Another Piece of My Heart (26 page)

“One more!” the cheerful nurse says. “You’re doing a great job! One more push.”

“We see the head!” the nurse yelps. “You’re almost there! Good girl! One more push!”

*   *   *

And then, slickly, suddenly, a purplish red tiny being, glossy with mucus and blood, is in the room, squawling angrily as Emily sinks her head back on the pillow.

“It’s a boy!” the doctor exclaims, bringing the baby over to show Emily.

“It can’t be,” Emily mumbles, exhausted. “It’s a girl.”

“No.” The doctor laughs. “That’s very definitely a boy. Do you want to hold him?”

“Later,” Emily says as Andi finally remembers to breathe.

“May I?” Andi’s voice is an awed whisper. Emily nods as Andi’s arms reach out for the baby. The tightly wrapped bundle is placed in her arms as Ethan walks in, seeing Andi, her face filled with joy and wonder, gazing at the tiny features, unwrapping the blanket slightly to see the tiny fingers and toes.

Ethan kneels next to her, putting his arms around her, and neither of them notices that Emily’s head is turned to the wall and her eyes are tightly closed.

*   *   *

“I don’t know what to say,” Ethan says. “How
can
she keep the baby? She just turned eighteen. She has her whole life ahead of her.”

“I agree. I agree with all of it. She’s irresponsible; she’s still a child. How can she keep the baby?” Andi stands next to Ethan outside the glass wall of the nursery, both of them unable to tear their eyes away from the perfect baby boy who is inside the room.

“But…” she turns to him slowly. “How can she not?”

Ethan shakes his head. “That’s not Emily speaking. That’s you. This isn’t our baby, Andi.” He looks at her, seeing the expression on her face when she held the baby moments after he was born; the pain she had truly gone through in finding out the perimenopause had made it so unlikely for her to have a child, and just what he had withheld from her by refusing to adopt, refusing to keep the baby.

He understands it all, and as he stands there, looking at his wife, he wishes, with all his heart, that this
were
their baby, that there wouldn’t be a choice to make. But there is, and they can’t, and it’s too late.

“It’s your grandson,” Andi pleads.

“I know. But Emily is the mother, and she’s simply not equipped to take care of a baby.” He’s saying what he said before, except this time he doesn’t mean it in quite the same way. This time he is wondering whether they might be able to make it work.

“We would help. We could do it.”

Ethan turns to her bitterly. “You haven’t even decided whether you’re staying or leaving. How can you commit to help raising a child when you don’t even know if you’re going to be around?”

“You’re right,” she says, not knowing what else to say, for her confusion has never been greater. She was definitely leaving. She wanted to forgive Ethan, but the resentment was too great. She’d made the decision, ever more clear when Emily told her she was keeping the baby. Keeping the baby means keeping Emily. An untenable marriage of four.

But the baby! Holding that baby in her arms, Andi felt a rush of love she had never expected. She had heard of grandparents feeling that same rush of love, but Andi was not biologically a grand-anything, so where did this all-encompassing love come from?

Even now, she can’t walk away from the nursery. Neither she nor Ethan has talked about leaving—standing outside the picture windows for two hours, gazing at the baby, waiting for him to be fed, hoping they can go in and hold him again.

He is dressed now, in a white cotton onesie with a tiny knitted cap on his head. Even when he sleeps, he jerks and twitches, moving his limbs. Andi wants to run in and scoop him up, hold him close to her breast, and never let him go.

“He’s amazing, isn’t he,” she whispers, gazing in the nursery, feeling something shift between her and Ethan, feeling suddenly a warm ray of hope. “You’re right about my not knowing what the future holds, but this might be the only thing I have clarity about right now. You can’t give him up. Emily can’t give him up. Whatever is supposed to be will be, but we have to bring him home.” She isn’t pleading anymore. She is calm. It isn’t a question; it’s a statement: this is the only way.

Ethan is quiet. “I just … I can’t see how this is going to work.”

“We don’t have a choice.” Andi says. “If Emily refuses to sign the adoption papers, there is nothing we can do.”

“She’s a minor. We can override.”

“Ethan, she just turned eighteen. She isn’t a minor anymore.”

“Oh, God.” He sighs dejectedly.

