any idea why I’ve lived the way I have, or what I hope for, or even what I wish had happened. I don’t love his mother and I didn’t want him to be born.
That was the simple truth. Horrible, unspeakable. It was the truth Peter was rejecting, fighting off like a horde of insects, frantically, hopelessly. Could he change it? By an act of will, by sheer determination?
The phone rang. He grabbed for it.
“Hello,” Rachel said. “Everybody safe at home? Can we talk?”
“I’m sorry,” he said. The effort made his voice harsh. “We can’t do this anymore.”
“Talk on the phone?” Her voice stayed cheerful, fought to maintain it. “Or anything?”
“Anything,” he intoned.
“Okay,” she said casually, and hung up. He was surprised at her easy surrender.
Later he walked into Byron’s room, told Mrs. Murphy she could get herself coffee, take a break. “I’ll make myself some tea,” she said. “He’s an angel,” she commented while exiting.
Peter knelt at the side of the baby carriage. Byron had two fingers between his lips, his eyes closed, his mouth working. He had his mother’s olive skin. A vein ran across his bald skull, pulsing as he sucked. Peter realized Rachel thought his resolve wouldn’t last.
He knew it would.
W HEN DR. EPHRON appeared, joining Eric in the slovenly hallway, she had a timid look on her face. Eric thought this was the natural companion to bad news.
“Everything’s fine,” Ephron began. “As you could see, the cord was wrapped three times around the neck. Doesn’t make any difference until pushing. Then it tightens. She’d gotten him so far down I thought we might make it through without a general. But you saw. I had to get baby out quickly. At least we avoided a C section.”
He waited. Now for the bad news.
“Okay? I’m sorry if I yelled. I was startled. Fathers aren’t supposed to be present at a general. Hospital rule. In the confusion— in the rush, I forgot you were there.”
“They’re both okay?” he asked meekly.
Ephron blinked. She smiled, not at him, but to herself. “Absolutely, Mr. Gold! They’re both fine. She’s still under, but she should be coming out of it soon. Your son is fine—you haven’t seen him!” Ephron, her manner now self-assured, opened the doors and whispered something inside. She turned back to him. “You can go in for a second to see him.” She held the door open.
Eric moved into the operating room slowly, his legs advancing, although his mind wanted to retreat. Nina lay on the table, killed. He didn’t look at Nina for more than a second. The sight terrified him. A nurse blocked his vision anyway. She held a mass of white and offered it to Eric with a smile of expectation.
Then it was in his arms. Light, nothing to hold, nothing like the weight it had been in his heart. He looked at the little face, at the little face of his son, his heir, his firstborn.
There was hair everywhere, a black down covering a monkey face. He was squashed; his cheeks, nose, forehead compressed. The eyes were shut, the mouth twisted in a complaint, and he meowed unhappily.
“Oh,” Eric said, miserable for him. He thought of the cord twisting tighter and tighter, desiring his death. Eric rocked his arms back and forth. The features smoothed; the mouth smacked open and closed. “Hello,” he whispered. The eyelids were red, swollen, weary—a battered fighter.
They opened. Just slits. Pools of blue. The red skin winced at the light and closed again. Eric wanted to hide him from the world, the poor thing—hurt, attacked by life.
“Okay,” the nurse said, her arms out to take his son back. “We have to wake up your wife. You can wait for her in recovery.”
Eric glanced at Nina as he turned to go. She was spread out on the table under the lights, her mouth open stupidly, her skin white, a dried-out fruit withered by the sun. He wanted to hold her, to rouse her, to tell her what she had accomplished.
He’s alive, Nina.
And
That was the simple truth. Horrible, unspeakable. It was the truth Peter was rejecting, fighting off like a horde of insects, frantically, hopelessly. Could he change it? By an act of will, by sheer determination?
The phone rang. He grabbed for it.
“Hello,” Rachel said. “Everybody safe at home? Can we talk?”
“I’m sorry,” he said. The effort made his voice harsh. “We can’t do this anymore.”
“Talk on the phone?” Her voice stayed cheerful, fought to maintain it. “Or anything?”
“Anything,” he intoned.
“Okay,” she said casually, and hung up. He was surprised at her easy surrender.
Later he walked into Byron’s room, told Mrs. Murphy she could get herself coffee, take a break. “I’ll make myself some tea,” she said. “He’s an angel,” she commented while exiting.
Peter knelt at the side of the baby carriage. Byron had two fingers between his lips, his eyes closed, his mouth working. He had his mother’s olive skin. A vein ran across his bald skull, pulsing as he sucked. Peter realized Rachel thought his resolve wouldn’t last.
He knew it would.
W HEN DR. EPHRON appeared, joining Eric in the slovenly hallway, she had a timid look on her face. Eric thought this was the natural companion to bad news.
“Everything’s fine,” Ephron began. “As you could see, the cord was wrapped three times around the neck. Doesn’t make any difference until pushing. Then it tightens. She’d gotten him so far down I thought we might make it through without a general. But you saw. I had to get baby out quickly. At least we avoided a C section.”
He waited. Now for the bad news.
“Okay? I’m sorry if I yelled. I was startled. Fathers aren’t supposed to be present at a general. Hospital rule. In the confusion— in the rush, I forgot you were there.”
“They’re both okay?” he asked meekly.
Ephron blinked. She smiled, not at him, but to herself. “Absolutely, Mr. Gold! They’re both fine. She’s still under, but she should be coming out of it soon. Your son is fine—you haven’t seen him!” Ephron, her manner now self-assured, opened the doors and whispered something inside. She turned back to him. “You can go in for a second to see him.” She held the door open.
Eric moved into the operating room slowly, his legs advancing, although his mind wanted to retreat. Nina lay on the table, killed. He didn’t look at Nina for more than a second. The sight terrified him. A nurse blocked his vision anyway. She held a mass of white and offered it to Eric with a smile of expectation.
Then it was in his arms. Light, nothing to hold, nothing like the weight it had been in his heart. He looked at the little face, at the little face of his son, his heir, his firstborn.
There was hair everywhere, a black down covering a monkey face. He was squashed; his cheeks, nose, forehead compressed. The eyes were shut, the mouth twisted in a complaint, and he meowed unhappily.
“Oh,” Eric said, miserable for him. He thought of the cord twisting tighter and tighter, desiring his death. Eric rocked his arms back and forth. The features smoothed; the mouth smacked open and closed. “Hello,” he whispered. The eyelids were red, swollen, weary—a battered fighter.
They opened. Just slits. Pools of blue. The red skin winced at the light and closed again. Eric wanted to hide him from the world, the poor thing—hurt, attacked by life.
“Okay,” the nurse said, her arms out to take his son back. “We have to wake up your wife. You can wait for her in recovery.”
Eric glanced at Nina as he turned to go. She was spread out on the table under the lights, her mouth open stupidly, her skin white, a dried-out fruit withered by the sun. He wanted to hold her, to rouse her, to tell her what she had accomplished.
He’s alive, Nina.
And
Similar Books
