“With that said,” Dr. Wagner continues, “you know time is short.”
Her words, though true, puncture the joy I managed to find holding Zoe. Some part of me wants to pretend this is a normal birth, that any minute now, my baby will start rooting around, searching for my breasts, already heavy with milk. I want to believe we need to scramble to get a car seat because she came a month early and we were caught off guard and now we have to take her home, but we won’t get to take her home.
“I know your family is outside waiting. As soon as you’re comfortable, if there’s anyone you want to meet Zoe,” Dr. Wagner says gently, “you should bring them in soon.”
“We will.” Grip brushes a thumb across the plump curve of Zoe’s cheek. “Thanks, doc.”
“She’s beautiful,” the doctor says, her eyes on Zoe. “I better go make my rounds. If you need anything, let me know.”
When she leaves, I notice a purple feather on the door.
“What’s the feather for?” I ask the nurse checking Zoe’s vitals.
“Pardon?” Her ey
es flick from me to Grip in that carefully calm way that tells me she knows who we are, or rather who Grip is. Nobody cares who I am, and that’s fine by me. We secured this whole section of the wing to ourselves, and there are no other patients nearby. This day is hard enough without the threat of cameras or other patients stumbling into our privacy.
“The feather,” I repeat, pointing to the one hanging on the knob. “Does it mean anything?”
The nurse shifts her feet and her eyes, avoiding the probing look and the question.
“It’s just something we do so the staff knows how to conduct themselves,” she says evasively.
“Knows what?” Grip asks. “I walked the halls some earlier and didn’t see it on any of the other doors.”
She glances at Zoe before answering.
“We hang a purple feather on the door when the baby is a demise so the staff all remain sensitive to the situation,” she says, her voice soft with sympathy.
A demise.
It sounds cold and final, when my baby is anything but as she lies in my arms. She feels warm and alive. It feels like the whole world is waiting for a demise when I’m begging for a miracle.
“So would you like to start bringing in family and friends?” she asks, obviously wanting to move past the awkward moment that still has me squirming painfully like a deer caught in a sharp-toothed trap.
“Hold on one second,” I say. “I want to do something first.”
With a glance at Grip, I gently lift the cap away from Zoe’s head. I don’t hide my flaws from Grip, and he loves me unconditionally. He doesn’t hide his from me because he knows I love him with the same immutable heart. Our daughter, for as long as she’s here with us, deserves no less.
I want to see her flaws because I know I’ll love her just the same. It’s hard to look. Without the hat, the illusion that she’s like every other newborn disappears with a cruel sleight of hand and confirms what the ultrasound showed us months ago. There are parts of her missing. A thin membrane covers the parts of her brain that developed, but it’s not pretty.
Even so, she’s ours.
“You okay?” Grip asks, his shoulders tight as if he’s braced for a blow.
“Yeah.” I pull the little cap back into place, even though I’ll never forget what lies beneath. “She is beautiful, isn’t she?”
Relief loosens the muscles in his neck and shoulders, loosens the frown from his face.
“She is.” He drops a kiss on the little cap on Zoe’s head. “Now let’s introduce her to everybody.”
It’s not everybody, but it’s that nucleus of people who have supported us. It’s Ms. James, of course, Rhys, Kai, Amir, Jimmi, Luke, and even Jade. The nurse takes pictures of them all holding Zoe, some wearing tear-dampened smiles.
When my parents come, Rhyson stiffly greets them before stepping out of the room. Christmas dinner was okay. He and our father are doing better; he and our mother . . .better. The family counseling sessions have helped, but there is enough tension in the room without their unresolved issues adding to it.
My mother watches the door close behind Rhyson and sighs before turning her attention to me.
“How are you?” she asks, her eyes dry and steady on my face.