Chapter 1 #3
One by one, my father encouraged each girl to recite the pledge, until it was my turn.
“Believing that true love waits,” I read, “I make a commitment to God, myself, my family, my friends, my future mate, and my future children to be sexually abstinent from this day until the day I enter a Biblical marriage relationship.”
We signed our cards with a silver pen. Then he called up the girls one by one, and each father presented his daughter with a ring.
I was last. My father held out a ring with a tiny sapphire chip. Then he kissed me on the forehead, a rare show of affection in front of the community.
He turned again, asking us to pray. “Lord, more than anything in this world we want an intimate, pure relationship with You. We are the bride. You are the Groom. In Jesus’s name, Amen.”
There was an explosion of applause, and the other fathers and daughters walked down the steps to be folded into the congratulations of their friends and family.
I stood awkwardly, not knowing what to do. My father caught my eye. Well done, he mouthed, praise that was usually reserved for Adie.
I twisted the ring on my finger like it was a key in the lock of a door meant to keep the Devil far away.
Ever since Adam and I have been together, we’ve slept twined like ivy around a stone pillar, tangled limbs, skin to skin.
But late in my pregnancy, this becomes impossible.
He is too close, too warm, too much. I start building pillow forts between us, and the only way I can get comfortable is on my side, facing away from him.
One night, I work late, finishing up the faces of the phoenixes on my mosaic, and slip into bed beside Adam without disturbing him.
The sheets are cool and the air conditioner in the window is humming at full strength—-for June, it is already too sticky.
I close my eyes, hoping for sleep, which comes in fits and starts between lucid dreams.
Tonight, I dream of pain. My abdomen twists, like a fist is gripped inside it.
I realize what is happening, but when I turn to Adam, he’s no longer beside me.
Instead I am in the master bathroom tub, in front of my unfinished mosaic.
My knees draw upward, and pressure builds in my core.
Tears stream as I bear down. Suddenly, between my legs is a perfect, tiny baby girl.
But before I can touch her, the pain starts again. I grit my teeth and push, and this time, it is a boy. Followed by three more tiny boys.
I shiver, staring at the still, blue bodies. With shaking legs, I climb out of the tub. I cradle the first baby in my arms and stumble into the bedroom, placing her on the bed. Then I go back to the bathroom and repeat this with the other four babies. I lay them to rest, five early angels.
They are soaked. For that matter, so am I. Although the water has been turned off in the bathroom so I can work on the mosaic, although the tub was dry, we are not.
Suddenly, I lurch upright, wide--awake. The dream hangs in the edges of my vision like a tattered curtain. The mattress between my legs is wet. “Adam,” I gasp. “My water broke.”
I have read all the books about what to expect when you are expecting, but the way our baby arrives is completely unlikely.
No twelve--hour labor, no time for drugs or Lamaze breathing: The cab barely makes it to the hospital before a nurse takes one look at my face and whisks me to labor and delivery.
Less than twenty minutes later, the baby is crowning.
For months I’ve worked myself into knots about the actual delivery. Everyone says when you have questions, you should talk to your mother, since labors of mothers and daughters often follow similar patterns. But I have not spoken to my mother in years. She does not even know I am married.
Adam—-who knew about this estrangement but had never, God bless him, pushed me to reveal details beyond what I wanted to share—-promised me that the only person I needed in that delivery room was him.
Deep breath. Push, now. One more, Eloise.
And then she’s there, tiny and perfect and pink and screaming. Her blue eyes, the tufts of strawberry--blond hair—-she looks like Adie. Immediately, I burst into tears.
Adam sits next to me, his face an open window of wonder. “I can’t believe we did this.”
“That’s like saying you cooked a ten--course dinner when you only chopped carrots for the appetizer,” I point out, smiling. “But sure.”
Adam kisses me. “You get full credit.”
The nurse interrupts us. “Does she have a name, Mom?”
Adam and I have made lists of them, but the one that rises like cream in my mind is not one we’ve discussed. I look into his eyes. “I’d like to call her Molly.”
