scrubbed,” Dorothy said to the nurse. “He’s catching the baby.”
“What?” said Richard. He felt he ought to reassure Cara. “Not really.”
“Really,” said Dorothy. “Get scrubbed.”
The nurse traded places with Dorothy at the foot of the bed, and took Richard by the elbow. She tugged the shrink-wrapped camera from his grasp.
“Why don’t you give that to me?” she said. “You go get scrubbed.”
“I washed my hands before,” Richard said, panicking a little.
“That’s good,” said Dorothy. “Now you can do it again.”
Richard washed his hands in brown soap that stung the nostrils, then turned back to the room. Dorothy had her hand on the bed’s controls, raising its back, helping Cara into a more upright position. Cara whispered something.
“What’s that, honey?” said Dorothy.
“I said Richard I’m sorry too.”
“What are you sorry about?” Dorothy said. “Good God.”
“Everything,” Cara said. And then, “Oh.”
She growled and hummed, snapping her head from side to side. She hissed short whistling jets of air through her teeth. Dorothy glanced at the monitor. “Big one,” she said. “Here we go.”
She waved Richard over to her side. Richard hesitated.
Cara gripped the side rails of the bed. Her neck arched backward. A humming arose deep inside her chest and grew higher in pitch as it made its way upward until it burst as a short cry, ragged and harsh, from her lips.
“Whoop!” said Dorothy, drawing back her arms. “A stargazer! Hi, there!” She turned again to Richard, her hands cupped around something smeary and purple that was protruding from Cara’s body. “Come on, move it. See this.”
Richard approached the bed, and saw that Dorothy balanced the baby’s head between her broad palms. It had a thick black shock of hair. Its eyes were wide open, large and dark, pupils invisible, staring directly, Richard felt, at him. There was no bleariness, or swelling of the lower eyelids. No one, Richard felt, had ever quite looked at him this way, without emotion, without judgment. The consciousness of a great and irrevocable event came over him; ten months’ worth of dread and longing filled him in a single unbearable rush. Disastrous things had happened to him in his life; at other times, stretching far back into the interminable afternoons of his boyhood, he had experienced a sense of buoyant calm that did not seem entirely without foundation in the nature of things. Nothing awaited him in the days to come but the same uneven progression of disaster and contentment. And all those moments, past and future, seemed to him to be concentrated in that small, dark, pupilless gaze.
Dorothy worked her fingers in alongside the baby’s shoulders. Her movements were brusque, sure, and indelicate. They reminded Richard of a cook’s, or a potter’s. She took a deep breath, glanced at Cara, and then gave the baby a twist, turning it ninety degrees.
“Now,” she said. “Give me your hands.”
“But you don’t really catch them, do you?” he said. “That’s just a figure of speech.”
“Don’t you wish,” said Dorothy. “Now get in there.”
She dragged him into her place, and stepped back. She took hold of his wrists and laid his hands on the baby’s head. It was sticky and warm against his fingers.
“Just wait for the next contraction, Dad. Here it comes.”
He waited, looking down at the baby’s head, and then Cara grunted, and some final chain or stem binding the baby to her womb seemed to snap. With a soft slurping sound the entire child came squirting out into Richard’s hands. Almost without thinking, he caught it. The nurse and Dorothy cheered. Cara started to cry. The baby’s skin was the color of skimmed milk, smeared, glistening, flecked with bits of dark red. Its shoulders and back were covered in a faint down, matted and slick. It worked its tiny jaw, snorting and snuffling hungrily at the sharp first mouthfuls of air.
“What is it?”
“What?” said Richard. He felt he ought to reassure Cara. “Not really.”
“Really,” said Dorothy. “Get scrubbed.”
The nurse traded places with Dorothy at the foot of the bed, and took Richard by the elbow. She tugged the shrink-wrapped camera from his grasp.
“Why don’t you give that to me?” she said. “You go get scrubbed.”
“I washed my hands before,” Richard said, panicking a little.
“That’s good,” said Dorothy. “Now you can do it again.”
Richard washed his hands in brown soap that stung the nostrils, then turned back to the room. Dorothy had her hand on the bed’s controls, raising its back, helping Cara into a more upright position. Cara whispered something.
“What’s that, honey?” said Dorothy.
“I said Richard I’m sorry too.”
“What are you sorry about?” Dorothy said. “Good God.”
“Everything,” Cara said. And then, “Oh.”
She growled and hummed, snapping her head from side to side. She hissed short whistling jets of air through her teeth. Dorothy glanced at the monitor. “Big one,” she said. “Here we go.”
She waved Richard over to her side. Richard hesitated.
Cara gripped the side rails of the bed. Her neck arched backward. A humming arose deep inside her chest and grew higher in pitch as it made its way upward until it burst as a short cry, ragged and harsh, from her lips.
“Whoop!” said Dorothy, drawing back her arms. “A stargazer! Hi, there!” She turned again to Richard, her hands cupped around something smeary and purple that was protruding from Cara’s body. “Come on, move it. See this.”
Richard approached the bed, and saw that Dorothy balanced the baby’s head between her broad palms. It had a thick black shock of hair. Its eyes were wide open, large and dark, pupils invisible, staring directly, Richard felt, at him. There was no bleariness, or swelling of the lower eyelids. No one, Richard felt, had ever quite looked at him this way, without emotion, without judgment. The consciousness of a great and irrevocable event came over him; ten months’ worth of dread and longing filled him in a single unbearable rush. Disastrous things had happened to him in his life; at other times, stretching far back into the interminable afternoons of his boyhood, he had experienced a sense of buoyant calm that did not seem entirely without foundation in the nature of things. Nothing awaited him in the days to come but the same uneven progression of disaster and contentment. And all those moments, past and future, seemed to him to be concentrated in that small, dark, pupilless gaze.
Dorothy worked her fingers in alongside the baby’s shoulders. Her movements were brusque, sure, and indelicate. They reminded Richard of a cook’s, or a potter’s. She took a deep breath, glanced at Cara, and then gave the baby a twist, turning it ninety degrees.
“Now,” she said. “Give me your hands.”
“But you don’t really catch them, do you?” he said. “That’s just a figure of speech.”
“Don’t you wish,” said Dorothy. “Now get in there.”
She dragged him into her place, and stepped back. She took hold of his wrists and laid his hands on the baby’s head. It was sticky and warm against his fingers.
“Just wait for the next contraction, Dad. Here it comes.”
He waited, looking down at the baby’s head, and then Cara grunted, and some final chain or stem binding the baby to her womb seemed to snap. With a soft slurping sound the entire child came squirting out into Richard’s hands. Almost without thinking, he caught it. The nurse and Dorothy cheered. Cara started to cry. The baby’s skin was the color of skimmed milk, smeared, glistening, flecked with bits of dark red. Its shoulders and back were covered in a faint down, matted and slick. It worked its tiny jaw, snorting and snuffling hungrily at the sharp first mouthfuls of air.
“What is it?”
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