Читать книгу Off Her Rocker - Jennifer Archer - Страница 8

“Push, Dana. Push!”

Holding my breath, I bear down with all the energy left in me. This kid is stubborn compared to Taylor Jane. After only an hour of labor, she popped into the world four years ago like a kernel of kettle corn. Tiny, pale and sweet, butter-yellow hair and an airy disposition.

Not this one, no. Eight hours, forty-three minutes and counting.

“That’s it, honey.” Carl squeezes my hand.

A shift, a loud grunting moan, sudden relief, exhaustion. The breath rushes out of me, my muscles go limp, my head drops to the pillow.

At the end of the table, from between my upraised knees, I hear Dr. Lattimer say, “Good girl, Dana.” Then, a squeaky, furious cry sounds and he adds, “It’s a boy!”

“A boy…” Carl’s eyes fill with tears as he leans down to kiss me. “We have a son. I love you, honey.”

I decide to forgive him for his behavior in the labor room earlier. The photo he had the nurse take of us together between contractions. The two times I caught him smiling at some program on the television in the corner, instead of suffering with me. His cheery encouragement while I panted like an old dog on a hot day, my attention fixed on my Lamaze focal point, the eyes of the child in the famous painting across from my bed. Mother and Child. In it, the mother hugs her toddler, her face turned into his neck, while the child’s arms hang loose, and he stares into the distance beyond her.

Carl moves aside, and I catch my first glimpse of our little boy. Bald and squealing, purplish red from the top of his misshapen head to the tips of each of his tiny long toes.

Sounds diminish. The room blurs around him, the people in it. I’m blind and deaf to anything except my baby, consumed with a fierce love for him, with adoration of every detail about him, perfect and otherwise. The cord may be cut, but we’re still connected. Now, more than ever.

“He’s beautiful,” I murmur. I think how abundant, wondrous and smooth I want his life to be. His and Taylor’s. I would do anything, sacrifice everything, to protect them, to make them both happy.

“He looks like Uncle Harold,” Carl says.

“Uncle Harold’s a skinny, wrinkled-up old man.”

“I know.”

We both laugh through our tears.

“Have you decided on a name?” the nurse asks.

“Troy Bennett.” I lick the salty sweat from my lips. “After my father.”

“Troy Bennett Logan.” Carl’s voice oozes pride. “Future president of Logan Advertising.”

“That’s a strong, proud name,” the nurse says. “I like it. Is he your first?”

“Second,” Carl answers, his voice raised slightly to be heard above Troy’s cries. “We have a four-year-old daughter.”

The nurse smiles, spreading wrinkled wings at the corners of her kind, knowing eyes. “Enjoy every second you have with them. Tomorrow you’ll wake up, your daughter will be getting married, and this one will be off to college.”

Tomorrow? I don’t believe her. The years stretch ahead like a long sunny road I’ve never traveled. Block after block of surprises and adventure, of firsts: first steps, first teeth, first day of school, first date.

I can’t see the place where my children are grown; it’s too far in the distance. A million miles away.