Jumping Off Swings (16 page)

“Yes,” I say. “We’re about ten minutes away. We already called Ellie’s parents, and they’re going to meet us there.”

“Good. Just tell her to try to stay as relaxed as possible. And keep telling her she’s doing great.”

“I will.”

I hang up and reach for Ellie’s hand. “Liz says to try to stay relaxed.”

She breathes in and out slowly, nodding. “I need you to pull over.”

“But —”

“Please. I’m just — I’m not ready yet.”

I do what she says and pull over at the first place we come to, which is a McDonald’s parking lot. The smell of French fries wafts inside the car.

“Uh . . .” Ellie holds her side and leans forward.

I reach over and put my hand on her knee. “Try to take slow breaths,” I say, trying to sound as calm as possible.

“I’m scared,” she says to the windshield.

Me, too.

“I know,” I say. “But we should probably get going.”

“Just give me a minute. I just need — some time.”

We watch people come out of the restaurant. People in suits rushing in during their breaks, too impatient for the drive-through. Moms clutching their kids’ hands as they pull ahead, whining for their Happy Meals.

Ellie puts her hands under her belly again and closes her eyes.

I check the clock and try to figure out how long we have until the next contraction. Liz thought Ellie should take birthing classes, but Ellie refused. She couldn’t bear to be around all those happy couples. She read every book she and Liz could find, but I think the more she read, the more afraid she got.

I wait for the digital clock to mark another minute. Then another. Then Ellie pitches forward and moans. Her face is beet red. Her forehead is wet with sweat, even though the AC is making it feel like the Arctic in here.

“OK,” she says when the contraction finally passes. “I guess it’s time.” The last words sound like they hurt to say.

I nod, put the car in reverse, and stall. My hands are shaking. I fumble with the keys and restart the car.

Ellie looks straight ahead and continues breathing.

I pull out of the parking lot without even looking.

Tires squeal behind me, and a guy in a pickup truck gives me the finger.

“Same to you!” I yell, flipping him back.

Ellie leans forward. “It hurts,” she says quietly. “It hurts so much.”

“We’re almost there,” I tell her.

Ellie writhes in the seat next to me.

“You can cry, Ellie,” I say. “You can scream if you want. You don’t have to be brave.” But she just grits her teeth as my own tears start to run down my cheeks.

The drive seems endless, but we finally arrive and I pull into the emergency entrance, jump out, and run around the car for Ellie. Her eyes plead with me through the window. I wish I could take her away from all this, go back in time and let her do it all differently. But all I can do is smile weakly at her and open the door. As I help Ellie out of the car, Liz pulls into the parking lot. When Ellie sees her, she finally starts to cry. Liz hugs her tight. Then Ellie’s parents show up and everyone crowds around Ellie so that they sort of swallow her up. I get pushed aside as they escort her across the parking lot.

I don’t even get to say good-bye to her. Or tell her good luck. I want to hug her and tell her I’m here and that I’m so sorry for everything. That I’m sorry for not understanding why she was with those guys. And for not understanding why she decided to have the baby. For thinking she was crazy. Even stupid. I want to tell her I’m sorry for not covering up the word on her locker just because she asked me not to.

I don’t get to tell her I think she’s amazing for surviving all this crap in the first place. Or that someone
will
love her.

I don’t get to tell her that
I
love her.

I don’t get to do anything but watch them take her away.

I follow behind as they make their way quickly through those sliding doors, then another set of solid ones I’m not allowed to go through.

I stand in the hallway until someone comes over and tells me I need to move my car. I go out and park where I’m supposed to, then head back to the hospital. My feet feel heavy as I walk. When I get inside, I go straight to the desk and they tell me to follow the pink lines on the wall that say maternity. The hallways all have these color-coded lines on them for people to follow. Every time I turn a corner, I read the word
maternity
on the pink line. I hope Ellie didn’t notice it. It seems too cheerful.

I ask at the nurses’ station what’s happening, but the woman working behind the desk says she doesn’t know and I’ll have to wait. Her phone rings, and she turns her back to me.

I realize I left my cell in the car, so I find a pay phone near the waiting room and call Caleb collect. He picks up on the first ring.

“Hello?” he says after accepting the charges.

“We’re at the hospital,” I say.

“Is everything OK?”

“I don’t know.” My hands are shaking. “I think so.”

“Are — are you OK?” His voice cracks.

“I’m not sure.”

“I’m on my way. I’ll be right there.”

The phone clicks, but I don’t hang up. I let the buzz hum in my ear. Some people walk by me. I turn into the phone box so I can cry. Just hold the phone and cry with that steady buzz in my ear. I wonder how many people have cried into this same mouthpiece. How many have called to say “It’s a boy!” or “It’s a girl!”? How many have called to say “It’s over”?

How many have stood here and listened to the phone buzz, not moving. Just standing still and wondering how to move forward. How to move at all.

A man taps me on the shoulder and motions for the phone. He looks like a grandfather. He has tears in his eyes, but he’s got a huge grin on his face.

I wipe my own face and step aside.

I find a chair with empty ones on either side and sit down. There are other people in the room. I try not to look at them. Instead I stare at the dusty-blue rug and wait for Caleb.

I feel him before I see him. His hand gently touches my shoulder. I was thinking about Ellie. Dreaming almost. About when we were little and we put on my sister’s old dresses and had tea parties with our stuffed animals. Ellie taught me to hold my pinkie out when I took a sip, and we talked with British accents about the weather and how tasty our cookies were.

Caleb touches my cheek and turns my face toward him.

“You all right?”

I nod, but at the sound of his voice I start to cry again.

He sits next to me so I can lean into him. He wraps his warm arms around me and holds tight.

