27. Cassandra
— ? —
Cassandra
Thirty-nine weeks pregnant, and I’ve become a small planet with legs.
“Stop making that face,” my mother says, watching me waddle toward her car.
“What face?”
“The one that says you’re planning to reach inside yourself and pull the baby out manually.”
“I would never. That sounds unsanitary.”
We’re heading to the clinic for my weekly appointment, and Antonio is meeting us there - he insisted on being present for these final check-ups, a far cry from the man who used to miss everything.
My mother offered to drive so I wouldn’t have to navigate the pedals around my belly, which at this point has its own gravitational field.
Antonio is already in the waiting room when we arrive - he drove separately so my mother and I could have our morning coffee ritual, but he wasn’t about to miss the appointment itself.
“You’re early,” I say, lowering myself into the chair beside him.
“I’ve been early for twenty minutes. I’ve memorized every poster on these walls.” He pulls out his phone and shows me the screen - a photo of the ultrasound from three weeks ago, the one he insisted on having printed. “I’ve also been staring at this and trying to figure out which blob is her nose.”
“That’s her foot.”
“That explains why it doesn’t look like a nose.”
My mother settles into the chair on my other side, patting my arm. “He’s been texting me questions all morning. What if the baby comes early? What if she comes late? What if the hospital runs out of blankets?”
“The hospital is not going to run out of blankets,” Antonio says, but he looks slightly sheepish.
“I also got a question about whether newborns can see colors.”
“That’s a legitimate medical question.”
“At six in the morning?”
The nurse calls my name before Antonio can defend himself, and we all stand - my mother with practiced ease, me with the elaborate maneuvering that late pregnancy requires, Antonio with the barely contained nervous energy he’s been radiating for weeks.
“He can come back,” I tell the nurse when she glances at the entourage. “We discussed it.”
“More than discussed it,” Antonio adds. “She made me promise not to ask more than five questions.”
“Six,” I correct. “I raised the limit after the blanket thing.”
The examination room is small but bright, and Antonio positions himself carefully out of the midwife’s way while still managing to hover. Lidia - the calm, capable woman who’s been seeing me since I switched to Calabria care - smiles at the anxious father routine.
My mother claims the visitor chair with the air of a woman who has done this before and knows the best vantage points.
“So,” Antonio says as Lidia reviews my chart, “the baby. Is she - how is she? Is everything…”
“That’s one,” I say.
“That was three questions.”
“Compound questions count as one. We established this.”
Lidia smiles, clearly used to this. “Everything looks excellent. Baby is in position, measuring appropriately, heart rate steady. You’re ready whenever she decides to make her entrance.”
“And when will that be?” Antonio asks immediately.
“That’s two.”
“Babies come on their own schedule,” Lidia says. “Could be tonight, could be next week. First babies are notoriously unpredictable.”
“But if you had to guess…”
“Three.”
“…would you say sooner or later? Generally speaking? Based on your professional experience?”
Lidia exchanges a glance with my mother, who is clearly enjoying this. “I’d say your daughter will arrive exactly when she’s ready, and not a moment before. The best thing you can do is rest, stay hydrated, and try not to drive your wife crazy with questions.”
“I’m not driving her crazy.”
“You’re at four,” I point out.
“The hospital blanket question doesn’t count. That was research.”
We finish the appointment with Antonio restraining himself to only two more queries - whether walking really helps, and whether the hospital has a policy about fathers cutting the cord. Lidia pats my arm as we leave.
“Get some rest while you can. Walk if you feel up to it - sometimes movement helps things along. And call immediately if your water breaks or contractions become regular.”
In the parking lot, my mother hugs me goodbye, promises to have dinner ready whenever we want it, and drives off with a wave.
Antonio opens my door with exaggerated ceremony.
“What’s the verdict?” he asks, as if he wasn’t in the room for the entire appointment.
“Any day now. Or next week. Or possibly never. The baby has declined to provide a specific schedule.”
“Sounds like she takes after her mother.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” He’s grinning as he starts the car. “Just that you’ve never been big on other people’s timelines either.”
The drive back to the house.
Our house now, a small place near my parents that we bought last month is quiet and comfortable. The Calabrian countryside rolls past the windows, golden in the late afternoon light, and I rest my hand on my belly and feel our daughter shift.
We decided months ago to raise her here.
Not in Rome, with its chaos and cameras and the constant pressure of Antonio’s career.
Not in LA, with its memories of a version of myself I’ve outgrown.
Here, in Calabria, where my family lives and my business is growing and we can build something that actually belongs to us.
“The crib arrived,” Antonio says. “I set it up this morning while you were at your mom’s.”
“Did you follow the instructions?”
“I resent the implication that I wouldn’t follow instructions.”
“You once assembled a bookshelf upside down.”
“That was one time.”
“It was three times. Three different bookshelves. I kept count.”
