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“I want to see my baby, please.”

This time, the nurse looked up. She peered at Laurel with about as much warmth and interest as she had at the thermometer, and said, “Well, now, I don’t think that’s such a good idea. Why don’t we try and get some sleep? You’ll feel better in the morning.”

“It is morning.” Laurel hated the nurse now, hated her saccharine voice, her officiousness.

The broad-hipped young woman, who had pale reddish-blond hair and a blue plastic I.D. tag pinned to the front of her uniform that read “KAREN KOPLOWITZ,” glanced at her wristwatch and said brightly, “Well, so it is!”

According to Laurel’s Timex, it was five-thirty. She’d been lying here in the semidarkness, staring up since lightsout at ten, listening to the faint sounds of traffic in the street below. Her eyes felt swollen and scratchy. And now this nurse had come bustling in to take her blood pressure and temperature, not even asking if she was awake, or if she minded. As if she were a cantaloupe in a supermarket being squeezed to see if it was ripe.

But worse than this nurse, worse even than the stinging discomfort between her legs and the squishy tenderness of her stomach, was the awful emptiness inside her.

Uncle Rudy. How could he have done something like this to her? Not just trying to take Adam for himself, but before that, making her believe her father was dead.

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She recalled her shock at seeing Val walk in here yesterday. In her confusion, she hadn’t known what to feel … for so many years she’d thought of him as dead. They’d sat and talked for close to an hour, and every so often she’d found herself staring at him, noticing how much older he looked, his perennially tanned skin webbed with fine creases, his white hair not as thick and luxuriant as she remembered-now the dull, yellowish color of old piano keys. Still a sharp dresser, with his expensive silk jacket, off-white slacks and Gucci loafers, but the jacket had to have been at least ten years old, and the cuffs of his shirt, she’d noticed, were beginning to fray. And he hadn’t once mentioned any kind of a job, or what kind of house or apartment he was living in.

What he had talked about, besides Uncle Rudy, was the night she and Annie had run away. He’d told her how upset Annie had been about Dearie, and how when he tried to calm her down, she’d gotten furious at him, hysterical almost, accusing him of killing her mother. Val even showed the faint pink scar on his forehead where Annie had clubbed him with Dearie’s Oscar. He’d seemed upset about it, tears welling up in his eyes. All he’d wanted, he’d said, was for them to be a family, to stick together.

Now, thinking it over, Laurel realized that apart from being glad to see him, and glad that he was alive, she felt sorry for Val … and guilty, too, as if she were partly responsible for the way his life had obviously gone downhill. Even so, she was sure that there had to be another side to his story. Annie would have a different explanation, she felt certain. But why in heaven’s name hadn’t Annie ever told her her side of things?

Maybe if they’d stayed in Los Angeles, and Annie had worked things out with Val, then she wouldn’t be here in this hospital ward and none of this would have happened.

I trusted them, she thought, I trusted Annie… Uncle Rudy too… and look where it got me.

But another voice in her responded, What did Val ever do for you? And look at all Annie has done. If you want the real story about that night, ask Annie.

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But what did any of that matter now? All she knew, all she cared about was that, through some dreadful series of wrong turns, her baby had been taken from her.

Laurel began to get a tight feeling in her chest. She knew she mustn’t panic. She was pretty sure she hadn’t signed any papers or anything, so maybe it wasn’t too late … she could still change her mind. Or she could find a real couple to adopt Adam. Every adoption agency probably had hundreds, thousands, of really nice people desperate to adopt a healthy baby.

But she had to see him again first … until she’d actually held him in her arms, she didn’t want to make up her mind. She couldn’t. It wouldn’t be fair. Adam’s birth had happened so quickly. When she tried to remember it, it seemed mostly a blur. She remembered Joe … his white face hovering over her, steadying her like a bright beacon on a dark night. There had been pain, excruciating pain … she’d felt as if she were being pulled apart. Then something that felt like a fish had slithered between her legs … and a tiny wet body was held up to the light, its limbs flailing.

Then when Joe laid him against her stomach, she had felt the baby go still. She had felt his mouth moving against her skin, soft as a moth’s wings. Her breasts had prickled in response, and a corner of her heart had chipped away.

