My derriere aches as my meds wear off exactly two hours after giving birth to Heathcliff Ian Wells. I hope the nurse (What was her name? Kara? Karen?) comes back soon with more painkillers because—ouch.
I’ve been binge-readingWuthering Heightsand theTwilightseries, and maybe it’s the drugs, but I’m getting obsessed with the idea of writing my own steamy Victorian teen romance. Lots of heaving bosoms, passionate kissing in damp Yorkshire caves and windswept moors. I’ll throw a little supernatural into the mix—maybe even give Cathy a happy ending...
“Henry says congratulations,” Philip says after his phone dings.
Philip stands near the hospital room window holding Heathcliff, swaddled tight, the little hospital cap over his head. It’s our first quiet moment as a family. Mom and Dad left a little while ago. Mom had counted and recounted Heathcliff’s fingers and toes, checked his neck strength and reflexes, looked him overwith her keen nurse eyes. She drove Kara/Karen nuts asking when the hospital lactation consultant would be available.
Dad held Heathcliff before handing him back to me with care and fear, as if my newborn was a grenade. In old photos, Dad always looked bewildered by baby Ian and me. He just never knew what to do with babies. He can’t handle one like he can a paper on American transcendentalists. He knows the procedure there. But there’s no procedure with a squalling, squirming petty-tyrant newborn. It’s all another reason Mom was such a good match for him. As a nurse, she had beenpaidto keep babies alive for years.
Ted and Mirabel will be up this afternoon. They didn’t have to fly in like Mom and Dad. They only live an hour and a half away and yet they’re running late. She called once, congratulating us before growing quiet when Philip told her our newborn’s name. Then she gave Philip a piece of her mind.
“Why is this such a big fucking deal to her?” I mutter, whimpering as I adjust my rear and put another ice pack between my legs. “My ass hurts like a mother...”
Philip smiles crookedly. “You know, you’re cute when you swear.”
“Ha.”
He pats Heathcliff’s back gently and sits down.
“You know all the hints she dropped about naming himPhilip. Mama says every oldest son for the last five generations is named Philip, and I’m squandering that by using a frivolous, romantic name like Heathcliff. ‘This is Elizabeth’s doing,’ she said.” He rolls his eyes. He’s always been able to take his mother’s drama tongue-in-cheek.
“Way to welcome her first grandchild to the world.”
He shrugs. “She’ll get over it. But you know her. Everything has to be her way. Her garden, her house, her grandchildren’s names. She’ll cool off when she’s here holding him, when she sees how perfect he is.”
“Humph. I like the name Heathcliff. And it’s not like we can name him after Dad—Gaylord.” I push the call button: “Can I please have more Vicodin?”
“It’s not time for your next dose,” the nurse says through the intercom.
“It should be.”
“I want to do things differently,” Philip says, a soft expression on his face as he looks down at our son.
“Huh?”
“I mean, Mama always had to dress me up in sailor suits or seersuckers for church. Her routines were always more important to her than just being my mom. I always wanted a mom who could just eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with me and listen to me talk about comic books. I wanted her to be more down-to-earth. And Ted—he’s not bad, but he never felt like a real dad, just a pretty ornament for Mama’s front porch. I want to be a different kind of parent than them, and I want you to help me live up to it.”
@BellaPatel *coy smile selfie*:
Fingers crossed about some possible good news forHeathcliff Sagafans!?
Sarah:Long London layover tomorrow. Let’s talk! Tea or wine at Monmouth tomorrow late afternoon? 5:00-ish?
Lizzie:Sure, but I might be running a little late. I’m meeting A.D. Hemming for a drink.
Sarah:Lol
Lizzie:No, really, I am.
Sarah texts back a surprised emoji.
Lizzie:Stay tuned—I’ll send you a selfie
Ms. Fernsby nearly drops the chicken she’s brining when I tell her I’m meeting up with August Dansworth (aka A.D. Hemmings) at the Café Royal.
“Why, ofcourseI’ll watch Heathie for you! You can’t miss an opportunity like this!”
“We’re just talking about writing...”
