20. Pietro
— ? —
Pietro
The hospital corridor is too bright and too white.
I hold Ysabelle’s hand as we move through the admitting process, as nurses take vitals and doctors explain procedures.
Outside the windows, dark clouds are gathering on the horizon, and the phones keep lighting up with the same red weather alert, the emergency tone cutting through the ward every few minutes.
A storm approaching. Of course a storm is approaching.
“You’re doing great,” I tell her, because I don’t know what else to say.
“I’m just sitting here.”
“You’re sitting here excellently.”
She laughs, then winces as another contraction hits. I watch her face, watch the way she breathes through it, and I feel completely useless.
The labor room is smaller than I expected, more intimate. The nurses are kind, efficient, explaining everything as they hook up monitors and prepare equipment. I position myself beside Ysabelle’s bed, my hand in hers, refusing to move.
“You can sit down,” she says. “It’s going to be a while.”
“I’m fine standing.” I’m not fine. If I sit down I’m fairly sure I won’t get up again.
“You’re going to pass out.”
I lock my knees, which is almost certainly the wrong move. “I’m staying right here.”
She watches me over the crest of another contraction. “You’ve gone the color of the wall.”
I pull up a chair, but I keep holding her hand and watching her face, present in a way I’ve never been for anything in my life.
The first hour passes in a blur of medical checks and breathing exercises. The contractions are coming faster now, stronger, and Ysabelle grips my hand hard enough to grind the bones together. I don’t complain. I don’t let go.
Outside, the storm has arrived. Rain lashes against the windows, and thunder rumbles in the distance, and I feel the old fear rising in my chest. Storms have always meant loss to me.
The storm that nearly killed me as a child.
The storms that have threatened our factories since.
Every time the sky darkens, some part of me braces for catastrophe.
“Hey.” Ysabelle’s voice cuts through my spiral. “Where did you go?”
“Nowhere. I’m here.”
“You’re here physically. Your mind went elsewhere.”
I look at her, this woman who knows me better than I know myself, and I decide to tell the truth.
“The storm,” I say. “It’s bringing back old fears.”
“What fears?”
“The storm. When I was nine.” I stop, swallow. “Every time there’s a storm, I’m back in that bathtub, waiting for the roof to come down, waiting for someone to come find me.”
Ysabelle reaches up with her free hand, cups my face.
“The storm’s outside,” she says firmly. “We’re inside. You’re safe, and our daughter is safe. Nothing is going to happen to us.”
I close my eyes, lean into her touch, and let her words anchor me.
“How are you comforting me right now? You’re the one in labor.”
She says it without opening her eyes. “I’m multitasking.”
“You’re incredible.” I mean it more than I’ve ever meant anything.
“I know. Now hold my hand, I think another contraction is-”
She doesn’t finish the sentence. The contraction hits, and she squeezes my hand, and I count her through it like the nurses taught me, steady and present and here.
The hours blur together. The storm rages outside, lightning illuminating the windows in sharp flashes, but I barely notice anymore. My entire world has narrowed to this room, this woman, this moment.
The doctor announces it’s time to push, and I feel my heart rate spike.
“I’m scared,” Ysabelle whispers.
“Me too,” I admit, because she has earned my honesty if nothing else.
Her fingers tighten around mine. “What if I can’t do this?”
“You can do anything. I’ve never met anyone stronger than you.”
“That’s not true.”
I press my mouth to her knuckles. “It’s the truest thing I’ve ever said.”
She laughs, half-sob, and then the pushing begins.
I’ve never felt more useless or more necessary in my life.
I hold her hand and count with her and tell her she’s doing amazing, she’s so close, our daughter is almost here.
The doctor gives instructions, the nurses move with practiced efficiency, and Ysabelle works harder than I’ve ever seen anyone work for anything.
“One more push,” the doctor says. “One more, and she’s here.”
Ysabelle meets my eyes, and I see the exhaustion and the love.
“I see you,” I tell her, because it’s the promise I made, because it’s what she needs to hear. “I see you, and you’re extraordinary, and I love you, and our daughter is about to be born.”
She pushes.
And then the room fills with the sound of crying, not Ysabelle’s crying, but a new voice, fierce and impossibly loud for such a tiny thing.
“It’s a girl,” the doctor announces, though we knew that already. “A healthy girl.”
They place her on Ysabelle’s chest, this tiny, red-faced, squalling creature we made together. She has a surprising amount of dark hair and her fists are clenched, ready for a fight.
“Hi,” Ysabelle breathes, tears streaming down her face. “Hi, little one. We’ve been waiting for you.”
I lean in, one hand on Ysabelle’s shoulder, and I look at my daughter for the first time. She’s still crying, still angry about being born, and she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
“She’s perfect,” I say, and my voice cracks on the word.
“She has your chin.”
“Poor kid.”
“Shut up, I love your chin.” She’s crying and laughing at once, and so am I.
The nurses take the baby to clean her up, weigh her, do whatever medical things need doing. I watch them for a moment, then turn back to Ysabelle.
“You did it.”
“We did it.”
“No. You did it. I just held your hand.”
“That’s not nothing, Pietro.” She reaches for me, pulls me down to press her forehead against mine. “That’s not nothing at all.”
Outside, the storm is passing. The rain has softened to a gentle patter, and through the window, I can see a break in the clouds where the first stars are appearing.
The nurse returns with our daughter, now cleaned and wrapped in a pink blanket.
“Does she have a name?” the nurse asks.
I look at Ysabelle. We discussed this, decided this, but saying it aloud for the first time feels momentous.
“Consuelo Maria Marino,” Ysabelle says.
Consuelo, for the woman who raised me when my parents couldn’t. For the love she gave unconditionally, for the way she made me feel worthy of love even when I didn’t believe it. Maria, for both our grandmothers, her Nonna Fe’s middle name, my Nonna Carmen’s given name.
The nurse writes it down, and just like that, our daughter has a name and a place in the world.
“Consuelo,” I say, testing the word in my mouth. “Hello, Consuelo. I’m your father, and I’m going to make a lot of mistakes, but I’m going to love you more than you can imagine.”
She opens her eyes, just for a moment, and I could swear she looks directly at me. Her eyes are dark, unfocused, seeing nothing and everything.
“I see you,” I tell her, and I mean it as the same promise I made to her mother. To see her, and to never let her doubt that she matters.
Ysabelle holds our daughter, and I hold them both, and outside the window, the storm has passed completely, leaving a sky washed clean and full of stars.
“The storm’s over,” Ysabelle murmurs.
“Yes.”
“We made it through.”
I press my forehead to hers. “All of us.”
She shifts Consuelo in her arms, creating space, and I climb carefully onto the narrow hospital bed beside them. It’s uncomfortable, too small for one person let alone three, but I don’t care. I need to be close to them, to feel their warmth and know that they’re real.
“This is our family,” Ysabelle says, wonder in her voice.
I press my lips to Consuelo’s head, then to Ysabelle’s. “Ours,” I manage, and the word barely makes it out.
Consuelo makes a small sound, not quite a cry, more like a comment on the situation. We both laugh.
“She has opinions,” I observe.
“She’s her mother’s daughter.”
“She’s lucky to be.”
Ysabelle turns her head, kisses my cheek.
“I love you,” she says.
“I love you too. Both of you, everything.”
Outside, the stars continue their slow wheeling across the sky, indifferent to the miracle happening in this small room. But in here, the future has arrived, and it’s tiny, and it’s ours.