I’ve hardly set Claire down since the nurse finished up and brought her back. Everything about her feels right. It doesn’t matter how she was conceived. What matters now is that she’s here, and she feels like everything I was always supposed tohave.
For the first time, I’m seeing what my mother lost when she left. I’ve spent my whole life thinking I was the one who missed out, but that’s not completelytrue.
All I needed was Claire to show me. But the funny thing about truth is that it can’t be controlled. The truth can hurt. And with the knowledge Claire brought to me comes greaterpain.
Now I know exactly what my mother chose to leave. And even though I’ve only known Claire for twenty-four hours, there’s no chance I would ever leave her. Being her mother is aprivilege.
Every few minutes, Isaac's image pops into my head. I see his happy grin, feel his hands on my back. He would've been an excellent dad. Somehow I'm sure ofit.
Claire startles in my arms, wails for a moment, then falls back to sleep. I wonder what this will all be like once we’re at home? It won’t be just me and Claire, and right now I’m really happy about that. Moving back in with my dad was a good idea. As independent as I am, I can’t do this alone. He was in the delivery room with me yesterday, last night he slept on the excuse for a chair, and this morning he brought mebreakfast.
I just wish he would stop making comments that cause me to think even more about Claire’s father. “Dark eyes,” he said before he went home to shower. He gave me a meaningful look, then he kissed the top of my head andleft.
His comment wasn’t lost on me. Neither is Claire’s skintone.
She has Isaac written all overher.
Something tells me she’ll have his smile,too.
4 yearslater
“She’s good, isn’t she?”My dad asks, but it’s not really a question. His eyes don’t stray from the field. Quickly he rubs his palms together, over andover.
It makes me smile. He always rubs his hands together like that when he’s excited. I call it his grasshoppermusic.
“She’s good.” Claire’s legs seem tiny, but they move quickly as she tries to maneuver in front of another little girl who has the soccer ball. “But she’s also four.” I feel the need to remind him of this fact, even though there's no way he needs reminding. Her birthday was last month. “They all are. It’s supposed to be about having fun,remember?”
He sips coffee from his stainless-steel thermos and leans in to me. “I can’t help it if my granddaughter is more talented and cuter than every other kid on the field, canI?”
My shoulders shake as I suppress my laughter. “You need to learn how towhisper.”
We laugh together, our eyes on Claire as she charges down the field just like she does in our backyard. She’s an intense child with a take-no-prisoners attitude. She loves hard, she plays hard, and she’s almost always happy. Except when she’s sassy. But even then, it’s a happysass.
This is Claire’s second season playing soccer. Her coach is the father of another girl on the team. He’s never without the baseball cap bearing his alma mater’s logo, and he needs to size up his T-shirt. When I look at him, the wordsDad bodcome tomind.
It's a perfect Spring morning, the kind I imagine people in cold climates fantasize about during the dark days of winter. In Phoenix there isn't a long winter, but that doesn't mean we don't appreciate a lovely March morning likethis.
Claire’s kicking the ball, dribbling like the coach showed her in practice last Tuesday, when something goes wrong. One cleat crosses over the other, and she goes down hard. My shoulders inch forward, but my feet stay planted as I wait for her to pop back up. I’m not too worried. Claire falls a lot. My dad says it’s because her mind is so much faster than herfeet.
This time, Claire doesn’t get up. She rolls onto her right side andscreams.
I’m by her side in seconds, crouching down. My dad and the coach make it there just after me, their voices blending as blood pounds in myears.
Tears stream sideways down Claire’s scrunched upface.
“Baby, what hurts?” My voice is panicked. I’m not good at calm. I could never be a firstresponder.
“My…” She’s hyperventilating. Tiny, shaky gasps of air suck into her throat. “…arm.”
My mind races, and my limbs feel like they’ve been hit with bolts of electricity. I’m trying to determine the next step. I’m the mother, I’m supposed to know what to do, but,oh my God,Idon’t.
I take a deep breath. “Mommy needs you to roll onto your back, OK? I need to compare your arms to one another. Can you do that forme?”
She releases a fresh round of tears as she nods. With my hands on her back and bottom, I gently position her onto her back. She screams and grabs her left arm with her right hand. Adult hands crowd my vision, my dad's and the coach’s, each automatically reaching out to help. I push their hands aside, my eyes finding the spot Claire has grabbed.Herelbow.
I don’t have to look at her right elbow to know that her left elbow is already bigger than it should be. I meet my dad’seyes.
“The hospital's just a few blocks away. I’ll go get the car.” He jogsaway.
