The last of the setting sun

Kristine Atterbury, Contributor

Peter hated traffic. He slowed to a stop and shoved the gearstick into first, impatiently. There was a line of cars leaving the shopping plaza and trying to merge into his line. As a white Toyota Camry edged hesitantly toward the space in front of his small red Swift, Peter revved the engine and inched his car forward, his mouth set in a grim line. He could see the driver, a skinny woman with dyed black hair, glaring at him. He inched the car forward once more, and glared back. He didn't have time to play nice today.

Rose was tired. Struggling to get comfortable on the thin, stiff mattress beneath her, she stretched her feet out, nearly banging her toes on the metal railing on the side of the bed. She gazed around the room and sighed. She hated hospitals, hated the smell of antiseptic and sickly sweet air freshener, hated the cheerless blue walls, hated the impatient, snappy nurses. Through the doorway she could see her mother arguing with one of them. She shook her head. Her mother always needed a purpose, and she was most likely trying to rehabilitate the entire hospital staff. She closed her eyes against the sight of her mother's quick, angry hands, gesticulating wildly. As she leaned back against the pillows, an ache began to form deep within her. She missed him.

"Geeeeezas man!" Peter bellowed, at no one in particular. The traffic was truly gridlocked, not even the taxis were able to get through with their usual aggressive tactics. He leaned his head out of the car in an attempt to see what was causing the jam. As he squinted, he could just make out the back of a long trailer and the flashing lights of a police car. He slumped back into his seat and bit his lip. She would never forgive him now.

Rose kept her eyes closed and her thoughts happy. Her mother's sharp voice faded away and in her mind, her vision filled with light. It was the beautiful blinding orange light just before the last of the setting sun disappeared beneath the horizon, the way she used to see it from the roof of Peter's house. She was only 14 when he spotted her walking by his house. He was 16 and, therefore, infinitely wiser and more experienced, intimidating in his worldliness. He beckoned to her, and she walked over shyly, rubbing her arms to hide the ashy-ness of her elbows. He spoke to her quietly, with interest, in a way that no boy had ever spoken to her before. He asked about her school, and her parents, whether she liked horror movies, and what she thought of his haircut. He dipped his head to the side, showing her squiggly lines along the hairline behind his ear. She laughed, her lips stretching over her teeth to expose metal braces encased in neon pink elastics. Her hand flew up instinctively to cover her mouth. His eyes, dark and full of the unknown, stayed on hers, as he reached to pull her hand away from her mouth. And they smiled at each other.

The afternoon sun beat mercilessly at the untinted car windows as Peter wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, reaching deep into his pocket for his cell. He opened it just in time to see the battery warning signal flash before the phone shut off. "Of course," he muttered. Resting his head on the steering wheel, he thought of Rose and wondered what she was doing right this minute. Was she alright? Was her mother there, all up in her business as usual? Did she think he had abandoned her?

He wished they could go back before this whole stupid mess happened, back to when all they had to worry about was sneaking back home in the wee hours of the morning. He remembered that first sunset he showed her from the roof of his parents' home, nestled in the hills of Montego Bay.

He remembered how her cheeks glowed against the bright embers of the sinking sun, how she laughed giddily and turned her face to his, how she put her small, soft hand in his as he kissed her, and how soft her lips were against the cool metal of the braces beneath them. The braces were gone now. She had grown up. It was time for him to do the same. He turned his head to look at the large pink bunny that sat on the passenger seat, a white ribbon tied around its waist.

Was it too late? Overcome with frustration and longing, he slammed a hand on the horn.

Rose opened her eyes to find her mother's bright, sharp gaze resting on her like a thousand needles. She flinched and then grimaced as a wave of pain rolled from her back towards her belly, tightening into a band of agony around her abdomen.

Her mother waited patiently until it was over before she spoke.

"Well," she began, her arms crossed in smug satisfaction. "He's not here."

Rose turned her head to the side, tucking a hand against her inner arm and pinching fiercely until the tears that had begun to form went away and her vision cleared. Her mother kept talking, her voice mingling with the background sounds of the hospital until Rose couldn't hear it anymore. Another wave of pain hit without warning and she bore it in silence, gripping the edge of the bed as drops of sweat slid down her back. Then, it was over, relief washing over her sweet and cool, as she allowed herself to imagine once more.

She thought of Peter's hands, strong and capable, deftly chopping off the top of a coconut, hands that reached into the ocean and plucked a perfectly smooth shell from the floor of the sea, hands that tilted her face to his with unabashed tenderness.

She remembered how those hands twitched and trembled in his lap when she told him her news, how they hung uselessly by his side as she waited and waited for the words that never came.

The pain came again, hard and fast and insistent this time, and by the time she could catch her breath the nurse was saying it was time, and the room was suddenly full of people, and they were wheeling her through a set of doors, no one asking her permission to do any of the things they were doing. Her mother leaned over her, disappointment etched all over her face. The midwife nudged her out of the way and said, "Rose, come now." Two nurses stood on either side of her, holding on to her shoulders, their instructions almost sounding like a chorus.

A sob burst from her as she held on to the hands around her, hands that were not Peter's, hands that knew nothing about her, that had no claim to her body. She thought of that first sunset, felt the shift of new life inside her, and pushed with all her might.

Peter skidded down the hallway, trying to hold on to the pink bunny while throwing on the scrubs and shoe covers the nurse had handed to him. His heart clenched in fearful anticipation as he stepped through the double doors. Through what seemed like a sea of people, he saw Rose, her eyes closed tightly, her face tight with exertion.

He saw her head fall to her chest, relief dawning on her face like a new day. He heard his daughter's voice, high and new and piercing as she drew air into her lungs for the first time. And his heart soared.