy. What about if it's a girl?"
"Emma. For TJ's daughter."
India's eyes shine with tears. "That's perfect."
"You think Sarah would mind?"
"I think she'd be honored."
I press a kiss to India's temple. "Marcus or Emma it is."
"We should tell people."
"Who?"
"Ma. Rosie. June. The entire town, probably."
I groan. "Do we have to?"
"Yes. They'll be excited."
"They'll have opinions."
"They already have opinions. At least now they'll have opinions about the right name."
She's not wrong. Iron Peak is nothing if not opinionated.
The next week, we're at The Ridge for lunch when Sarah Mitchell walks in.
I tense automatically, but India squeezes my hand under the table.
Sarah sees us and pauses. Then she walks over.
"Cage. India."
"Sarah," I say. "How are you?"
"Good. Better." She glances at India's belly. "You're getting close."
"Two months to go."
"That's exciting." Sarah shifts her weight. "Can I sit for a minute?"
"Of course," India says.
Sarah sits, and we all sit in awkward silence for a moment.
"Emma's been asking about you," Sarah says, looking at me. "She wants to meet you. Officially."
"I don't know if that's a good idea."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm a reminder of what she lost."
"No. You're a reminder that her father loved the people he worked with. That he trusted them." Sarah takes a breath. "I've been angry at you for three years. And I'll probably always carry some of that anger. But I don't want Emma to grow up hating you because I do."
"Sarah," I start.
"Let me finish." She looks at me directly. "TJ talked about you constantly. About how you kept the team together. How you made hard decisions so they didn't have to. Emma deserves to know the man her father admired."
My chest is tight. "I don't deserve that."
"Maybe not. But it's not about what you deserve. It's about what Emma needs." Sarah stands. "Think about it. No pressure. But if you're willing, I'd like to bring her by sometime."
She leaves before I can respond.
I sit there, staring at my untouched sandwich.
"That was big," India says softly.
"Yeah."
"What are you going to do?"
"I don't know."
"Do you want to meet Emma?"
"I don't know if I can handle it."
"Why not?"
"Because she's five years old and her father is dead because of me."
"Cage." India's voice is firm. "TJ's death wasn't your fault. You made a call. It didn't work out. That doesn't make it your fault."
"Tell that to Sarah."
"I think she just did."
I look at her. "What?"
"She's giving you permission to move forward, and to stop punishing yourself." India takes my hand. "You don't have to meet Emma if you're not ready, but I think maybe you want to."
She's right. Again.
I do want to meet Emma. I want to tell her about her father, about how brave he was, hoow funny he was and how much he loved her.
"I'll think about it," I say.
"That's all I'm asking."
Two weeks later, Sarah brings Emma by the cabin.
She's small, has dark hair and her father's eyes. She's wearing a pink coat and holding a stuffed rabbit.
"Emma, this is Cage," Sarah says. "He worked with your daddy."
Emma looks up at me with those big brown eyes. "You knew my daddy?"
"I did."
"Was he brave?"
"The bravest person I ever knew."
"Mommy says he was a hero."