Schuyler Blue stretched languidly and yawned-—and fell off the bed.
Startled, he sat up, wondering if there had been an earthquake. He looked across the bed. Nope. Just Chuck, the huge Rottweiler who shared the bed with Schuyler and Libby. Chuck’s legs were stretched out toward Sky’s side of the bed, stiffly claiming all the space available. Libby was stretched out with her back against Chuck’s, looking like she was clinging to her side of the bed for dear life.
Sky pulled himself off the floor and checked the clock. Alarm in 20 minutes, he thought; might as well get up as fight with Chuck for more sleep. It was Friday, and he planned to sleep late Saturday and do absolutely nothing but veg. Okay, he could do this.
Walking softly so he wouldn’t disturb Libby, he groped his way to the bathroom. Libby hadn’t been sleeping well lately, and if she was as zonked as she appeared, he wanted to let her sleep until time for her alarm to sound. Sky knew it was wonderfully relaxing to have Chuck’s hot bod stretched out against yours on a chilly winter morning.
Ahhhh…the water was steaming hot. Wonderful. “Am I blu-u-ue,” he warbled. Well, he was before he got under the hot shower, the weather had turned so cold. He loved that song. Not because he was given to depression; he wasn’t. But his crazy dad had sung that to him when he was a small boy, and he had loved his dad so much. Dad always explained he sang that song because their family name was “Blue.” He was a hoot.
The fact that his nickname was “Sky” had irritated him when he was an adolescent, and he played around for a while with using his middle name. But “Malcolm” was so very un-“in” he soon gave it up. So he went along with blue sky jokes until the hecklers tired of it and quit.
And then, standing there in the steamy stall, he remembered just why Libby was having a hard time sleeping. They had tried to have a baby for the last five years. They both wanted children, and every time Libby’s pregnancy went beyond the 12th week, then the 14th week, they were ecstatic. Then around the 15th week came the familiar bleeding, pain, and loss. In every case, it had been determined that there had been something wrong with their child, and that was the reason Libby’s body rejected it early.
He prayed as he stood in the stall, asking the Lord for wisdom, and for grace to believe that God’s will would be done, somehow in his heart of hearts afraid that God’s will would be contrary to their great desire for a child.
And Libby was pregnant again. The 16th week. So far, so good. Except that they were both on edge. Even Sky, normally the even-tempered one, became cranky and snapped, sending Libby to their room, sobbing. Chuck was tense, too; although exactly how Sky could tell that with Chuck’s loose-muscled walk and nearly constant naps, he couldn’t really say.
Lib was due at the Clinic on Monday for a special workup, including an ultrasound with a specialist. If they managed to live through the weekend.
Before he knew it, it was Monday morning, and he was standing in the same shower stall, thinking of the day ahead. Would Lib let him know the results of the tests right away, or hug them to herself as she did with the last pregnancy? That time, he almost shook her when she got home and finally shared the bleak news. But he recovered quickly and hugged her fiercely instead.
11:30 a.m.; Sky had been concentrating so hard on work, he’d been able to forget what was going on across town with his beloved and his baby. He had wanted to call Lib, but made himself wait.
He was suddenly jarred from his concentration by a kiss on the back of his neck. He swirled around to greet his wife, studying her face for answers. She seemed calm, neither happy nor distressed.
She placed an envelope on his desk in front of him. He raised his eyebrows in question. She nodded, Yes. He carefully slid open the envelope and drew out the card.
“Congratulations, Dad!” the card read. And the card was all in blue.
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