1978
The hospital room is trying to be inviting, with its artificial scent and abundance of blankets and pillows. The lights are dimmed, but they still feel too bright, and the soft tune playing from the radio feels too loud.
I take another deep breath, in through my nose, out through my mouth.
That’s what they told me to do.
Atlanta is busy outside the window. Life goes on for everyone else, while I lie here, waiting for mine to change forever.
Another contraction builds as I grip the edge of the bed, digging my fingers into the blankets, the pain intensifying. I breathe through it, counting in my head how the nurse showed me.
Scott is on his way. They keep reminding me of that, like it’s supposed to make me feel better about all of this.
But he’s not the one I want.
I nod when they ask if I’m okay. I shake my head when they ask if I need anything. I give them polite smiles when they check my vitals. I don’t cry. My therapist would say that’s progress.
I hold onto that thought until the pain eases.
Because if Lily felt the same way, if any of it had been real to her, she wouldn’t have left. She wouldn’t have disappeared without a word.
It must have all been in my head. The way she looked at me, the way she held me. I couldn’t help but think that maybe she loved me the way I love her.
But the facts are that I’m clingy and I want too much, and I saw what I wanted to see.
Another contraction hits, more painful than the last. A sound escapes me, thin and helpless in the empty room.
I wish she were here.
I press my lips together, ashamed at the thought. I was doing so well.
I don’t want to want her anymore. I want to want my husband.
But Lily was always the one who held me when things hurt. She was my comfort.
She used to come over when I was sick, even when I told her not to. She would sit with me while I laid in bed, and we would talk, and she would run her fingers through my hair, and even then, as sick as I was, those are some of my best memories.
I want that now.
Friendship, I tell myself. That’s all it ever was.
Time blurs after a while. Pain. Pressure. Encouraging voices fading in and out. My mind can’t keep up with it all, but my body takes over.
And suddenly there’s a cry.
They place her on my chest, wrapped in a pink blanket. She’s impossibly small, with wisps of blonde hair and cloudy eyes.
She looks like me, I can’t help but notice. I think she has my nose.
“She’s beautiful,” the nurse says.
I nod, brushing my finger along her cheek, amazed that she’s even real. I’ve always dreamed of being a mother, of holding my baby, my daughter, and now I am.
“I wish Lily could see you,” I whisper, a tear sliding down my nose.
The nurse smiles, looking down at her. “Do you have a name?”
I’ve known the answer longer than I would like to admit. For only a moment, I’m a child again, sprawled in the grass beside my best friend, both of us giggling at the prospect of babies.
“I’m going to name my baby after you,” I announce proudly.
“That’s weird,” she laughs, picking a flower from the garden and twisting it around her finger.
" It’s not,” I argue. “You’re my best friend.”
The memory fades, but I’ve never been more sure.
“Amanda Lily.”
I press my forehead to hers, breathing her in, and for the first time since Lily left, since I got married, the ache in my chest doesn’t feel like it’s going to swallow me whole.