Flight Risk

Epilogue

3 years later

My hand was poised over the door knob of Rosie’s old room that hadn’t been opened since Sam had bought the house from me. I don’t know how many times over the past three years that I’d thought about opening this door, let alone how many times I’d tried and walked away. When I asked Sam whether or not he’d changed Rosie’s room like he’d done mine and my parents’ he told me that I’d have to open her room myself to find out. At first, I’d been annoyed and had given him the silent treatment which had been really hard, because he’d only just returned from the tour.

He didn’t make being upset easy either, because every day when he got home from doing whatever it was that he did to entertain himself while I worked on my schoolwork, he’d bring me a white lily. No explanations, no attempts to talk me down – just sweet gestures that worked more effectively than words ever would have. In my opinion talk was cheap, while actions were a glimpse of your heart.

Eventually I forgave him for his poor delivery and he apologized for saying it so flippantly. I begrudgingly had to admit his explanation for why he wanted me to open it for myself made a lot of sense too. He told me that I had a lot of issues accepting Rosie’s death and although I’d come to grips with the loss of my parents, he felt I was using Rosie as a weight. I didn’t care for the way he worded that admission either, but I understood his intentions and that at the end of the day he was right. One could hardly be angry at him for telling the truth in the nicest way he knew how. He only wanted me to be happy.

“Mommy?”

I looked down at our two and a half year old son Jensen with his muddy brown hair and bluish-grey eyes. They reminded me of my father who had eyes of a similar color. The only reason my sister and I had ended up with dark brown eyes was because of our mother. I still carried the genes and our kid had lucked out and ended up with eyes that changed with his moods. That trait he got from his father.

“Yes, my love?”

“I’m hungry!” he whined reaching up to tug on my wrist.

“Sam!” I yelled, my voice echoing throughout the house.

He jogged up the stairs fairly quickly and said, “Yeah Love?”

“Feed Jensen will ya? I finally think I’m ready and I don’t want to lose the nerve.”

He glanced between my hand which was now resting on the door knob and my face.  “Alright Trini. I’ll be downstairs if you need me.” Picking up Jensen, he headed down the stairs mumbling cute little phrases of love to his “favorite son”. I smiled to myself as I recalled finding out I was pregnant. My time of the month was never consistent and I had been so caught up in my school work that I didn’t realize that it never came until a few months went by and my pants hadn’t fit right.

Sam had been out of town for some benefit concert that I’d declined attending, because it was easier to deal with his frequent trips away from home if I didn’t know the minor details. Freaked out was only the tip of my emotional iceberg when I realized how long it had been since I had actually had a normal period. I immediately called the one person who had just had a baby, knowing she wouldn’t rat me out prematurely. I called Trish.

When we confirmed that I was, without a doubt pregnant, I started to brainstorm how I could prepare for it as I patiently waited for him to get back from his special trip. I could hardly tell him over the phone; that would have been messed up. Anyhow, Sam was the picture of surprise and excitement and he insisted that we get married immediately. “Screw the really long engagement. Marry me Trinity. Marry me and have my baby.”

Since there wasn’t much of a difference between being married with a child and dating with a child, I agreed and we got married. Simple as pie. Labor? Was Hell. Jensen? Was fat. He was like a little Butterball turkey when he was born – it felt like I was giving birth to one too, but he thinned out as he got older and now looked like a little miniature Sam. And of course Sam couldn’t have been prouder. He was always walking around saying, “That’s my son.” That is, right until Jensen would poop in his diaper. Then, he was suddenly and miraculously mine. Thankfully, now that he was potty trained, that wasn’t a big issue anymore. I chuckled in remembrance, my free hand resting on the swell of my very pregnant stomach.