“What, dear?” says one of the nurses.
“Her name is Amaryllis.”
“Oh. Well, I suppose we can call her that for now if you want. That’s a pretty name, Rosie.”
“Let me hold her.”
The two nurses in the room look at each other and say nothing. Dr. Melson, who is kneading my abdomen in a not very gentle way to encourage the afterbirth to come out, does not look up when he says, “We don’t recommend that.”
“She’s my daughter!” I say, grimacing as he works on me.
The doctor looks up. “Holding the baby will only make it harder for you. I should know. I’ve seen it a dozen times.” He drops his gaze back to his task.
What has he seen a dozen times? His words make no sense. “Harder for what? What are you talking about?”
Dr. Melson looks up again. He is frowning. “Do I need to call in Dr. Townsend?”
I suddenly remember then that it is their plan to send my baby girl to a receiving home so that a suitable family will adopt her. My parental rights are already scheduled to be terminated.
Because I am not a suitable person to be a mother.
My instincts war inside me. I want with all my might to snatch that baby from the nurse who is now washing away my presence from the little bloom’s flesh. But I have to keep pretending that I am ready to do whatever it is they expect of me. Belle promised me that delivering the baby today will change nothing. She assured me we will still escape. I don’t know how we will do it now; I only know I refuse to believe that we won’t.
My baby is still crying out to be held by her mother. “I still want to hold her,” I say.
Dr. Melson thinks for a moment and then shrugs. He swivels around to address the nurse holding Amaryllis. “Only for a few minutes,” he says.
The nurse wraps my wailing baby in a blanket and places her in my arms. She quiets as soon as I begin to speak her name, over and over. “Amaryllis. Amaryllis, Amaryllis.”
The minutes I am allowed seem to condense to mere seconds as the two of us—mother and daughter—stare at each other, eye to eye. Every time I say her name, I am making a promise.I will come for you. I will come for you. I will come for you.
Dr. Melson signals for the nurse to take my child, and I feel my heart will burst.It’s only until Sunday, I tell myself as the baby is pulled out of my arms. Only until Sunday.
The nurse who handed Amaryllis to me rewraps her in the blanket and starts to walk away.
“Where are you taking her?” I call out as I try to maneuver myself to see where the nurse is going. A cramp grips me.
The doctor is seated back between my legs again, and he is tugging gently on the curly cord that tied Amaryllis to me. “You’d be wise to stop asking questions about the baby.”
“We have a nice little nursery,” the nurse interjects when Dr. Melson says nothing else.
“And when does she...? When is she supposed to...?” I can’t finish the sentence. I will burst into sobs if I actually ask when they are planning to send her from this place, away from me.
“The child—,” the doctor begins.
“Amaryllis,” I correct him.
“Amarylliswill stay in our care for two weeks so that we can make sure she is ready for travel and so that the institution taking her in can prepare for her arrival. She came early, you know.”
An immediate sense of relief floods me. They aren’t planning to send Amaryllis away until well after Sunday. The three of us will be gone by then.
“When can I go back to my room?” I ask. “I want to go back to my room.”
“You need to push right now,” Dr. Melson says, ignoring my question. “The afterbirth needs to be delivered.”
I obey and I feel something soft and wet fall away from inside me. Dr. Melson slides the afterbirth into a basin and gives it a cursory glance. Then he turns back to me. “You’re going to need a few stitches. Hold still.”
He pricks my tender flesh with a needle and I wince at the sting. And then he is sewing me back together. I wait until he is finished and he stands to pull off the surgical gown he’s been wearing over his clothes.
