The Burning Side(80)
Ana smiles, a dimpled girl of seventeen. She has always wanted to be a mother.
A passing fire truck makes them glance out the window. It’s getting dark.
“Mierda.” Rico sets her feet onto the couch. “Got to go.” He’s working the night shift.
With effort, Ana rotates herself, trying to release the pinched nerve in her lower back.
Rico ties his shoes. “Call the kitchen if anything happens.” They paid the phone bill instead of the electric.
Ana waves him off. “Sí, sí.”
The truth is that she doesn’t really know what will happen. Does it start with blood? Water? Pain?
Left alone in the darkening trailer, she waddles to the kitchen in search of anything with salt, and when the baby squirms inside her, she puts her hand on her stretched skin. She waits for him to move again. When he does, she can feel a foot, then the other one, exactly where they belong.
Three days later, it happens—and it starts with pain. And it continues with pain. But it ends with peace: a baby boy sleeping in his mami’s arms, a head full of hair. His eyes are dark as mud, but the nurse says they could change. A lot could.
Ana and Rico name him Leonardo because his papi declares that he will be as brave as a lion.
His parents trace his tiny ear, nose, tummy. Inside him are all the organs, somehow. Kidneys, liver, heart, lungs, everything.
They take diligent notes as the nurse explains diapering and burping.
They savor the hospital food.
They relax in the air-conditioning while they have it.
And they dream. Rico wants their son to play Spanish guitar, and Ana wants him to wear suspenders. She had said she would be happy with either a boy or a girl, but the truth is that in her heart of hearts, she prayed for a boy. For this boy, their Leonardo.
A nurse comes to do vitals. Ana extends her arm for the blood pressure cuff. The baby squeaks a bit, blinks into the brightness, and then lets his eyes fall shut again. Rico is asleep in a chair scooted up to the bed, his finger inside his son’s tiny fist.
The nurse pauses on her way out and says quietly, “You have a beautiful family.”
Ana smiles, one of the six happy ones. Because she does. She really does.
APRIL
September 5, 2022
IT’S HARD TO EXPLAIN WHAT it is about a sibling that can make someone think, We’re polar opposites, but she gets me.
My phone screen is so full of eggplant emojis that I almost regret texting Jo. I type, BUT WE HAVEN’T TALKED THIS MORNING. MAYBE HE’S CHANGING HIS MIND?
An eye-roll emoji and the words, ARE YOU CHANGING YOURS?
No. I’m definitely not. But—
Sadie dashes into the room and jackknifes herself onto my bed. “Otto wants pancakes!”
I squint. “Otto wants them, huh?”
She spreads out like a starfish. “And me too. Please please!”
I laugh. “That’s what I thought.” I get out of bed. “Come help me make them.”
By the time we’ve eaten, cleaned up syrupy messes, loaded plates into the dishwasher, and gotten dressed for a back-to-school haircut, it’s after ten and I still haven’t heard from Leo. All the long days and nights of his silence come screaming back, leaving me to wonder how much staying power an apology can really have. It’s important, but it’s not magical.
When I still haven’t heard from him after Sadie’s haircut, I text him a picture. WHY IS OUR DAUGHTER A TEENAGER?
He responds immediately. SO BIG.
And then: SORRY FOR BEING MIA THIS MORNING. CAN I BRING LUNCH OVER?
SURE.
I set my phone down and then pick it back up. CAN’T WAIT.
* * *
Leo arrives with bags of Wendy’s, and we distribute nuggets and fries. We try for the millionth time to get Otto to say “apple juice” instead of “apple Jew.” And then we do what parents so often must—we spend our lunch talking about unicorns, snails, and letters at the top of the coconut tree.
When Otto goes down for his nap and Sadie goes for “quiet time,” we know our window of privacy is short.
So I quickly blurt, “Did you change your mind?”
Leo frowns.
I continue, “Last night meant a lot, but I get if it was the heat of the moment.”
“No,” he says. “I made a choice. I want this even when I don’t want it.”
I smile, that pop of relieved love like a firecracker in my chest again. I imagine emailing my lawyer with the subject line, Never mind. Or maybe: Reconcilable differences.
“But—” Leo says, and we sit down at the table.
He meets my eye. “We need help. This can’t be like before. It can’t.”
“You mean like couples therapy?”
“Something.” He shrugs. “Because we need help with our individual stuff if we want to help us.” He pauses before saying, “It doesn’t seem like Cody was really about Cody, or even about me.”
My cheeks heat with the familiar rush of shame. “What do you mean?”
Leo’s tone is painfully gentle. “You sort of stopped…valuing yourself.”
My head snaps toward him in surprise, like I thought I had him fooled, like that has nothing to do with anything. But he’s right: I wasn’t okay after our babies were born. And I didn’t have a good reason for that, which perpetuated my self-loathing.