25. Rocco #3
“And your dignity, apparently.”
Fair.
Serena looks down at the baby.
“I had a name too.”
Something in me goes still.
“Tell me.”
“Cara.”
Cara. Small. Strong. Easy to say in every language our families have used to hurt or love each other.
“Cara,” I repeat.
Our daughter makes a tiny sound. Like she accepts. Or objects. Hard to tell.
Either way, she is a Castellano woman. Strong opinions are expected.
“Do you like it?” Serena asks.
I look at my wife. My daughter. The world I nearly threw away because a lie gave me permission to be cruel.
“I love it.”
Serena’s eyes shine.
“Cara Lucia Castellano?”
Lucia inhales sharply. The room goes quiet. She looks furious. Which is how I know she is deeply moved.
“Absolutely not,” Lucia says.
Serena smiles.
“Absolutely yes.”
Lucia’s mouth trembles once.
“I will not be responsible for making this child dramatic.”
Serena laughs weakly.
“Too late.”
I cover my mouth because if I laugh, I may sob.
Cara Lucia Castellano. Our daughter. Named by her mother after the woman who opened a door when I closed one.
Cost. Grace. All in one tiny body making little goat noises on Serena’s chest.
The nurse eventually takes Cara for a quick check beside the bed. Not far. Never out of Serena’s sight. I stand between Serena and the warmer without thinking, then catch myself and look back.
“Is here okay?” I ask.
Serena nods.
“Yes.”
Good.
I stay where she can see Cara and me.
Cara is weighed. Six pounds, three ounces. Tiny. Too tiny.
The nurse says it is good for thirty-six weeks. I decide to believe her because the alternative is becoming a problem and I’m trying not to be one.
They wrap Cara in a blanket with a pink and blue stripe and a hat that is still absurd.
Then the nurse looks at Serena.
“Dad can hold her if you’d like.”
Dad. The word hits me so hard I almost miss the rest.
If you’d like.
Serena looks at me.
She is pale. Exhausted. Hair damp. Eyes heavy. The most beautiful person I have ever seen.
Not in a polished way. In a real way. The kind of beauty that makes every expensive room I have ever stood in look stupid.
“Do you want to hold her?” she asks.
My throat closes.
“Yes.”
The word barely comes out.
“Then hold your daughter.”
The nurse places Cara in my arms.
Nothing prepares me. Nothing.
She weighs almost nothing. And everything.
My hands know weight. A loaded gun. A dying man’s collar. An envelope of dirty money passed under a table to a man I’d have killed on a different night. My father’s ring off a cooling hand. They learned to stay level under all of it.
They are not level now.
Her body is warm through the blanket. Her face is scrunched and red. Her mouth moves in tiny irritated shapes. One hand escapes near her chin, fingers curled like she is considering a fight.
Good girl. My daughter. My knees remember every prayer I never said.
I look down at her and feel something in me go quiet. Not empty. Quiet. Like every violent room I have ever stood in has shut its door for one minute.
“Hi,” I whisper.
Cara turns her face slightly. Probably random. I decide it is genius.
“I’m your father.”
My voice breaks on father. Serena hears it. Of course.
Her hand reaches for my sleeve. Not my hand. My sleeve. She grips the cuff like she did while pushing. I move closer so she does not have to reach.
Cara makes a small sound. Serena’s eyes open wider.
“Is she okay?”
The nurse smiles.
“She’s perfect.”
Perfect. I don’t trust perfect as a concept. But I trust this nurse for the next thirty seconds because I need to.
“She’s okay,” I tell Serena.
Serena looks at Cara in my arms. Something shifts across her face. Fear. Love. Hope trying not to look too obvious.
“You look scared,” she whispers.
“I am.”
“Of her?”
“For her.”
Serena’s fingers tighten in my sleeve.
“Me too.”
I sit carefully on the edge of the bed with Cara in my arms and Serena’s hand holding my cuff.
Lucia wipes her face with a tissue and pretends she has allergies. Dr. Sayeed checks numbers. The storm starts to thin. And my phone stays silent across the room.
Maybe it’s buzzing. Maybe the dock is still smoking and the captains are already circling to see which way I’ll turn. Maybe Vittorio thinks a boss who sits out a fire for a delivery room is a boss you can take. Let him think it. If this is weakness, I want more of it.
Serena’s eyes flutter. She fights sleep.
“Don’t,” I whisper.
Her eyes open.
“Don’t what?”
“Fight it. I have her. I’m right here.”
She studies me. Even exhausted, she checks.
Does she believe me? Not fully. Maybe enough. Enough to close her eyes while I hold our daughter.
“Beside me,” she murmurs.
“Beside you.”
“Phone?”
“Still with Lucia.”
Lucia says, “And enjoying itself.”
Serena’s mouth curves faintly. Her eyes close. Her fingers stay curled around my sleeve.
I look down at Cara. Then at Serena. My wife sleeps with her hand still gripping me like she is not quite ready to let go.
I do not move. I do not breathe too deeply.
I sit there with my daughter in my arms and my wife holding my sleeve, and I understand exactly what I almost lost.
Everything.