He laughs, and the sound settles something in my chest. This is what I missed, during the cold year of our marriage - this easy banter, this ability to tease and be teased, this sense that we’re partners instead of strangers who happen to share a house.
“I also finished the blanket,” he adds, a little sheepishly.
“The crocheted one?”
“It’s… lopsided. Very lopsided. Possibly the most lopsided blanket in the history of crocheted objects.”
“I’m sure it’s fine.”
“It’s not fine. It’s a disaster. But I made it, and our daughter is going to use it whether she likes it or not.”
I reach over and squeeze his hand.
The blanket has been a running joke for months - Antonio decided he wanted to make something for the baby with his own hands, and the only craft he could find tutorials for was crocheting.
The first attempt looked like a dishrag.
The second attempt looked like a dishrag that had been attacked by cats.
This third attempt, apparently, looks like a lopsided blanket.
It’s going to be the most beloved item in her nursery.
***
At home, I inspect the crib (correctly assembled, despite my doubts) and the blanket (gloriously lopsided, as promised) and the nursery that’s been slowly coming together over the past few months.
Yellow walls, because we couldn’t agree on a color and yellow felt like sunshine.
A rocking chair from my grandmother’s house.
A mobile that Antonio hung with only minimal swearing.
“What do you think?” he asks, watching me take it all in.
“I think we’re ready.”
“Are we? Because I feel deeply unprepared. Existentially unprepared. Like we’re about to be handed a whole human being and expected to know what to do with her.”
“Everyone feels that way. My mother said so.”
“Your mother raised you. You turned out fine.”
“Exactly. We’ll figure it out.”
He pulls me into his arms - as much as he can, given the belly between us - and I rest my head against his shoulder. The afternoon light slants through the nursery windows, painting everything gold.
“I want to take a walk,” I say. “Lidia said movement helps.”
“Then let’s walk.”
We head out into the evening, following a path that winds through the neighborhood and down toward the water.
The air is warm but not oppressive, carrying the salt smell of the sea and the distant sound of church bells.
My back aches and my feet are swollen and I have to stop every few minutes to catch my breath, but it feels good to be moving.
“Remember when we used to walk in Rome?” Antonio asks.
“You mean the three times you were actually home early enough to walk with me?”
“I walked with you more than three times.”
“Name five.”
He opens his mouth. Closes it. “I walked with you at least four times.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’m a terrible person.”
“You were a terrible person. You’re getting better.”
We’re laughing when the sky opens up.
One moment it’s cloudy but calm. The next, rain is sheeting down so hard I can barely see Antonio standing two feet away. We’re nowhere near home, nowhere near shelter, just two idiots caught in a Calabrian thunderstorm.
“This way!” Antonio grabs my hand and pulls me toward a small café at the corner, its striped awning providing a tiny island of dryness. We huddle under it, pressed together, watching the rain transform the street into a river.
“Well,” I say. “This is romantic.”
“I was going for romantic. I called ahead and ordered the thunderstorm specially.”
“Very thoughtful.”
“I try.”
The café owner appears in the doorway, takes one look at my belly and our soaked clothes, and ushers us inside with maternal concern. Within minutes we’re seated at a corner table with towels and hot chocolate, the storm raging outside while we drip puddles onto the tile floor.
“I can’t believe you planned this,” I say, wrapping my hands around the warm cup.
“I absolutely did not plan this. I am not responsible for weather.”
“You’re responsible for suggesting a walk.”
“You suggested the walk.”
“Details.”
He grins at me across the table, his hair plastered to his forehead, water still dripping down his face. He looks ridiculous. He looks wonderful. He looks like the man I fell in love with in a coffee shop in Los Angeles, before either of us knew how hard marriage would be.
“I’m happy,” I say suddenly.
“Yeah?”
“Really happy. Genuinely. Not just okay, not just surviving. Happy.”
“That’s good.” His voice is soft. “That’s all I want, Cass. For you to be happy.”
“Even when I’m the size of a small building and complaining about my feet?”
“Especially then.”
The storm passes as quickly as it arrived, leaving the streets washed clean and shining. We thank the café owner and head back home, my wet clothes clinging uncomfortably but my heart light.
We’re almost to our door when I feel it.
A pressure, low in my belly, different from the Braxton-Hicks contractions I’ve been having for weeks. Sharper. More insistent.
“Antonio.”
He turns, sees my face, and goes pale. “What is it?”
“I think…” Another wave of pressure, stronger this time. “I think it’s time.”
“Time? Now? But we’re wet, and you’re - and the hospital is…”
“Antonio.” I grab his hand to steady myself. “Focus. Get the car.”
He stares at me for one more second, panic and joy and terror warring on his face. Then he nods, once, and runs for the house.
I stand in the street with my hand on my belly, feeling my daughter shift and press and prepare to enter the world.
“Okay,” I say quietly, to her or to myself. “Here we go.”