At St. Vincent’s, an intern who looked about sixteen-he had acne, she remembered, and peach fuzz on his upper lip-cut the cord; then a brisk nurse whisked Adam upstairs to the nursery. She hadn’t seen him since then. Two whole days. Now her milk was coming in. Her breasts had turned hard. They felt weird, like a Barbie doll’s molded plastic cones, and when she tried to lie on her stomach, they hurt. But that was a small hurt compared to the ferocious, aching need she felt. She could no longer bear it, not a minute more. She had to see Adam, to hold him.

“I don’t care what time it is,” she told the nurse, surprised by the sharpness she heard in her voice. “I want to see my baby. Get him for me, or I’ll go get him myself.”

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In the past, trying to get her way, no matter what words she used, they always seemed to come out sounding wishy-washy. She was always so terrified of offending people, even perfect strangers who couldn’t have cared less about offending her. Or afraid of causing a scene, having people stare at her.

But not now, not anymore. It was as if, in giving birth to Adam, she’d given birth to a new Laurel as well. The small, closed place whose boundaries had always pressed in on her was somehow gone. She felt as if she’d stepped out into a great openness where anything was possible, anything at all, terrible or wonderful.

“I want my baby,” she repeated.

The nurse frowned. “Well, honestly, I don’t …”

Laurel swung her legs out of bed. She was trembling, and her body felt like a giant boiled pudding. The abrupt exertion caused a sudden warm gush between her legs. She’d been bleeding, and Dr. Epstein had warned her against getting up, except to go to the bathroom. But right now she didn’t care. The baby, her baby-the only thing she cared about was him.

“Get out of my way,” Laurel commanded.

“Let’s not get carried away here.” Koplowitz took a step back, as if she thought Laurel might actually strike her.

And I will, Laurel thought, if she doesn’t move.

“Why don’t you wait here while I see what I can do?” The nurse bustled out, the door catching her on the hip before it bumped shut.

Laurel waited a minute; then she followed the nurse out into the corridor. Bright fluorescents stabbed at her eyes, and the floor tipped to one side like a banking airplane. There was something wrong with her balance. She had to walk with one palm scooting along the wall to keep from falling into it. She could feel her hospital gown gaping open in back. Cold air flapped against her rear end, and with each shuffling step, the hard plastic buckle of her sanitary belt dug into her tailbone.

She noticed an orderly staring at her as he wheeled a laundry cart past, and realized what she must look like

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-a crazy woman, that’s what. Her hair hung in damp, oily strings about her face. And she stank. The rich smell of sweat and sickness and gooey dark blood rose up around her. Once, hiking in the woods with Annie and Dearie during a vacation at Lake Arrowhead, she had poked her head into an empty fox den, and the smell had been so thick it seemed to have fur and teeth. That’s how she felt now. If she’d had fur, she’d be a bristling mother fox, and her fangs would be bared.

She reached an elevator door, and felt a burst of elation. Just another minute or two, and she’d be there. But which button to push, up or down?

Then the door slid open, and a harried-looking man in a white doctor’s coat with a stethoscope peeking out of its front pocket was stepping out. “Excuse me”-she snatched at his starchy sleeve-“which floor is the nursery on? Where the babies are?”

He gave her a curious look, but appeared to be in too much of a hurry to give her bedraggled appearance any thought. “Eight,” he said, jabbing a finger upward as he brushed past her.

Laurel dove into the elevator just as it was closing. It was empty, she saw, and it was going up. Thank God. She pressed the button for the eighth floor, then sagged against the elevator wall, closing her eyes.

Seconds later, she was stumbling into a bustling corridor, residents, nurses, orderlies scurrying past. So many people! How could it be only five-thirty? Even some patients were up and about. A wraithlike woman in a terry robe shuffled by her, pushing a wheeled pole on which was suspended an IV that was attached to her wrist. On the walls around Laurel were fat colored arrows that seemed to be pointing the way to different wings. But which was to the nursery?

She began to feel even more lightheaded.

“Get a hold of yourself,” she hissed under her breath. But in her head, crisply commanding, it was Annie’s voice she heard.

