When Stars Align

Six Sicily

Six

Sicily

2007

Sicily places her hands on her belly and stares up at the popcorn drop ceiling, doing her breathing exercises. Her mother told her she should be praying extra hard right now, but she can’t seem to find the words. A boxy TV mounted in the corner plays the Atlanta weather report: fifty-one degrees, humid, chance of scattered showers overnight.

She tries to remember whether she’s ever been in Atlanta before. Officially speaking, she still isn’t. Her family have pulled out all the stops to ensure that the location of the hospital where Sicily is going to give birth remains private. There’s a bodyguard at the door, another down the hall, and a security team on the ground, keeping watch over the hospital campus. Everyone was sworn to secrecy, and, in fact, one of her cousins was responsible for leaking a few other locations to the press as decoys. It’s not quite Beyoncé-level security, but almost.

Sicily knows it’s not about protecting her privacy—it’s about keeping the pregnancy hush-hush. Which is ridiculous. Everyone in the world knows she’s having a baby; she’s been asked about it in interviews for months. Press statements have circulated, both from her people and from Hugo’s.

Sicily’s statement was a vague announcement about beginning a new chapter in her life and requests for privacy. But the headlines on Hugo’s articles are splashed with phrases like Excited for fatherhood! and paired with flattering, high-contrast images of Hugo smiling wide.

But Sicily knows the truth.

“That’s not possible,” he’d said, horrified, when she told him back in LA. “Are you sure it’s mine?”

That hurt. “Of course it is,” Sicily said. “I thought—God, I feel so stupid. I thought you’d be excited.”

She was excited. Or had been. She was half-terrified when the pregnancy test came back positive, of course, but the other half was thrilled. A little baby of her own that she could love? A baby of hers and Hugo’s, a man she adored? Sure, the timing wasn’t great, but it never would have been. Sicily had even thought for a moment that maybe this was God’s special plan for her, an unexpected little miracle that might never have happened had she waited until retirement to finally settle down. She certainly wouldn’t have let the machine stop for something as selfish as intentionally wanting to get pregnant and begin a family. Babies and strict tour schedules didn’t mesh well.

But with every dismal reaction, her initial joy faltered.

Hugo had brought his hands to his face, rubbed it hard. “Sicily, you’re a lovely girl, but—”

Her heart began to sink. It couldn’t be happening again. They loved each other, didn’t they? They’d made love and she confessed how she felt, they held each other that night in London—

But he hadn’t said it back.

“It was just a bit of fun. I’m not ready—this isn’t where I’m at in my life right now. In my career.”

Sicily fought hard to hold back tears. “Well, maybe I’m not either! But I already love this child, our child, and sometimes things don’t go the way you expect them to, but you just have to make the best—”

He’d put his hand up then. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Just—I have to think. I have to call my manager.”

She’d opened and closed her mouth like a fish. She racked her brain for something, anything, she could say to turn this conversation around. But Hugo was done talking.

They’d spoken only via representatives since then. The various managers and handlers agreed on a party line: Although, sadly, Hugo and Sicily are no longer together as a couple, they remain close friends and look forward to coparenting their child.

Lies, lies, lies. Sicily’s not sure when or if Hugo will meet the baby, although the child’s last name will be his: Smythe. It’s a win for Hugo, since his management team insisted on it and wouldn’t agree to hyphenation. Sicily’s parents take this as a personal affront. But Sicily doesn’t care. She doesn’t need his child support—her net worth far outweighs his, anyway. The baby will want for nothing.

Except a father who’s around all the time, who’s in love with the baby’s mother, building a happy little family. Sicily never imagined things would turn out this way. Judging by all the weeping and prayer circles her family keeps holding, neither did they. Her parents went through at least four stages of grief when she confessed to them, and Sicily is sure they haven’t reached acceptance yet. They’ve been oscillating between anger and depression over this last trimester, their agitation growing in tandem with her belly.

You know better than to act this way, her father had said.

We gave you the tools you needed, expectations on how to conduct yourself, and you just cast it all aside, her mother had said. And you cast us , and the family reputation, with it. It was incredibly selfish of you.

