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Ed has a lovely singing voice. Not a lot of people know that about him. It’s one of the things about himself that he keeps very private, a card held close to his chest, but I’ve been lucky enough to hear him a number of times over the years we’ve known one another. I can pick his voice out anywhere, even in a crowd, so when it starts up in the quiet of our quarters it’s easy for me to pick out, even from downstairs.
For a while I just stand there and listen, the warm cup held between my hands. I stand there not far from the couch and feel the smile spreading across my lips. His voice is soft and gentle, and it’s warm. I’ve always enjoyed just listening to Ed talk but when he sings it’s rare and special and that much more precious as a result. If anyone else in the crew could hear him now they wouldn’t believe it was their Captain, save perhaps for Gordon, but he and I keep Ed’s secret for him because we know it’s something he doesn’t want to share. I’ve never thought to ask why.
Eventually I can’t help myself and I set the cup down on the coffee table, making sure to stay silent as I do so, padding my way up the spiral staircase on bare feet that make my progress that much quieter. It’s a good thing too. As I reach the top of the steps I can see him. He doesn’t see me yet and I take advantage of that fact. I just want to watch him. Of their own accord my arms cross, pulling the open front of my gown closed across my stomach and chest. I don’t need the extra warmth such an action provides because just watching Ed and listening to the softness of his voice as he sings brings all the warmth I could ever need.
His eyes are turned down into the crib at the foot of the bed. He’s on his knees beside it rather than on the edge of the mattress. That’s something he’s done since the first day, I’ve noticed. He never sits above it and looks down into it, he always lowers himself to its side. One of his arms is rested against the side of the crib with the other hanging over the other side and I know his hand is on the baby within. Our baby. Between the words of the lullaby he’s singing to her I can hear the soft sounds she’s making as sleep calls to her.
Ed’s singing helps. It always helps.
I watch him until the song reaches its end and our baby drifts off into a restful and peaceful sleep. It will be a couple of hours at least before she stirs again, wanting food or the comfort of his arms or mine, needing our voices and the warmth of our bodies to put her at ease. She’s young enough still that she needs such things regularly but I can feel in my gut that it will pass quickly and she’ll settle into a nice rhythm. I don’t know how I can know that but it’s one of those moments of clarity that just comes to me and takes root and I believe I can trust it. Ed must have felt the same thing the first time he sang to her. He just started one day when she was crying and it calmed and quieted her instantly.
A parent always knows what will soothe their child, I suppose. It’s instinct, deeply-rooted and undeniable. There was a time when such a thing frightened me more than I could even begin to put into words but now I embrace and welcome it. How I could ever fear such a beautifully natural thing is beyond me. I’m glad those days are behind me now.
Ed’s eyes lift from the crib and he turns his head. He sees me and gives me a smile and I feel the butterflies start, spreading quickly. It happens every time he smiles at me. They start in my belly and sweep upward, ending up in my chest. For just a moment my heart skips and ends up in my throat. I smile back at him and wonder if he feels the same thing when I do.
I don’t know why I wonder. All I have to do is look at him and I know, as instinctively as I know when our baby is hungry or uncomfortable or frightened. I know it as instinctively as I know that our child will never have to worry about being loved and cherished and protected.
Ed feels exactly the same way I do. He always has. And he always will.