When another nurse comes hustling around the corner with a wheelchair, Meredith crumples into it. I follow with the bags as she’s shuttled down the corridor toward an ominous set of doors markedLABOR AND DELIVERY; it surprises me to learn that an entire section of the hospital is reserved just for women having babies. And with that littleahamoment comes a wave of sheer terror.…
I’m about to become the world’s least helpful person to a woman in the throes of one of life’s greatest miracles.
21
IT’S OFFICIAL—I’M NEVER HAVING BABIES.
Though Meredith’s labor was (relatively) quick and (supposedly) not all that painful, I’ve seen enough to make me want to stay on birth control indefinitely. Through an hour of testing and monitoring, I endured the pain of her hand, vise-gripped around mine. Through thirty-five minutes of pushing, I stood as close to her head as possible, squashing my eyelids closed anytime things even hinted at a turn toward the graphic. I tried my best to be encouraging but, well, I was quietly panic-stricken. Meredith was justout therefor the world to see, whimpering and howling and carrying on in this gruesome, feral way.
It was awkward. It was disgusting. It was appalling.
And then it wasn’t, because when the doctor held a squirming Allyson Claire in the air, cherry red and crinkly, she let out this woeful little cry and my heart just…melted.
Now Ally’s clean and calm, wrapped in a butter-yellow flannel blanket. Meredith passes her to me, and I hold her in the rigid cradle of my arms. I probably look exactly like the newbie I am, but her weight and her warmth are grounding.
Gazing into her gray eyes, I wonder if she might not be such a leech after all.
A nurse comes to whisk her away for a checkup, leaving Meredith and me alone. She’s resting in the sloped bed, sucking down gallons of icy water. Her hair appears stylishly tousled and her cheeks are rosy—glowing, a nurse observed earlier. She looks tired, but serene.
I can’t imagine surviving what she just went through, not in a million years.
I collapse into the vinyl recliner provided by the hospital for bunking dads—mine is still absent, incidentally. The dusty lavender glow of twilight peeks through the window blinds, and I can barely keep my eyes open.
“Jill,” Meredith says, waving me over. The pastel hospital bracelets on her wrist whisper with the movement. I cringe at the repulsive gaseous noise the chair makes as my weight leaves it, and cross the room in three steps. Meredith pats her bed and I perch on it, careful not to jostle her. She reaches out to smooth a lock of my hair. “Thank you,” she says, “for everything.”
I shrug, her attention making me bashful. “You’re welcome.”
“I’m serious,” she says. “There’s no way I could have done it without you.”
“I’m glad I was here.”Nowthis is true. If you’d asked me an hour ago, my answer would’ve been the exact opposite.
“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”
“I’ve never seen a pinker, wrinklier, noisier newborn.”
She laughs. “She’s exactly what I’ve imagined since I married your dad. I just—I wish he could’ve been here.”
“Do you think…?” I pause because I need to get my emotions under control. I swallow and start again. “Do you think he’s okay?”
She’s slow to answer, and that scares me.Say yes, I think.Tell me he’s fine.
“We’re at the hospital,” she says. “We’ve been here a few hours. They would have notified us if he’d been in an accident.… So, yes, I think he’s fine.” She gives a measured lift of her shoulders. “He knew I could go into labor at any time, and he made himself unavailable.”
“It must have been something he couldn’t get out of.” I’m skeptical even as I say this, but instinct says I should try to defend him. “Whatever he’s doing, wherever he is, must be so, so important.”
“Wouldn’t it have to be? To close the office? To turn off his cell? I can only imagine…”
“Are you mad?” I ask, wondering if I’m overstepping. But then, Meredith seems willing to talk. Ineedto talk; I need to understand what might’ve caused my dad to flake so tremendously.
She reclines, resting her head on the mountain of pillows behind her. “I don’t have enough energy to be mad. More than anything, I’m sad. The last few hours are locked in my memory and yours, but he’ll never know them.”
I lean back until we’re side by side. The nearness is strange, but not in a bad way. Over the course of the afternoon, my connection with Meredith morphed into something new, something different, something real.
“I really am glad I’m here,” I tell her.
“Me too,” she whispers.
The door flies open, slamming against the wall with superfluous force, ushering in a waft of medicinal air from the hallway. My dad tumbles in after it.
