A deep ache like a dull blade sawing muscle.
“They’re working on it,” Isaac said. “You’re both in good hands.”
From behind the curtain, “Retractor. Another couple centimeters. Good. Hold that.”
More blunted tearing or cutting or stabbing, she couldn’t tell which, and a sudden fear caught her. “Don’t hurt the baby!” she shouted.
Then she was hit with a force like a car being driven into her belly, set in reverse, and backed out. A moment later, the room shifted, a river of light flooding from behind the curtain. A bloody baby girl was held above the drape, but only for a second, long enough for Evangeline to see her mouth open wide in a wail. But there was no sound. Evangeline wondered if she’d gone deaf? Shouldn’t the baby be crying? And something else was off. Under the blood, the baby appeared the color of twilight.
Gowned people whisked the baby to the side of the room, set her on a counter. A moment later, the baby found her lungs and throat and mouth and began to wail. Evangeline and Isaac whooped at the sound, but the nurses and doctors did not. Why weren’t they happy? Didn’t the baby have a right to complain?
“I want to hold her,” she said.
But a new doctor had arrived, a youngish woman who bustled to the crying infant without speaking to Evangeline. After a moment, the doctor lifted the baby and carried her from the room.
“Where’s she going?”
Evangeline had been forgotten. Even Isaac had left her side.
“What’s happening?” she asked the emptiness.
“They’re taking her for observation. Just a precaution.” The woman’s voice came from the far side of the curtain. Evangeline hadn’t been completely abandoned.
“Why?”
“Just a precaution,” the voice said again.
“Isaac!” she shouted, and he appeared at her side.
“She’s okay,” he said. “She was a little blue at first, but she’s all pinked up now. They’re going to monitor her awhile.”
Behind the curtain, someone was gathering pieces of Evangeline and suturing them back into place. She pictured her belly with Frankenstein stitches, hideous and beautiful and perfect. She heard her baby’s wails heading down a hall. And already she ached for her. This child she had yet to touch.
She wondered if this is what it meant to be a mother. To ache for a life that was not your own, to long for a child who could, without the slightest input from you, fall completely out of view.
She could no longer hear the baby, only the snip of final sutures behind the surgeon’s drape, but she felt her daughter there, curled tight and permanent in the emptiness of her, and she understood that her own mother, wherever she was, could never have outrun an ache like that.
69
While the nurses were transferring Evangeline to recovery, I tracked the baby to intensive care. The hospital was too small for a neonatal ICU, and it seemed odd going by rooms filled with elderly patients in search of a newborn.
A nurse saw me heading into the baby’s room and stepped between me and the door. When I asked why the baby was there, she said I’d have to ask the doctor. As I turned to leave, an older nurse approached. She walked down the hall with me a few stations, chatting about the weather, then stopped and lowered her wire-rimmed glasses.
“The doctor was worried about possible hypoxia, decreased oxygen. But all her signs are great. Honestly, I’m not sure why she’s here. As far as I can see, she’s eight pounds, twelve ounces of healthy baby.”
“Eight pounds, twelve ounces? Isn’t that huge for a baby this early?”
The nurse seemed confused. “Early? A couple days past . . .” She caught herself, “What matters is that she’s a healthy infant.”
* * *
—
IN RECOVERY, EVANGELINE WAS SLEEPING SOUNDLY, her mouth open, spittle on her cheek. Several hours passed before she woke, and when she did, she was terribly groggy, her speech slurred.
They’d probably upped her morphine after the baby was delivered. Around eight thirty, she roused herself to lucidity, sat up clear-eyed, and said, “I’m going to go get Emma.”
“Emma?”
“Emma Lorrie McKensey. And I’m going to get her now.”
The evening nurse, a quietly efficient young woman who was hanging fluids at Evangeline’s side, said, “Afraid not. Another hour at least before you’re ready to get up.”
“Could someone bring her to me? Could Isaac?”
“Not right now. We’ll see in an hour or so.”
At ten, a nurse brought in a swaddled, sleeping Emma. Evangeline held out her arms, her mouth open in wonder. The baby struggled against the blanket, making soft sounds of discomfort. Evangeline told me to turn away. When I could look again, she’d unwrapped Emma and placed the naked baby against her own skin, arranged the blanket modestly. She stared at the baby, then at me. She moved her mouth as if to speak but nothing came out, and she laughed instead.
I can’t describe what happened between mother and child in the next hour. It occurred at a level I know nothing of. They spent the time passing messages in secret code, tales from the millennia. When the lactation nurse arrived at eleven, I was dismissed from the room.
In the empty reception area, I bought a candy bar from a machine, took a bite of stale nuts and caramel, and threw it away. I hated my gender then, hated that I could never give Evangeline the mother she needed.
I didn’t know how long to wait. When I got back, it was nearly midnight and Evangeline was asleep, the baby returned to the nursery. I patted Evangeline’s hair as if she were Rufus, and remembering him I nearly cried. I don’t know why I touched her like that except I needed her to know, even as she slept, that she was loved, and I was at a loss as to how to express it. I left quietly and asked the nurse at the station to tell Evangeline I’d be back by seven.
As I drove home, I thought of what I would confront. I was too exhausted to deal with Rufus and the blood, too exhausted to even grieve, but I couldn’t imagine walking past him and on to bed.
On arriving, I flipped on the kitchen light, hesitant to look. When I did, Rufus was gone. Even the blood was missing. I was questioning my sanity when I saw the note on the table.
Isaac,
When I got home a little after seven, Nells told me about the ambulance. I came over to check in and saw dear old Rufus had died. Looked like he’d had another bad bleed at the end. I cleaned up as best I could. I would have buried him （I was so thankful you buried Brody for me）， but I thought you might want to say good-bye. He’s wrapped in a blanket in our shed, where it’s cool. I can bury him tomorrow after work if that’s okay. I know this was terribly presumptuous, but with the ambulance and all, with maybe a new baby coming home, I didn’t want that to be your first sight. I’m so sorry about Rufus. I’m praying for you and Evangeline and the baby.
Lorrie
I called her. Though it was nearly one in the morning, I didn’t hesitate. It seemed the most natural thing in the world, as if we often woke each other in the middle of the night. When she answered, I burst out with it. “There’s a baby,” I said. “Emma. She’s healthy. There was a little trouble, but she’s fine.”