They didn’t directly say slut , but they didn’t need to—all the harping on about running around behind their backs for her own filthy desires got the point across pretty well. Day, especially, even managed to turn the whole situation into a tirade about international relations, saying that at least a good American man would have had enough decency to marry Sicily. Better to be with some boisterous, boozy down-home man than a smug, uncaring English pop star—as bad as anyone in that backward country.

She’s not thinking right, Uncle Henry had said. They did a lot of that these days, talking about her like she wasn’t in the room with them. Her behavior isn’t only wanton, it’s a sign that there’s too much stress on her. She’s breaking down. Can we trust her to know what’s best?

Tour dates need to stay on some sort of schedule. So Sicily is having a voluntary cesarean in order to control the due date. This is her parents’ idea, not hers, although she appreciates the fact that she’ll have time to fully recover before the South America tour. She’ll need to pump milk every day, and yet another cousin will join the entourage as a nanny, but nothing will derail the Bell Express, Day says.

Sicily has rewritten the lyrics to “So Bad, So Good” now that it no longer has a happy ending. Uncle Henry thinks the angst in it will sell well. No one knows it’s about Hugo.

“There she is!” The door opens and Kendra walks in, dressed as usual in a leather blazer with her signature planner in hand.

“Hey, cuz.” Sicily smiles weakly. Kendra hasn’t had as much to do, personal assisting–wise, for about a month. Sicily has been lying very low from any and all press and social engagements; in the interim, Kendra has turned to reputation and public relations management and taken to it with a little too much relish, Sicily thinks.

“How we holding up?” she asks, pulling up a chair and resting her kitten-heeled feet on the bed.

“Okay. Just nervous.”

“Don’t be. You don’t even have to do anything—you’ll be asleep the whole time.”

“Yeah, well.” Sicily sighs. “I’m nervous for everything afterward, too.”

Kendra smirks at her. “Well, don’t worry about that, either. If you can sell out world tours like you do, I’m sure you’re capable of anything.”

“Thanks, Kends.” Sicily closes her eyes for just a moment, trying to believe it.

“Okay, daily roundup,” Kendra announces, pulling out her iPhone and ignoring Sicily’s groan. The entire entourage has splurged on the brand-new smartphones and full data plans so they can stay plugged in to email and media at all times. Sicily likes it less and less. Why would she need even more devices that tell her all the terrible things people are saying? She wanted to keep her old phone, with its familiar buttons and little screen, but Carole insisted.

“Hush—I know it’s not fun, but we need to stay on top of it, especially now.” Kendra’s eyes are glued to her screen. She’s two years older than Sicily and has always been someone Sicily looks up to. Being close in age—and spending so much time together in Sicily’s career—she feels closer to Kendra than most of the others in the entourage. Kendra accepted the news about the pregnancy with a sigh, a shrug, and a Well, what do you want to do about it? Which was the reason why Sicily told her first. She’s felt, sometimes, that Kendra is a buffer between Sicily and her parents, scheduling fake appointments when Sicily just needs a break, and taking her out for pedicures and sushi when she needs it.

But Sicily hates Kendra’s practice of the “daily roundup”: a rundown of the gossip highlights about Sicily. They used to laugh through it, with Kendra roasting poorly written and absurdly inaccurate headlines to cheer her up.

But it stopped being fun a long time ago.

More and more, Sicily is worried that there’s a rift beginning to open in the way her family perceives her. There should be two Sicilys: the stage presence, the brand they all manage, the product that allows them to sign their checks. And then the daughter, cousin, niece, actual person that they know and love in real life.

She doesn’t want them to forget about the second Sicily.

“‘Irresponsible: How Sicily Bell’s Fall from Grace Signals a Moral Deficit in Today’s Youth.’ Oof,” Kendra says. “Weird how they forget that yesterday’s youth all smoked pot at Woodstock ... Let’s see ... ooh, this one links to a personal blog: the Church Crusader . ‘Agents of Satan Posing as False Idol Pop Stars.’ You made the list!”

