That moment will stick with me forever.
I’m in the waiting room long enough that I realize I’m not in the maternity ward. I’m in an area where people aren’t excited; they’re scared. I’m not the only one praying, and by comparison to the people with their heads hung, gathered in tight circles or tucked in their own worlds, holding their necklaces or their own hands or each other’s shoulders, I’m not doing a good job of it. Gammy made me go to church for a few years, but life ran away from us. I was busy. She was doubly busy having to run me around while managing her own life. I have faith in my own distant way but not enough to put words to it. Just vague, selfish hope that’s tempered with the inescapable truth that if something terrible happens here, it would simplify my life in the most horrible way.
This is the part of the hospital where terrible things happen. The placid, wordless posters on the wall depicting serene landscapes and abstract, muted colors are enough to make that obvious if the other visitors in the waiting room do not.
Because we’re in this room, with death all around us, I think everyone is as startled as I am by the sudden outburst of shrill wails on the other side of the ominously closed doors. Everyone looks around at each other. It feels like they all, as a unit, look to me then.
I stand and take two steps to the door as the sound nears us on the other side.
I taste my heart in my throat.
I feel the cool wick of a tear trickling down my cheek.
I open my mouth and gulp in air like I just had to run my own ball in for a sixty-yard touchdown. I’m hyperventilating, but just hearing that sound has my whole body on high alert.
I’m not ready for this.
I had a week, barely, and for half of it, I convinced myself that, like Andy said, it was part of the con. But I know that’s my baby I’m hearing.
I’m not ready for this.
The door swings open, and a doctor appears with a swaddled, squalling bundle in her arms. Someone behind me starts laughing; it’s the manic sort of laugh you get when every emotion hits you all at once and there’s nothing left to do but laugh and take every ounce of joy you can in the moment, even if it’s not your own. It’s the grim hands of Death here, and I can only imagine that seeing new life in a moment of acute grief is a balm.
Despite the wails, the doctor whispers, “I believe this is yours,” with a big smile.
“Oh shit,” I breathe out, but I don’t hesitate to take the bundle being offered to me. A distant, detached part of my brain thinks this is probably not protocol. My cousin’s baby had a damn Lo-Jack on her that her husband accidentally triggered just taking the baby for a walk outside the maternity ward. But this isn’t the maternity ward, and I’m not going to steal this baby.
Well.
The jury is out on that one.
Because the moment that little, tiny, wrinkled thing, so angry their face is bright red, lands in my arms, they look up at me, sigh, and fall asleep.
And I just want to gobble them up so they’re part of me and no matter where I go, they’ll be with me.
Mine.
“Congratulations, man,” a guy says from behind me, resting his hand on my shoulder in a fatherly way, something my father would never bother to do.
“Thank you,” I say, except the words don’t come out.
The doctor fusses with the tiny hat and the blanket. I look up to her and clear my throat so I can actually ask, “Am I holding him? Her? Am I holding them right?”
She laughs, and I swear I see tears glimmering in even her eyes. She’s older, looks like she’s been around the hospital a long time, and there’s a severity about her that makes me think she’s doubling as the baby’s bodyguard and that’s why she got away with bringing them out, but she’s misty-eyed. “A boy, and here. Just make sure you support his head right here, and you’ll do fine.”
“Yeah, okay,” I mumble, flashbacks to every single time I’ve ever fumbled a ball flying through my brain as I carefully inch my arm around. “A boy?” I repeat.
“Yep. He’s a little underweight, so we’re going to transfer you over to maternity and get him in an incubator — the neonatal team is probably going to want him here an extra couple days — but he’s doing great.”
“He’s so pale,” I murmur, words just coming out of my mouth as the thoughts occur, but I see the doctor stiffen, and I grin. “He looks . . . he looks just like me in my baby photos. He’s just . . . he’s perfect.”
She nods. “He is. Congratulations, Papa.”
I’m not going to correct her any more than I would have corrected anyone else. I don’tneedto. Heismy son. This is my son. He’s mine. There’s no fucking way I’m telling Tilly I know who she is, but—
“Tilly?” I croak out, which makes the baby start to fuss, but I rock him like I’ve been taking care of babies my whole life.
The doctor nods. “She’s still in surgery, but they’re stitching her up now, and she should be fine.”