“Have you seen my mom yet? Do you know what’s happening?”

I shake my head against his chest, remembering how Ellie looked, being swallowed up by Liz and her parents. I wish I could have rescued her.

“OK,” he says. “We’ll just wait. OK.”

I nod and wipe my eyes with my wrist. I glance at the other people in here with us. The grandfather who took the phone from me is with a woman who must be his wife. She’s holding a balloon in the shape of a teddy bear. A younger couple is playing cards and laughing. Some guy is on a cell phone, smiling and saying, “Yeah! Yeah! Can you believe it?”

I hide my face in Caleb’s chest. I don’t want those happy people to see me. See us. There should be a separate place for people like us. The ones who aren’t waiting for happy news. Who aren’t waiting to welcome the newest member into our family. Who aren’t waiting to find out if it’s a boy or girl, or rushing out to smoke a cigar or whatever people do when someone they love has a baby they plan to take home with them. They really should have a special room for people like us.

T
HEY ARE ALL AROUND ME.
Taking my clothes off. Wrapping me in a strange-smelling hospital gown with clowns on it. Helping me onto a bed. Pressing against my stomach. Telling me to put my feet in these stirrups and to try to relax.

It will hurt less if I just relax.

How can I relax when I feel like I’m going to die?

My parents hover near me, waiting to be told to leave.

“Who is Liz?” The doctor asks as he goes over my chart and my birth plan.

Liz steps near me and takes my hand. She and my mother exchange a look, and I think I see shame on my mother’s face.

My mother steps closer to me. For the first time since I can remember, she puts her hand on my face. “Ellie,” she says.

“We’ll take good care of her,” the doctor says, gently ushering my parents out of the room.

Another contraction starts, and I gasp at the sharpness.

“Try to breathe,” the nurse says as she holds my knees apart. I try to squeeze them together. But she’s too strong.

“You have to let me do this, hon,” she says. “You have to let the doctor see.”

The doctor shines a light between my legs. He’s not one of the doctors I visited before. I don’t know him.

“Please don’t!” I cry. “Please stop!”

But his fingers reach inside to feel. The pain is so sharp, I lose my breath.

“No! Nooooooo!”

Liz’s hands hold my head. One of her tears drips onto my face and mixes with mine.

“Liz! Make him stop! Please!”

But he keeps pressing and feeling and it hurts so much. Oh, God, it hurts so much.

I squeeze my legs together again.

“Don’t,” he says sternly. “I know this is uncomfortable, but I have to feel.”

“No! Get away from me! I hate you! Liz! Help me!”

He finally moves back and nods at the nurse. The nurse looks at Liz. Liz nods back. There’s worry in their eyes.

“The baby is in a breech position,” the doctor says to me. “Do you know what that means?”

I’ve seen illustrations in one of my childbirth books. I nod.

“You’ll have to have a C-section.”

I nod again.

He gives the nurse more orders I don’t understand.

Liz kisses my forehead and holds her tear-soaked cheek against mine. When she moves away, she winks at me, despite that sad face.

The doctor steps closer, and I squeeze my legs together. “I’m going to go give your parents an update, and then we’ll get started as soon as the room is ready and the nurses have you prepped, OK?”

I nod again and he leaves.

In the operating room, I close my eyes against the hurt I’ve been numbed to. Against the nurses standing beside me, trying to smile reassuringly. Against their looks of pity. Against the cloth in front of me so I can’t see my belly and what they are about to do. I close my eyes.

I am not here.

I’m going away.

I won’t hear their voices. I will not hear them cut me open. I will not feel them reaching for my baby inside me. I will just close my eyes.

Until I hear that sound.

Crying.

My baby is crying.

I have to look.

When I open my eyes, I see his little red body, covered with my blood. Little red fists flailing. Little red feet kicking. Little red face. Little eyes squinched tightly closed. Little open mouth in the shape of an
O.
Screeching.

My hand reaches out, trembling. “Please,” I say.

The nurse turns to me with glassy eyes. “Don’t worry, hon. We’ll bring him back so you can hold him.”

But my body hurts with emptiness.

Later, when it’s over, after they stitch me back up and bring me to my room, the nurse helps me cradle him in my arms. He stops crying and nestles his face in my neck. I breathe in his sweet smell and fill my lungs with him. My heart.

When he falls asleep, I adjust him so I can memorize his pink and wrinkled face.

“Open your eyes,” I whisper.

But he doesn’t understand.

Please open your eyes,
I say inside my head.
Just once. So you see who I am. So you can see I don’t really want to give you away.

“Are you ready?” the nurse asks.

I study the scrunched face again, then lift him to my own face and press my lips to his soft little forehead. My tears dampen his warm cheek. My heart breaks with the weight of him about to leave my chest.

It’s not too late to say I’ve changed my mind. To keep him after all. And yet I know I won’t.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I love you.”

I close my eyes when the nurse takes him out of my arms. I can’t open them again. I can’t open them again and see him not here.

When I fall asleep, I dream that I’m chasing after him. But the nurse is carrying him away.

“I changed my mind!” I yell. But she keeps getting farther away.

“I changed my mind! Come back!” But she turns a corner. When I get there and look for her, she’s gone.

“I changed my mind,” I say to the emptiness. “I changed my mind.”

When I wake up, everything hurts. My mother and father are standing over me. They look pale and old.

I don’t know what to say to their sad, worried faces. Their disappointed faces.

“Can we get you anything, honey?” my dad asks.

I know he means a glass of water or some more drugs. But I want to tell him to go get my baby back. To go get back the one person who would truly love me. To go get back everything that I lost.

I shake my head.

My mother puts her hand on my forehead the way she did when I was little to check if I had a fever. Her hand is cold on me. I close my eyes until she takes it off.