Sam calls out. “Has he got all his fingers and toes?”
“He’s perfect. See for yourself.” Susan holds him while I cut the cord.
Too choked up to speak, tears run down my cheeks. We made this human being? Damn, he’s so tiny. How the hell am I going to keep both of them safe? Make sure he grows up to be a good man? See that he gets an education and minds his manners?
I hug her while she holds our little miracle and don’t believe I’ve ever been happier. He smells so damn good when I kiss his forehead, I swear those blue eyes look right at me.
“I’m your dad. Real pleased to meet you.” I take a picture and text it to Rose.
Me: My son has arrived. Mom and baby fine. 8lb 2oz.
She agreed to be our intermediary so I don’t get in trouble for leaving someone out of the loop. They have an email chain so complex; a royal wedding list would pale by comparison.
With her side of the family taken care of, I call Lucky, and give him my good news.
“Congrats, my brother.”
“How the hell did you ever want to go through it again?”
“It’s weird. My shrink says it’s some kind of amnesia. Apparently, there’s so many endorphins in your blood stream, it messes with your memory and all you recall is how damn great it feels to have a little miracle starin’ back at you.”
“Huh.”He’s right. Already, the events of the long night grow fuzzy.
After we chat for a bit, I call Slate, Jack, my dad down south and my birth mom out west.
Then, I stretch out in a chair and rest.
Chapter 32
Sam
Three months later…
When Father O’Connell dunks the top of Mikey’s head in the baptismal font, my child uses his monstrous lungs to share his dislike of holy water.
Moments ago, Rose and Slate stood side by side and recited how they’ll help our babe to grow up in the faith. The church is full and to make up for our wedding, we invited everyone.
The party moves downstairs to the bingo hall. Other than a big clear tub of numbered balls, the place is transformed. Baby blue streamers and balloons hang down from the ceiling and folding buffet tables line the wall, filled to capacity with everyone’s favorite pasta dishes.
We even hired Ned-the-Klepto’s nephew to sing. Fat and bald, if you close your eyes, he sounds just like Frank Sinatra. The almost in tune piano plunks and when he singsNew York, New York,we all sing along.
Our baby, used to a lot of noise, watches with eyes wide and only fusses when he gets hungry. Not one to whip my boobs out in front of everyone, I sit off to the side, nurse him, and put him down in his stroller.
Mia, first to seize the opportunity, runs across the room. “I got him. Go be with your husband.”
“Wanna dance?” I tap Suds on the shoulder who’s sitting with Slate, Lucky, and their wives.
Grinning, he rises, holds me close, and rocks to the music. “Damn girl, I love you.”
“Love you, too.”
He tugs me against his frame, his interest rising between his legs. “You suppose we can get some alone time?”
“Maybe tonight, if we’re not too exhausted.” Lately, we’ve been nothing but.
We sway on the crowded linoleum and when Frankie croons, I think back on how far we’ve come. “Do you ever wonder what would’ve happened if you hadn’t decided to ramble and I didn’t get fired.”
Amusement rumbles deep in his chest. “I would’ve found you. We were destined to be.”