Sicily lies back and looks at the ceiling. “It’s not funny, Kendra.”

“Oh come on, it is a little . No one really thinks you’re a demon.”

But Kendra’s wrong about that, Sicily knows. Some of her own extended family may be harboring the same thoughts. And a lot of people take the ramblings of bad press at face value.

“Let’s see ... blah blah blah, ‘How Not to Do Pregnancy Fashion’ ... shoot, they got pictures from your checkup in Sedona. I thought we were really buckled down there. I hope we don’t have a snitch ...”

Sicily closes her eyes again and places her hands on her belly, as if to cover the ears of the baby inside. She hopes the child can’t hear what they’re saying about her. She knows that she looked like a mess at that appointment—hair in a topknot, oversize sweatshirt, flip-flops, eyes puffy and red from crying. She’d been thirty-two weeks pregnant and incredibly hormonal, for god’s sake.

But they would not forgive her for corrupting the sexy, girly fantasy image they held of her with something as sexless and bland as motherhood. The two sides could not be reconciled. And everyone who resented her fame and power for one reason or another could now dogpile in self-righteous moral panic. She’s a terrible role model for the young girls who looked up to her. She’ll be an absent mother who’s too focused on a selfish career. She needs to either give up the baby or give up performing. Her sales will plummet because no one will want to pay to see a woman dancing around with stretch marks. She’ll have a weak pelvic floor for the rest of her life. It’s over for her.

So why do the little movements that ripple under her palms feel like a beginning? She is, despite everything, looking forward to meeting the baby. No one has allowed her to be excited. She wants to gush about how she already knows the child will be so smart, so beautiful, so talented and perfect. She wants to show the little fists and head in the ultrasound to everyone she meets. She imagines buying adorable outfits, bringing her baby outside to see the sun for the first time, and playing lullabies on the old acoustic that she got for her birthday when she turned ten. Sicily’s guitar skills aren’t polished enough to perform, and acoustic sound doesn’t fit her brand. But she can play just fine to sing her baby to sleep.

“Listen to this one,” Kendra says, interrupting her thoughts. “‘Disco Daddy: British Rogue Hugo Smythe Spotted in Ibiza Days before the Birth of His Child.’”

“‘Rogue,’” Sicily spits, disgusted. They paint him as a sexy cad, as James Bond. What would they say if they saw her in Ibiza this week? The outrage would be so intense that it would put her safety at risk.

A nurse walks briskly into the room. “Almost time,” she tells Sicily. “The anesthesiologist is on her way. Are you ready?”

Sicily nods, even though she isn’t, even though it doesn’t matter whether or not she’s ready. She didn’t choose the cesarean or the general anesthetic. She didn’t choose the hospital.

As she lies back and allows the anesthesiologist to fit a mask over her mouth and nose, Sicily presses her hands tight to her abdomen, fighting paranoia that her family will snatch the baby while she’s knocked out, fast asleep, and send the child to be raised in a convent.

She closes her eyes and tells herself—as she has told herself many times—that this is ridiculous. She is safe and everything is going to be fine.

Still: becoming pregnant has made her realize how few decisions she’s actually allowed to make for herself.

There’s something wailing like a siren on steroids, and Sicily is suddenly awake. She’s seized with a panic she doesn’t understand, her whole body focused on the source and pitch of the sound.

Then all at once the bleary room around her comes into sharp focus as she sees Kendra holding a wrinkled pink thing wrapped in a blanket, screaming like the world’s about to end.

In spite of herself, Kendra smiles. “Here he is,” she says. “He wants you.”

And Sicily sees the little arms struggling to break free from the blanket, to reach for her.

“Hey, you,” she says breathlessly, like she’s saying a prayer. “Hey, Noah. Come here.”

He fits like a puzzle piece in her arms, calming immediately and staring slightly open-mouthed at her with big blue eyes.

Noah: for the Bible story, for the rainbow and God’s promise to never flood the world again. Carole and Day had picked it out. There was some subtext meant for Sicily, perhaps—a reminder that she should never flood their world again with her poor decisions. Sicily wanted Noah’s name to be James, and gazing at him now, she thinks he looks like one. But her parents never would have agreed to something so English sounding as James Smythe.