“You can talk to her as much as you like, but she is adamant. She wants to keep this baby.”

Ethan leans his forehead against the cool glass and closes his eyes. “I just don’t believe this,” he says. “I don’t believe what is happening in my life.”

“I don’t, either,” Andi says. “None of this is what we wanted. But … we have it now. We have to deal with it.”

Ethan turns to her. “Together?”

She looks at him and nods, reaching down for his hand and squeezing it lightly before dropping it almost as quickly as she picked it up, unaware of how, in that second, Ethan’s heart had lifted.

Turning to walk back down to Emily’s room, Ethan isn’t at all sure whether that just really happened, or whether it was merely a figment of his imagination.

Twenty-nine

“He’s beautiful.” Andi pulls a chair closer to my bed as I reach behind me to push the pillows up a bit so I can sit.

“I want to see him.” I’m curious as to what he looks like. I want to hold him, to know what it’s like. I want to feel the overwhelming love that I felt for the B … well, the baby girl I thought was inside my stomach.

The thing is—I know this sounds awful—I was so
sure
it was a girl. I was so sure it was Bean, and I connected with
Bean,
not with this boy baby that I don’t know, and I don’t feel any of that overwhelming love I felt when I was pregnant.

I just feel … kind of numb.

But I haven’t even held my baby, and I’m sure that’s what it is; I
know
those feelings will come. When I’m holding him in my arms and he’s gazing up into my eyes, we’ll feel it, and I will love him just as much as Bean. More, probably.

“I’ll tell the nurse,” Andi says as a frown crosses her face.

“Are you still feeling you want to keep him?” she asks carefully. “The adoption agency has been leaving messages. They would be willing to take him and foster him until they find a permanent family.”

She looks at me expectantly, and I shake my head vigorously. There is no way in hell I would let my baby go off with strangers. To a foster home? Are they nuts?

“No way,” I shake my head again. “He’s mine.”

And I swear, Andi looks even more relieved than I feel.

*   *   *

The nurse comes in holding this tiny bundle, and she places it in my arms, showing me how to cradle him, and to make sure I always have one hand holding the back of his head to protect his neck muscles.

I sit there with this tiny baby in my arms, just staring at him. I can’t believe this … human!… this baby came out of my stomach. I cannot believe that this is mine! I grew him inside me! I lift my other hand and stroke his cheek. It feels soft and furry. He stirs, then opens his mouth in a giant yawn, and it makes me laugh.

It isn’t what I expected; he isn’t what I expected, but look how sweet he is! Like a tiny little doll that moves!

“He’s so cute!” I look up at Andi delightedly. “Did you see him yawn? I have a name for him.”

Andi leans forward, and I hope she likes it. I hope she approves. I didn’t have any boy names, obviously, but when I was lying here before, this name came to me, and it feels right.

“Callum,” I say proudly. “Cal for short.”

“It’s a beautiful name.” Andi smiles, stroking the baby’s head, and her eyes instantly go all soft and tender. I wonder if my eyes do that when I look at him. I don’t think they do, and I wonder if that’s just because Andi’s older. Maybe that will happen to me in time.

“Does he have a middle name?” she says, tearing her eyes away from him and looking up at me.

Of course he does. I made a promise, and I haven’t forgotten it, even though I never expected him to be a boy.

“Callum Michael,” I announce. “Do you like it?”

“Oh, Emily! I love it. It’s a perfect name for him!”

And I have to tell you, I feel so proud right then.

The Irish nurse, Maureen, bustles over, cooing over Callum Michael. She’s been in a few times already today, and I cannot believe how nice she is, clucking around me like the perfect mother hen. Just being around her warmth and big smile makes me feel taken care of.

“Would you look at the gorgeous boy! And the beautiful mother.” She smiles and, for a moment, I could almost believe her. “Right, young lady. Time to introduce you to some nursing. Did you attend the classes?”

“Nursing?” I look up at her in panic. “I’m not going to nurse.”

“Oh, yes you will,” she says cheerfully, as if she didn’t hear a word I just said. “A lot of mothers feel the same way when their babies are born, but it’s wonderful once you get used to it, and far better for the babies. In the beginning, you’re producing colostrum, which is filled with antibodies the baby needs, and it gets him off to the very best possible start. Let’s just give it a go, I can help the baby latch on.” She reaches out toward me, as if she’s going to unbutton my pajamas or something, and I recoil away from her.

