Epilogue
DARIO
I want to kill someone. Or at least beat someone bloody.
I don’t want to be camped out in this sagging chair, knees to my goddamn chin, watching my ninth hour of home improvement television because I can’t focus on work, and my risk tolerance does not run to losing millions the day my daughter is born.
Fuck .
I need to be with Posy. She’s in pain, and they’re just letting it happen. I thought I was a psychopath, but this midwife and the goddamn doula , whatever the hell she’s supposed to do besides be a pain in my ass, keep telling her to “embrace the experience.”
She needs drugs.
I need drugs.
How are they going to know if something’s really wrong? ‘Cause when Posy kicked me out? It sounded like something was really, really wrong. Posy was sweating bullets and lowing like a cow, and the machine kept beeping. They said it was fine, but none of them have “doctor” next to their name.
I can’t believe I let Posy talk me into a “birthing center.” She wanted to do it in a pool, but that’s where I draw the line. She’s not drowning my kid because Karen the doula says a water birth is “transcendent.” You know what’s transcendent? Surviving childbirth.
I’m going back there. Something has to be wrong. There’s no way this should be taking this long. The baby only has to go—like—five inches. She’s stuck. She has to be.
I push up on the miniature chair, and Ray coughs from his seat across from me.
“Better not, boss,” he says.
I arch an eyebrow. Is my driver telling me what to do now?
He holds up his hands. “Do what you want, but lookin’ like that, you’re gonna freak those women out again. You want their hands steady if they need to, uh—do something.”
“Do what?” I narrow my eyes. Did he hear something?
Ray kind of gapes at me. “I don’t know. Tongs, or whatever.”
“They’re called forceps.” Oh god. What if the baby really is stuck? What if Posy is being ripped apart? She wouldn’t say anything. She’s conditioned to take all manner of shit in stride—she’s married to me.
I can’t let this happen. I only left because Posy said to go before I made the doula cry, but Posy doesn’t make the right choices. Obviously.
She loves me.
She barged into an execution, guns blazing, six months pregnant with my child, and I’m still not over it.
She cannot be trusted to look out for herself. I got to get her to a real hospital with a real doctor.
Decision made, I lope down the carpeted, low-ceilinged hall—it’s like the place was proportioned for all the small women gliding around in drawstring pants and sensible shoes—and I force myself to stop, take a second, and open the door slowly and gently.
I brace myself. Whatever is happening, I will fix it. Everything will be fine.
If the baby comes out, and I still feel nothing, Posy will never know. She doesn’t want to believe that I might not care for our child, and she’s very skilled at denial. I swear that if I look at our daughter, and she’s like everyone else in the world to me, I will never let on.
Her mother is the world to me. That will be enough.
I step across the threshold, and it’s a blood bath. There’s a pool of red on the tile floor, stains on the sheets, dripping from the women’s gloves. How can she survive this? The midwife has her arm halfway up—holy Jesus. My stomach heaves. I can’t look.
“Dario,” Posy whimpers, holding out her hand. Her blonde hair is matted to her head with sweat, she’s too pale, and her lips are cracked. Where’s the damn doula? She said she’d take over giving Posy ice chips.
I take her small hand and hold her tight, try to transfer my strength.
“What’s happening?” I choke out.
“We’re having a baby, silly,” Posy flashes me a wan smile, dropping it instantly as a contraction seizes her.
“Bear down!” the midwife barks. “And push, push, push—”
There’s a terrible, wet sound. Then the women gathered between Posy’s splayed legs all break into coos.
Posy’s eyelids are drifting shut, but she’s smiling again. Her body is so limp. Is she bleeding out?
The midwife is shuttling a tiny, shivering bundle toward us, and thank the lord Posy has the wherewithal to take it. She nestles it right to her chest, and it kind of huddles there, eyes squinched shut, little fists balled.
“Do you want to cut the cord, Daddy?” The midwife is offering me the handles of a pair of surgical scissors.
I shake my head. I said I would when we did the birth plan, but that’s only because Posy seemed to expect it.
There’s no way I’m doing it now. I’m not cutting my wife, and they need to focus. Staunch the bleeding. Now.
I look around the room helplessly for someone, anyone who appreciates the severity of the situation.
A nurse is erasing a white board and adding a time of birth in loopy letters.
The doula is in a chair, checking her phone.
The midwife and a nurse are chatting as they work—with no sense of urgency—between Posy’s legs.
Jesus and Mary, what kind of operation are they running here?
“Dario, look,” Posy says. “She has hair on her ears.”