It doesn’t matter now. Nothing matters but him.

Sicily cradles the baby, slowly coming back awake to the sights and sounds of the hospital around her. There’s a big bouquet of flowers—white spray of lilies, indigo violets, periwinkle lupines—on the table at the foot of her bed.

“Who are those from?” she asks Kendra, nodding at the arrangement. Kendra hands the card to Sicily. It’s crammed with printed text.

From both of us! G’s parents cut up her credit cards again LOL. Long story. So one bouquet from two of us, but all our love. Don’t make us godmothers; we would suck.

Sicily smiles and presses the card to her heart, right next to little Noah’s head.

Kendra is Sicily’s only visitor, even after Noah’s birth. None of the family want to have their photos taken coming in and out of the hospital. Emmylou would have come—“Just because she’s giving birth doesn’t mean she shouldn’t have her hair and makeup done!” she’d said—but Day and Uncle Henry had forbidden it. Carole told Sicily that they’d all celebrate after the fact.

“Are you sure?” Sicily had asked her mother in a small voice. She felt like she was five years old again, asking whether Carole could check under the bed for monsters.

They had spoken on the phone before Sicily left for Atlanta, and she had almost heard the frown on her mother’s face.

“Sorry, honey,” Carole had said. “It won’t be like a regular birth, though. You won’t need to squeeze my hand through the labor pains, lucky you!”

Sicily had not felt lucky. She would have given a lot for a hand to hold during the anesthesia, but she’d felt too embarrassed to ask Kendra.

The rest of the Bells plan to meet Noah back in Arkansas, where they’ve retreated to the family ranch.

“You going to be okay here for a few days?” Kendra asks after they’ve been sitting in relative silence, apart from Noah’s cooing, for most of the afternoon. “My cab will be here soon.”

Sicily feels a flare of alarm; she’d momentarily forgotten that Kendra had taken advantage of the stay to book a quick flight over to Nashville and conference with some music execs.

“Of course,” Sicily says lightly.

“All right. Good job today.” Kendra gives her a kiss on the top of her head and is gone.

Sicily shifts Noah to the other arm. “Just you and me now, bud,” she says.

Someone had turned the TV off, and Sicily can’t reach the remote; it’s just as well. The hospital is growing quiet apart from an announcement here and there over the PA and a phone ringing in the distance. Sicily would sleep, but she feels wired and wide awake.

Noah has closed his eyes, and she watches as his head begins to loll back over her elbow. Is it supposed to do that? She nudges his belly with her finger, and he doesn’t respond.

Fear prickles at the back of her neck.

“Noah?” she says. She jostles him—still nothing.

“Noah!” Sicily nearly yells it this time, and his eyes fly open and his face screws up. “Oh, there you are,” she says with relief. “There we go, you’re okay.”

But he’s not. He balls his tiny hands into fists and starts to fuss, then cry.

“Oh no,” Sicily says. “No, it’s okay.”

The cry is shrill and insistent, and Sicily doesn’t know what to do.

“Hey,” she says, trying to bounce him, but she can’t do that and support his head at the same time. She can’t reach the call button for the nurse while she’s holding him. “Hello?” she calls, feeling a bitter lump forming in her throat. “Could someone help me?”

After what feels like an eternity, a different nurse comes in. “What happened?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” Sicily says. “He started crying—I don’t know why—”

“He’s probably just hungry. Has anyone shown you how to latch?”

She says it so matter-of-factly that Sicily feels like an idiot. Of course he’s hungry—he hasn’t eaten anything at all.

“Oh. Yeah. That’s probably it. No, no one’s been in here.”

“Okay. Do you mind?” The nurse puts her fingers on the snaps of Sicily’s hospital gown and looks at her. Sicily shakes her head as Noah continues to wail.

