waiting. I turn left and head for the freeway. Paula is in pain, and in shock when I floor it.
"What are you doing?" she cries.
"I don't like your hospital," I say. "It's ill equipped. I'm taking you to a much nicer one.
Don't worry, I have money, I'll pay."
"But they're expecting me! I called before I left!"
"It doesn't matter. This hospital is only thirty minutes away." It is actually over forty minutes away. "You'll like it, we can get you a room with a view of the mountains."
"But I'm not going on vacation! I'm going to have a baby! I don't need a room with a view!"
"It's always nice to have a view," I reply, patting her leg. "Don't worry, Paula, I know what I'm doing."
This baby—I don't know what's special about it I don't know why Ray and Kalika are obsessed with it. But I do know they are the last people on earth who are going to see it.
The hospital I take her to, the famous Cedar Sinai, is surprised to see us. But the staff jumps to attention when I wave cash and gold credit cards in their faces. What a terrible thing it is that the quality of emergency care is often determined by money. Holding Paula's hand, I help her fill out the paperwork and then we are both ushered into a delivery room. The baby appears to be coming fast. A nurse asks me to put on a gown and a mask.
She is nice, and lets me stay with Paula without asking questions.
Paula is now drenched in sweat and in the throes of real pain, which I have often been intimate with. An anesthesiologist appears and wants to give her Demerol to take the edge off the contractions, maybe an epidermal to partially numb her tower body. But Paula shakes her head.
"I don't need anything," she says. "I have my friend with me."
The anesthesiologist doesn't approve, but I am touched by the remark. I have become so human. Even sentimental nonsense has meaning to me. Paula's hand is sweaty in mine but I have seldom felt a softer touch.
"I am with you," I say. "I will stay with you."
Create PDF files without this message by purchasing novaPDF printer (http://www.novapdf.com) The baby fakes us all out It is eight hours later, at night, when the child finally makes an appearance—a
handsome male of seven pounds five ounces, with more hair than most babies, and large blue eyes that I assume will fade to brown over the next few months. I am the first to hold the baby—other than the delivering physician—and I whisper in his ear the ancient mystical symbol that is supposed to remind the child of its true essence or soul.
"Vak," I say over and over again. It is practically the first sound the infant hears because he did not come out screaming, and the doctor and the others fell strangely silent at the moment of his birth. Indeed, it was almost as if time stood still for a moment.
Vak is a name for Saraswati, the Goddess of speech, the Mother above the head who brings the white light to saints and prophets. The baby smiles at me as I say Vak. Already, I think, I am in love with him. Wiping him gently off and handing him to Paula, I wonder who his father is.
"Is he all right?" she asks, exhausted from the effort but nevertheless blissful.
"Yes, he's perfect," I say, and laugh softly, feeling something peculiar in my words, an intuition, perhaps, of things to come and a life to be lived. "What are you going to call him?" I ask.
Paula cuddles her child near her face and the baby reaches out and touches her eyes. "I don't know," she says. "I have to think about it."
"Didn't you think about a name before?" a nurse asks.
Paula appears puzzled. "No. Never."
Death is a part of life. Calling home to see how Kalika has faired with the two police, I know the grave and the nursery sit on opposite sides of the same wall. That they are connected by a dark closet, where skeletons are hidden, and where the past is sometimes able to haunt the present. All who are born die, Krishna said. All who die will be reborn.
Neither is supposed to be a cause for grief. Yet even
"What are you doing?" she cries.
"I don't like your hospital," I say. "It's ill equipped. I'm taking you to a much nicer one.
Don't worry, I have money, I'll pay."
"But they're expecting me! I called before I left!"
"It doesn't matter. This hospital is only thirty minutes away." It is actually over forty minutes away. "You'll like it, we can get you a room with a view of the mountains."
"But I'm not going on vacation! I'm going to have a baby! I don't need a room with a view!"
"It's always nice to have a view," I reply, patting her leg. "Don't worry, Paula, I know what I'm doing."
This baby—I don't know what's special about it I don't know why Ray and Kalika are obsessed with it. But I do know they are the last people on earth who are going to see it.
The hospital I take her to, the famous Cedar Sinai, is surprised to see us. But the staff jumps to attention when I wave cash and gold credit cards in their faces. What a terrible thing it is that the quality of emergency care is often determined by money. Holding Paula's hand, I help her fill out the paperwork and then we are both ushered into a delivery room. The baby appears to be coming fast. A nurse asks me to put on a gown and a mask.
She is nice, and lets me stay with Paula without asking questions.
Paula is now drenched in sweat and in the throes of real pain, which I have often been intimate with. An anesthesiologist appears and wants to give her Demerol to take the edge off the contractions, maybe an epidermal to partially numb her tower body. But Paula shakes her head.
"I don't need anything," she says. "I have my friend with me."
The anesthesiologist doesn't approve, but I am touched by the remark. I have become so human. Even sentimental nonsense has meaning to me. Paula's hand is sweaty in mine but I have seldom felt a softer touch.
"I am with you," I say. "I will stay with you."
Create PDF files without this message by purchasing novaPDF printer (http://www.novapdf.com) The baby fakes us all out It is eight hours later, at night, when the child finally makes an appearance—a
handsome male of seven pounds five ounces, with more hair than most babies, and large blue eyes that I assume will fade to brown over the next few months. I am the first to hold the baby—other than the delivering physician—and I whisper in his ear the ancient mystical symbol that is supposed to remind the child of its true essence or soul.
"Vak," I say over and over again. It is practically the first sound the infant hears because he did not come out screaming, and the doctor and the others fell strangely silent at the moment of his birth. Indeed, it was almost as if time stood still for a moment.
Vak is a name for Saraswati, the Goddess of speech, the Mother above the head who brings the white light to saints and prophets. The baby smiles at me as I say Vak. Already, I think, I am in love with him. Wiping him gently off and handing him to Paula, I wonder who his father is.
"Is he all right?" she asks, exhausted from the effort but nevertheless blissful.
"Yes, he's perfect," I say, and laugh softly, feeling something peculiar in my words, an intuition, perhaps, of things to come and a life to be lived. "What are you going to call him?" I ask.
Paula cuddles her child near her face and the baby reaches out and touches her eyes. "I don't know," she says. "I have to think about it."
"Didn't you think about a name before?" a nurse asks.
Paula appears puzzled. "No. Never."
Death is a part of life. Calling home to see how Kalika has faired with the two police, I know the grave and the nursery sit on opposite sides of the same wall. That they are connected by a dark closet, where skeletons are hidden, and where the past is sometimes able to haunt the present. All who are born die, Krishna said. All who die will be reborn.
Neither is supposed to be a cause for grief. Yet even
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