Read Online The Original 1982 by Lori Carson - Free Book Online Page B

and faster. The hands on the wall clock don’t seem to move. I’m aware of Dr. Diamond’s voice, the green and blue scrubs, the circular overhead light. Later, it will be hard to remember any of it.
    I’m given an epidural for the pain, but by then, I’m so tired.
    â€œI can’t,” I say weakly.
    But they say I can.
    â€œKeep breathing. Keep pushing. Good. Good.”
    â€œOne more time. That’s right. Now push!”
    Finally, the doctor says, “Here we go.”
    The first thing I see is your tiny hand like a star. You come out, arms waving, and let out a cry.
    Dr. Diamond cuts the thick blue cord with a pair of scissors, and smiles down at me. He looks tired. “You did good, kid,” he says.
    â€œYou, too, Doctor,” I say, and they laugh. I can’t believe they do this every day.
    I feel the awe of it, nature, or God, or whatever it is we’re all a part of.
    The other nurse, the young one, cleans you of the afterbirth and puts you on a scale. “Six pounds three ounces,” she tells me.
    â€œHow is she?” I ask, reaching for you.
    â€œShe’s perfect,” the young nurse says. I’m filled with love for her round, angelic face as she places you across my chest.
    â€œShe looks like a plum,” I say, exhausted, delirious. I don’t want to ever let you go, but then the older nurse, the one with the Polish accent, is taking you from me, and I can’t remember what happens next. I guess I fall asleep.

Twenty-six
    L ate that afternoon (how can it still be the same day?) my parents and Alan crowd the hospital bed. My sister has already come and gone. She’s on her way back to Miami, where she has to work in the morning. My father seems happy. I think I see a tear in his eye.
    We marvel at the miracle of you. Your eyelashes. Your toes. The perfect shape of your head. I see Gabriel in the line of your brow and your Cupid’s-bow lips. I close my eyes and send him a telepathic message: She’s born. I have no doubt that one day he will meet you and be amazed.
    Late at night, after everyone has gone, another nurse brings you to me and leaves you in my arms. It’s just the two of us and the nighttime sounds of the hospital. The only light comes from the hallway. I’ve been shown how to get you to attach to my breast, but it’s hard to do and you don’t want to do it. You seem to be looking around for something else to latch on to. I’m starting to panic when the nurse comes back to check on us. She shows me again, and finally we get it. Your tiny pink hand wraps tightly around my finger.
    In the morning, my parents come to pick us up. My mother pushes the wheelchair the hospital requires toward the big double exit doors. You’re bundled snugly in a yellow blanket. I watch my father’s back as he leads the way, walking three steps ahead. He’s wearing a brown leather jacket. His pants are riding low on his skinny hips. “Wait here,” he says to my mother.
    We wait while he goes around to the parking lot to get the car. In the vestibule, between the two sets of doors, the cold wind blows in from outside. My mother rifles through her big bag, looking for a sweater, but can’t find it.
    â€œDon’t worry about it, Ma,” I tell her impatiently, thinking, I’ll do better, Minnow. I’ll always keep you warm.
    We see my father’s Buick pull up to the curb, and I stand, slowly. My mother follows with outstretched arms as if she thinks I might drop you. After ten minutes of trying to figure out how to use the newly purchased car seat, we get you strapped in, and I slide in beside you. My father pulls out into the stop-and-start of rush-hour traffic. As we crawl along, I can hear the sound of his worry. He takes a breath, holds it too long, and lets out a sigh. I feel a little queasy and think about how I used to get really carsick when I was a kid, but now, mostly, I don’t