“So what you’ll want to do,” the nurse says, folding back the front of the gown, “is prop him in the crook of your elbow there. Yep. Then line up his mouth—”

It’s hard to focus on what she’s saying while Noah is still screaming. Sicily presses his face against her, but he turns his head and tries to wriggle away, suddenly stronger than he looks.

“Why won’t he drink?” she asks.

“That’s okay,” the nurse says. “Some babies don’t at first. Try again.”

But Noah won’t have it. Sicily feels her pulse racing—she’s almost glad her family isn’t here to see how badly she’s struggling to do something that should be natural.

The nurse dangles her badge above Noah’s head and trills. “Hey! Hey, little guy! It’s okay, look at me.”

He quiets abruptly and stares at the badge and the woman above it, mesmerized. Sicily immediately wishes she had the power this woman has.

“You can keep trying for a little while, but don’t push it,” the nurse says, distracting him while she talks. “We have a lactation specialist who’ll be here in the morning to help. In fact, it’s possible your milk won’t even come in for another day or two.”

Sicily imagines two days of Noah screaming and all at once feels an enormous weight drop on her. “What are we supposed to do until then ?”

The nurse starts to answer, but her words are lost on Sicily, who begins to sob. She can’t understand what the nurse is telling her. She feels stupid for thinking any of this would be easy. It’s as though an enormous, uncrossable chasm has opened between the person she used to be and the person she is with Noah, changed into a helpless, incompetent mess overnight.

“Sicily, it’s okay,” the nurse is saying. “You need some sleep, okay?”

She leaves and then returns with some pills, which Sicily manages to take with a cup of water. Everything is blurry and wet, and her nose is running uncontrollably. Noah is fussing again, and she’s getting her tears on him. She feels horrible.

“Noah is in good hands.” The nurse takes him, puts him somewhere nearby. Her voice sounds very far away. “Just get some rest.”

But when Sicily wakes up in the bleak light of morning, the dead weight is still there. The tears come again, and she can’t turn them off—she feels like she’ll never stop crying. And Noah cries along with her.

Late morning, when the nurses can’t get Sicily to eat or calm down, a doctor from the psych unit comes by to talk to her. He sits in a chair next to her bed with his legs crossed and his glasses perched on his nose. Behind her fog of gloom, Sicily has a passing thought that he looks like he should be a high school math teacher.

“It’s normal to feel sadness or hopelessness after birth,” he says. “You’ve just gone through an enormous change in your life, and you have a lot of new responsibilities. Plus, you’re exhausted.”

Sicily nods. She’s stopped crying for the moment, but the puffiness and pressure behind her eyes lets her know that she could start again any minute. If only she could produce as much milk as she could tears.

“What’s most helpful, at this time, is knowing you’re not alone and looking to your support network,” the doctor continues. “Now, I’m not prying—but I’m familiar with your work, Miss Bell, and I seem to recall you have a pretty large family who travels with you.”

He glances around the room, as if expecting to see them right then and there. But, of course, the chairs against the wall and the hooks for coats and overnight bags are empty. There’s no one here for Sicily except the security guard who’s still stationed at the door. The concern in the doctor’s face is not lost on her.

“Do you have anyone coming for you?” he asks, and the question creates a little break in Sicily’s heart. “The baby’s father, your own parents, a close friend—anyone who can come spend some time with you while you’re recovering here?”

Sicily shakes her head. Kendra won’t be back for a few more days, when Sicily is scheduled to depart to Arkansas. She’s not about to tell the doctor that no, her family doesn’t want to be here, and she, Sicily, is not supposed to be here, either. She doesn’t want to tell him how much shame she’s brought to them all. Because then he’d ask more and more questions, and she’d have to answer them, and she’d have to admit to both him and herself how awful everything has been and how terrified she is to be a mom.

Sicily takes a deep breath and wipes her eyes, folding her hands together to hide the fact that they’re trembling.

“I’ll see my folks in a few days anyway,” she says, careful to add a lighter note to her voice. “And they’re so excited to meet our newest bundle of joy. I’m feeling better, I promise. It helps just to talk things through with you, Doctor.”

With a practiced effort born from years of performing onstage, Sicily smiles.