Posy’s voice is hoarse but it shines with delight. She sounds—okay. Happy. Completely exhausted but not like she’s fading into a coma or anything.
I check out the baby’s ears. Posy’s right. They’re furry. The hair’s very fine, but it covers the shells and the lobes.
“Are we gonna have to shave that or—”
The midwife, the nurse, and Posy all burst out laughing.
“You’re not shaving our baby’s ears,” Posy giggles. It’s a beautiful sound.
“It’s called lanugo. It’s perfectly normal. It’ll go away in a few weeks, tops.” The midwife is back to working on Posy. Did she lose a watch up there?
“Did you get the bleeding stopped?”
The midwife dumps something in a pink basin. “Posy can expect heavy bleeding for up to ten days and light bleeding or spotting for up to six weeks.” She says this like it’s no big deal.
She pats Posy on the knees. “You did great, Mama.”
Posy flashes her a grateful smile. “Sorry about him.” She glances up at me.
“Hey, he didn’t pass out. I call that a good day.” The midwife snaps off her gloves and washes her hands. “After we get you cleaned up, we’ll leave you three to bond. Skin-to-skin and encourage her to nurse as soon as you’re up to it, okay?”
Posy isn’t listening. She’s gazing at our baby, bemused. Blissed out. I’ve never made her look this happy.
Well, I guess I have. I helped make the baby who put the expression on her face. That’s something.
The doula murmurs a few words to Posy, and then the room clears. Someone turns the lights down low. We’re finally alone.
“Are you in pain?” I ask. She’s stroking the baby’s back. There’s a fine layer of hair there as well. I’m sure the midwife would say that’s normal, too.
“Oh, yeah,” Posy answers. “It hurts like a son-of-a-bitch.” She doesn’t sound that bothered, though.
Posy brushes her nose over the baby’s bald head—the only hairless part of her I’ve seen—and inhales. She makes a pleased hum. I’ve never seen her so captivated.
A loud voice echoes in the hall, and I tense.
I don’t want them disturbed. Soon enough, the voice fades, and it’s quiet again except for Posy’s babbling.
She’s talking to the baby. Asking her questions.
The baby considers Posy with big brown eyes.
She has a very serious expression for something so small and wrinkly.
“So what should we call her?”
It takes me a second to realize the question is directed at me. I’m watching the baby’s hand. She’s unfurling her tiny fingers and slowly waving them, as if she’s trying them out for the first time. Seeing how they work.
I reach out, extend a finger close to her little palm, and she grabs it, squeezing. She’s clearly holding on as tight as she can, but as small as she is, she has no strength.
She’ll need very close watching until she’s big enough to defend herself.
Adrenaline shoots through me. Is she safe enough here?
Lucca has crushed all challengers to his leadership. Ivano was operating alone. Turns out the Sicilian held a grudge. I can respect that even if he was a rat.
Since we dumped Ivano in the river, it’s been quiet. That’s why I left Sal home. His recovery still isn’t one hundred percent. He bled out a long time in the snow. The cold is probably what saved him.
No one knows we’re here. Everyone will assume Posy’s giving birth at St. Ignatius. I know I haven’t told anyone about this place. They’d think I was crazy to allow it, and they’d be right, but Posy cried, and I don’t handle that shit well anymore.
The adrenaline is ebbing. It’s safe. Ray’s in the waiting room. I’m here. Nobody is going to hurt my girls.
I bend over and brush my lips across the baby’s tiny knuckles and drop a kiss on Posy’s cracked lips.
“You need water.”
“Baby needs a name.” Posy gazes at me expectantly. Names are one of her favorite conversations. She throws them at me when we’re playing games, and I’m supposed to act like I have a preference.
I consider the little thing curled up like a shrimp and dozing between Posy’s breasts. Is she cold? I tug the sheet over her until she’s covered to her tiny, pointed chin.
And that’s when it hits me. It’s so natural, I almost didn’t notice.
“I love her,” I marvel. It’s the same feeling I have for Posy. The warm glow that makes Posy a beacon in the dark also comes from this tiny oblivious being. It’s a miracle, not in a trite way, but in the sense that it’s so unlikely it rearranges reality.
I love this baby as much as I love Posy.
I love .
It’s a strange and marvelous thing.
“I like Mira,” I finally answer her question. It’s one of hundreds of names she’s run past me, and I didn’t think anything of it then, but now, it sounds perfect for this person we’ve made.
“Mira,” Posy whispers in her ear. “Mommy and Daddy love you.”
It’s the truth. And it’s as beautiful as this woman and this child of mine.