Laurel, taking slow sliding steps, forced herself to keep moving. She saw something up ahead, a long pane

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of glass set into the corridor wall, almost like a brightly lit shop window. That had to be the nursery. She made herself go faster, despite the stinging, throbbing pain between her legs.

And then she was peering through the glass at rows and rows of spotless white bassinets, in each one a tiny, precious baby. And one of those was hers. Her baby. Her son.

She tried the door, marked in large red letters: STAFF ONLY, and found it unlocked. She pulled it open and walked in. To her surprise, no one tried to stop her.

There appeared to be only one nurse on duty, a tall black woman. She was diapering a red-faced infant on the changing table against the far wall. Looking up and seeing Laurel, she was so startled that her eyes actually bugged out a little, the way they did in cartoons. Laurel nearly giggled.

“This area is restricted to hospital personnel,” she informed Laurel in a clipped, West-Indian-accented voice. “I’m afraid I am going to have to ask you to leave.” She straightened, holding the freshly diapered baby in front of her like a shield, as regal as a Masai princess.

Laurel, feeling intimidated, began to plead, “Please, I just want…” Her mouth snapped shut as if a powerful lever now controlled her jaw. Scanning the rows of babies bundled in their Plexiglas bassinets, she squared her shoulders and said, “I’ve come for my baby. Cobb … Adam Cobb.”

She was embarrassed to admit she didn’t know what her own son looked like. She’d only had that one, fractured glimpse. God, why didn’t the woman hurry?

“This is completely irregular,” the nurse snapped. “The babies are not scheduled for feeding for another hour. Please return to your room, Mrs.-“

“Miss Cobb,” Laurel interrupted, sticking her chin out. “And I’m not going anywhere until you let me have

out. him

“You will have to speak to your doctor.”

“He’s not here.”

“Then I’m afraid I will have to call Dr. Taubman

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… he’s the intern on duty. If you have a problem-“

“I don’t have a problem. I just want my baby.”

The nurse’s brown eyes sparked. “We have rules around here, young lady. And they are not for no reason. We cannot have just anyone marching in here, no proper scrubbing, no mask, with Lord knows what kind of germs-“

“I’m not just anyone … I’m his mother.” Saying it aloud caused something to crumple inside her chest; she could feel it as distinctly as if her lungs or her heart had suddenly collapsed. Her eyes filled with tears. She felt so tired. Her legs were trembling with the effort to remain standing, and there seemed to be an enormous amount of blood seeping from her. “I’m his mother,” she repeated. “Please, I only want to hold him. Just for a few minutes.”

The nurse stared hard at her, then relented. “All right. But you will have to stay here. I cannot let you take him back to your room.”

“I don’t care about that,” Laurel told her, nearly swooning with relief. “Can I sit down?”

The nurse pointed to a rocking chair in the corner. Laurel sank into it gratefully, closing her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, she saw a pair of slender black arms extending a fleecy white bundle. Tightly wrapped folds of flannel, with a squashed red face peering from an opening at the top. Her heart turned over.

“Oh,” she breathed.

“We wrap them tight like that the first day or two,” the nurse explained. “It makes them feel more secure.”

Laurel held her arms out. Where she had felt unsteady before, her muscles now seemed springy with new strength. With the warm weight of her child, something dropped into place inside her. Tears slid from her chin, and splashed against the blanket, forming gray circles on the white flannel.

He was looking at her. Round blue eyes fixed on her with an intentness that caused her full breasts to prickle. A nose no bigger than a thimble, and a tiny mouth that seemed pursed in contemplation, as if he were sizing her up somehow. And so much hair! When she pulled the

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blanket away from his head, a tuft of black hair stood up like the fur on a kitten.

“Adam,” she whispered.

She tried to imagine handing him over to some stranger, and then walking away, going back to school, forgetting about him. But she couldn’t see herself doing those things.

If she gave him up, then her arms wouldn’t feel right. Without the weight of her son, they’d be too light, awkward and unbalanced. She imagined that if she left him her blood would keep draining between her legs until she was hollow as a reed. She had thought that not having Joe’s love was bad … but this would be much, much worse. It would kill her.