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We both get to our feet, clutching hands. Tears well in Arturo’s eyes as he says, “I have a son. ”
Then we’re all crying, and hugging, and the weary, bitter world somehow feels brand new.
Visiting Shay and holding the baby have to wait for a little later in the day. Carmen stays at the hospital, but I run a few necessary errands—picking up food for the new parents to keep in their room, putting out their trash at home, et cetera. I even buy a few pale blue balloons and tie them to their doorknob, so the neighbors will know the good news.
And they’ll realize they need to buy earplugs now, I think as I smile. A newborn is moving in.
It’s almost lunchtime before I return to the hospital. As I look around for someone to ask about visiting hours, I hear a cheerful voice say, “Hello there!”
I turn to see Dr. Rosalind Campbell in her white coat and scrubs, looking nearly as tired as I feel. She wears a luminous smile nonetheless. “Hi,” I say. “Everyone’s okay?”
“Right as rain. A good, easy birth. ”
Bet Shay doesn’t describe it as easy. Then again, an obstetrician probably has an entirely different frame of reference for this sort of thing. “When can I go in?”
“On the hour. But the baby’s in the nursery now, if you want to see. ”
Just the thought of seeing this child—a brand-new person who is half Arturo, half Shay—fills me with delight. “Okay, I’ll head that way. ”
“I’ve got another mother coming in any minute,” Rosalind sighs. “How do all the babies know to be born on the same day?”
She waves as she heads off. From her friendliness and ease, I can tell Rosalind still has no idea that Jonah and I have split. He wouldn’t have gotten around to telling anyone yet. It’s hard for me to remember that Jonah and I had our last terrible argument just over forty-eight hours ago. The safety I felt with him already seems to belong to another lifetime.
No. I’m not going to let anything drag me down right now. This is a special day—the birthday of someone I already love—and that should eclipse everything else.
I walk to the nursery, which is filled with infants bundled tight in white blankets, their tiny pink faces peeping out. Every single one of them is adorable, in the squished way that newborns are adorable. Like miniature Winston Churchills. They seem identical to me, until I look at one baby and recognize him. Because I know him already, even though he’s hours old. He has Arturo’s nose, and Shay’s stubborn chin, and I would know this kid anywhere.
When I tap on the window, one of the nurses looks up at me, amused but tolerant. They must get this all day. I point and say, “Can I see him?”
In response, the nurse lifts the baby up and holds him close to the window. He blinks in the weary confusion of the newborn.
Nicolas Gillespie Ortiz, I think. Welcome to the world.
They settle him back in his crib after only a few moments, but I stay where I am. Until he’s taken up to Shay’s room and I can visit with the whole family there, I might as well enjoy the sight of a dozen infants, all exhausted by their long journey into this life. Yet they sleep peacefully, and something about this sight quiets the anger and fear inside me as few other things ever have.
At one point, a young Chinese man stands there for a moment, looking at a tiny girl very near the window. I remember hearing the nurses whisper about him and his wife earlier: This baby’s a citizen. That means they get to stay in the United States. Which is great for them, I guess. But right now, that’s not what this man is thinking about. Instead he gazes down at his newborn daughter as if astonished to discover just how much love he can contain.
Someone else walks up not long afterward and comes to stand only a few steps from me. Nicolas is yawning his first yawn, so I don’t turn to see who has come close. Then I hear, “The baby looks just like his parents. ”
I turn my head to see Jonah. His hands are jammed in the pockets of his navy blue coat; dark circles shadow his eyes. He stands there, awkward and uncertain. Probably that’s how I look too.
The difference is that I’ve never seen Jonah like this. His confidence defines him; his command of himself is as absolute as his authority over others. Now, though, he stands before me and lets me see how vulnerable he truly is.
I always thought of Jonah as a strong man, but this is the first time I’ve realized he is also brave.
“They’re all so new,” he whispers.
“Well, yeah. ” My voice sounds calmer than I would have expected.
“I meant—the world breaks so many of us. Maybe all of us, in the end. But everyone starts out like this. Untouched, happy. Perfect. And we put all our hopes on children, all the hopes we can’t believe in for ourselves any longer. ”