“No!” I yelp. “He’s having formula.”

“But Emily.” Andi seems upset. “Maureen is right, it’s so much better…”

“No!” I say again. God. They’re not the ones having to get their boobs out in public. And the thought of a baby sucking on my nipple? Ewww. To say it grosses me out doesn’t even begin to describe how horrific I think it is.

There is no way I am getting my boobs out. Ever. And no way I am having those huge, distended nipples. You think I didn’t YouTube it already? Gross. I swear, I am grimacing just thinking about it.

“I was raised on a formula, and I’m completely fine,” I say, which is true. My mom once told me that pretty much everyone back then was given a bottle, and it didn’t seem to do me any harm.

“Just bring me a bottle,” I say wearily, “and I’ll feed him.” I look down at him and, as if on cue, as if he heard me talk about food then got hungry, his tiny face scrunches up into an angry red bunch, and he starts to wail in this reedy, thin, baby voice.

“You know what?” I feel slight panic because I’m rocking him to try to make him stop, but the screaming just gets louder. “Can you just take him?”

I see Andi and Maureen exchange a look, but I don’t care. I hold Cal out, and Andi steps up and takes him. Instantly, he’s quiet again. She stands there, rocking him slightly, looking mesmerized, her eyes melting again as she gazes at his face.

“You’ve got the magic touch.” Maureen looks on admiringly, and I don’t care. Whatever. I just want them to go so I can go back to sleep.

Thirty

Are you fucking kidding me? Again? I burrow my head under my pillow, pulling it tightly over my ears, hoping to drown out the ever-present bawling, and praying that he will stop, that somehow a miracle will occur and the baby will fall back to sleep by himself.

The wailing gets louder—he is in a bassinet at the foot of my bed, even though he has a perfectly good nursery, but apparently I have to keep him in my room until he’s three months old. The law, according to my dad. Which sucks, because if he were in the nursery, I’m pretty sure Andi would get up and deal with these awful nights, because she’s the one who seems completely entranced by my baby, and the nursery is next to their bedroom, but my dad says no.

I push back the covers and sit on the edge of the bed, unable to move for a while. My body feels like lead, but I have to stop the crying.

“Sssh.” I stumble to the bassinet and lean over. His face is screwed up tightly, bright red, his fists clenched with rage. I retrieve the paci from where it rests, on the sheet next to his left ear, and put it back in his mouth.

“Ssssh.” He sucks noisily on the pacifier, looking up at me with big eyes, and I lean down and give him my finger, which he squeezes tightly. Cute. If he were quiet like this all the time, maybe things would be a whole lot easier.

*   *   *

Colic,
the doctor says.
Unfortunately, you have a colicky baby.
So? I said. Give him something. Give him medicine. Drugs. I don’t care. Whatever it takes to stop his screaming.

“It’s not that simple,” she said, explaining that they weren’t sure what caused colic, but that it would probably stop at around three months, and that there were measures we could take that might improve things, but ultimately it was time.

And yes, I know, three months is not a lot in the grand scheme of things, but when you are awake night after night with a screaming child, three months feels like thirty years, and that’s pretty horrific.

I left the doctor’s office with a list of suggestions. We changed his formula to soy, but that didn’t work, and we give him these baby gas drops, but that doesn’t work.

There are two things that work. At night, a pacifier, and during the day, his being walked. I spend hours every day walking around the neighborhood, up and down the canyons, pushing him in his off-road stroller, knowing that if I dare to stop, even a brief rest on a bench, he will start screaming again.

The only good thing about this is I’m getting in shape, but I don’t care. I’d gladly give up a waistline and flattish stomach for a decent night’s sleep and my life back.

You would think that my family would step up and help out a little more. Sophia takes him for walks, which helps, although she says she’s nervous because he’s so small. She keeps saying she’s going to be an amazing babysitter, but he needs to get a bit bigger first, so she isn’t so scared.

Tell me about it.

Andi’s pretty good during the day when my dad’s at work, but my dad has said, repeatedly, that if I’m going to be a mother, I have to be a mother, and it’s not Andi’s job to take over.