The Promise

THE PROMISE

Stood in front of the bedroom mirror, Tom Shaw checked his appearance. He’d settled on a dark blue suit – nothing too sombre – and a white shirt open at the neck. There was no dress code for an appointment like this. He opened a drawer in the dresser and reached for his watch. As he did, his fingers brushed something solid tucked beneath a handkerchief.
         Shaw glanced towards the door. Victoria was still in the bathroom. The tiny velvet box seemed impossibly heavy. Inside, on a delicate white cushion, two gold bands, one nestled inside the other.
         He carefully laid the rings together on his palm. Clenched his fist.
         A bright day in July. Light clouds drifting across the sun. The smile that shone from Louise like summer itself. Blonde hair tumbling around the shoulders of her white dress.
         He opened his eyes.
         The dead of winter. Snow piled against parked cars. The patrol car outside the house. A cup of tea gone cold in his trembling hand.
         Shaw pushed the memories away before they could take hold. He replaced the rings and returned the box to its hiding place. He turned to the door.
         Victoria stepped into the room. She was wearing jeans and a sweater, wedge sandals, dark hair pulled up off her neck. She looked incredible.
         Clasping the watch around his wrist, he moved towards her. ‘Are you all right, love?’
         Concern flickered behind her eyes. She didn't say anything.
         He drew her close. Breathed in her perfume and the scent of her hair, her body pressed tight, the slight swell of her belly curved against him.

***

The University Hospital of Wales ran along the southern edge of Heath Park. After two circuits of the multi-storey, Shaw found a parking space on the lower level. He rounded the car to help Victoria from the passenger seat.
         ‘I’m not disabled,’ she reminded him, taking his hand.
         A late spring breeze drifted through the car park, warm with the promise of summer. They walked towards the main entrance.
         They followed coloured signs through the hospital to a sparse waiting area where a sour-faced receptionist instructed them to take a seat.
         Unyielding plastic chairs, bolted to the floor. Shaw took Victoria’s hand in his.
         She squeezed his fingers. ‘We’re not making a mistake, are we?’
         ‘Everything is going to be fine.’
         She looked away, then back. ‘I saw you earlier, with the rings.’
         Shaw closed his eyes. ‘I’m sorry. It didn’t mean anything –’
         ‘Louise was your wife. It means something.’
         He stared at the floor.
         ‘Tom?’
         ‘Trust me, we’re doing the right thing.’
         ‘Promise?’
         ‘Cross my heart.’
         The door to the consulting room opened and a woman peered out. She wore green scrubs, grey hair dragged up in a messy bun. A surgical mask hung from one ear.
         ‘Victoria Masterson?’ she said.
         Shaw and Victoria stood. Victoria released his grip and laid a protective hand on her stomach.
         The woman smiled easily. ‘Please come in.’