It’s a diminutive for Mary. When I was young and blasphemous, I used to think Jesus’s mother was the strongest character in the Bible—-to know such love, and such loss. Survivors, I think, always have it worst.
Turns out you can take the girl out of the religion, but you can’t take the religion out of the girl.
“Molly Ambrose,” Adam repeats. “I like that.”
I lift my arms. “You should hold her.”
Adam freezes. “What if I drop her?”
“You won’t,” the nurse interjects. “You’ll do anything to keep her from getting hurt.”
I curl Molly into Adam’s arms, not giving him a choice. “She’s right. You’re a parent now,” I tell him. “That’s what parents do.”
Not even an hour later, my best friend blusters into my room.
Adam is wandering the hospital looking for coffee, and I’m still in a dream state, looking into Molly’s eyes.
Evie is a hurricane, dropping an umbrella and a takeaway bag from City Bakery.
“Oh my God oh my God oh my God,” she sings, her frizzy black curls exploding around her face. “Let me see my goddaughter.”
This is not an official title; a godparent is someone who provides religious education for a child, and Evie’s model for this is George Michael’s Faith album and The Prince of Egypt animated movie. But honestly, I’d prefer that for my child.
Evie climbs onto the narrow hospital bed.
I have a flashback of us in our RISD dorm room, on a twin bed with a bag of Doritos and a CD player between us, each of us using one earbud to listen to Alanis Morissette.
Now, she empties a Duane Reade bag onto my lap.
She’s brought Twizzlers and Good she was my first real friend.
Evie grew up in foster care after her mother OD’d.
She is naturally wary and hard to win over, but once you do, there’s no length she won’t go to to protect you.
Family, to her, is found; family, to her, is everything.
She was the one who gave me a makeover when I got to Rhode Island, who drew me out of my shell.
I talk to her daily; there’s nothing I wouldn’t share with her.
Just then, Adam walks into the room holding two coffees. “Hey, Ev,” he says easily. “I would have brought you one if I knew you were here.”
Evie has known Adam even longer than I have. “That’s okay,” she says, plucking one of the cups out of his hand. “I’ll drink yours.”
“If I remember correctly, you weren’t up all night having a baby . . .”
She raises a brow. “If I remember correctly, you weren’t up all night having a baby.”
Then she reaches for the baby. I don’t mean to, but for a second, I don’t let go.
For just a moment, hurt steams over Evie’s gaze.
Just as quickly, it’s gone. A memory floods me; the last time I had something she wanted.
“Sorry,” I say, laughing it off, lifting my daughter like an offering. “I guess I like holding her.”
Evie cradles the baby as if she’s born to it. “Don’t be so greedy,” she jokes. “You’ll have the rest of your life for that.” She walks Molly toward the window, pointing. “See that, little love? That’s the sun. That’s the G. W. Bridge. That’s New Jersey.”
I look over to find Adam dozing in the chair. As if it’s contagious, I yawn. Evie, now narrating items in the room—-pitcher, television, bedpan—-notices. “Take a nap, Eloise,” she says, smiling down at Molly. “I’ve got her.”
I am discharged from the hospital with a packet of papers that includes follow--up appointments for me with the ob--gyn and Molly with the pediatrician.
There’s information about breastfeeding and contraception and a one--sheet about the baby blues.
Mood fluctuations are normal for new mothers!
If they last more than two weeks, call your doctor!
The exclamation points make me tired. Everything makes me tired. I am pretty sure while I was in the hospital I didn’t sleep more than the half hour I napped when Evie visited. Between nursing and Molly fussing most of the two nights I was there, I am exhausted.
The universe, however, is conspiring against me. Adam has to leave for a business trip back to the coast the day after we get settled into our apartment. “It could be worse,” he tells me. “I could have been out there when you went into labor.”
I can’t really disagree with that, so I paste a smile on my face. “I’ll have to figure out how to be alone with her eventually,” I say. “No time like the present.”