argument there.’ Squeezing the water bottles into the bag, he zipped it, put the strap on his shoulder, and helped her out the front door. They crossed the porch to the cobblestone drive where Hugh’s car was parked.
Rather than think about how she was trembling or, worse, when the next pain would hit, Dana thought about the little cotton onesies in that bag. They were store-bought, but everything else was homemade. Hugh thought she had packed too much, but how to choose between those tiny knitted caps and booties, all cotton for August and exquisitely done? They took up no space. Her baby deserved choices.
Of course, her in-laws hadn’t been any wilder about these items than they had about the nursery décor. They had provided a layette from Neiman Marcus, and didn’t understand why the baby wouldn’t be wearing those things home.
Dana let it pass. To explain would have offended them. Hand-knit to her meant memories of her mother, the love of her grandmother, and the caring of a surrogate family of yarn-store friends. Hand-knit was personal in ways her husband’s family couldn’t understand. The Clarkes knew their place in society, and much as Dana loved being Hugh’s wife, much as she admired the Clarke confidence and envied their past, she couldn’t forget who she was.
‘Doin’ okay?’ Hugh asked as he eased her into the car.
‘Doin’ okay,’ she managed.
She adjusted the seat belt so that the baby wouldn’t be hurt if they stopped short, though there was little chance of that. For an antsy man, Hugh drove with care, so much so that as time passed and the contractions grew more intense, she wished he would go faster.
But he knew what he was doing. Hugh always knew what he was doing. Moreover, there were few other cars on the road, and they had green lights all the way.
Having pre-registered at the hospital, he had barely given their name when they were admitted. In no time flat, Dana was in a hospital gown, with a fetal monitor strapped around her middle and the resident-on-call examining her. The contractions were coming every three minutes, then every two minutes, literally taking her breath.
The next few hours passed in a blur, though more than once, when the progress slowed, she wondered if the baby was having a final qualm itself. She knit for a while until the strength of the contractions zapped her, at which point Hugh became her sole source of comfort. He massaged her neck and her back and peeled her hair from her face, and all the while, he told her how beautiful she was.
Beautiful? Her insides were a mass of pain, her skin wet, her hair matted. Beautiful? She was a mess! But she clung to her husband, trying to believe every word he said.
All in all, their baby came relatively quickly. Less than six hours after Dana’s water had broken, the nurse declared her fully dilated and they relocated to the delivery room. Hugh took pictures – Dana thought she remembered that, though the memory may well have been created later by the pictures themselves. She pushed for what seemed forever but was considerably shorter, so much so that her obstetrician nearly missed the baby’s birth. The woman had barely arrived when the baby emerged.
Hugh cut the cord and, within seconds, placed the wailing baby on her stomach – the most beautiful, perfectly formed little girl she had ever seen. Dana didn’t know whether to laugh at the baby’s high-pitched crying or gasp in amazement at little fingers and toes. She seemed to have dark hair– Dana immediately imagined a head of fine, dark-brown Clarke hair – though it was hard to see with traces of milky-white film on her body. ‘Who does she look like?’ Dana asked, unable to see through her tears.
‘No one I’ve ever seen,’ he remarked with a delighted laugh and took several more pictures before the nurse stole the infant away, ‘but she’s beautiful.’ He smiled teasingly. ‘You did want a girl.’
‘I did,’ Dana confessed. ‘I wanted someone to take my mother’s name.’ Incredibly – and later she did remember this with utter clarity – she pictured her mother as she had last seen her, vibrant and alive that sunny afternoon at the beach. Dana had always imagined that mother and daughter would have grown to be best of friends, in which case Elizabeth Joseph would have been there in the delivery room with them. Of the many occasions in Dana’s life when she desperately missed her mother, this was a big one. That was one reason why naming the baby after her meant so much. ‘It’s a little like being given her back.’
‘Elizabeth.’
‘Lizzie. She looks like a Lizzie, doesn’t she?’
Hugh was still smiling, holding Dana’s hand to his mouth. ‘Hard to tell yet. But “Elizabeth” is an elegant name.’
‘Next one’ll be a boy,’ Dana promised, craning her neck to see the baby. ‘What are they doing to her?’
Hugh rose off the stool to see. ‘Suctioning,’ he reported. ‘Drying her off. Putting on an ID band.’
‘Your parents wanted a boy.’
‘It’s not my parents’ baby.’
‘Call them, Hugh. They’ll be so excited. And call my grandmother. And the others.’
‘Soon,’ Hugh said. He focused on Dana, so intent that she started crying again. ‘I love you,’ he whispered.
Unable to answer, she just wrapped her arms around his neck and held on tightly.
‘Here she is,’ came a kindly voice, and suddenly the baby was in Dana’s arms, clean and lightly swaddled.
Dana knew she was probably imagining it – infants couldn’t really focus – but she could have sworn the baby was looking at her as if she knew that Dana was her mother, would love her forever, would guard her with her life.
The baby had a delicate little nose and pink mouth, and an every-bit-as-delicate chin. Dana peered under the pink cap. The baby’s hair was still damp, but it was definitely dark – with wispy little curls, lots of little curls, which was a surprise. Both she and Hugh had straight hair.
‘Where did she get these?’
‘Beats me,’ Hugh said, sounding suddenly alarmed. ‘But look at her skin.’
‘It’s so smooth.’
‘It’s so dark.’ He raised fear-filled eyes toward the doctor. ‘Is she all right? I think she’s turning blue.’
Dana’s heart nearly stopped. She hadn’t seen any blue, but given the speed with which the baby was snatched from them and checked, she barely breathed herself until the staff pediatrician had done a thorough exam, given the baby a resoundingly high Apgar score, and pronounced her a hearty, healthy seven pounds.
No, her skin wasn’t blue, Dana decided when Lizzie was back in her arms. Nor, though, was it the pale pink she had expected. Her face had a coppery tint that was as lovely as it was puzzling. Curious, she eased the blanket aside to uncover a tiny arm. The skin there was the same light brown, all the more marked in contrast to the pale white nails at the tips of her fingers.
‘Who does she look like?’ Dana murmured, mystified.
‘Not a Clarke,’ Hugh said. ‘Not a Joseph. Maybe someone on your father’s side of the family?’
Dana couldn’t say. She knew her father’s name,
