Page 49 of The Lookback
For some reason, that question makes her entire face blanch.
“It’s not fun,” I say. “And without an epidural, it’s uncomfortable.”
“I’ll remember that,” Helen says. “Epidurals good. Episiotomy bad.”
“Luckily, we won’t need to remember that,” David says with a chuckle.
“Right.” Helen’s nodding, but she still looks pale.
“I thought you might want some real food,” David says. “But if you just got dinner, we can wait outside and let you eat.”
I shove the tray to the side. “No way. Bring over the real food.”
“Our chef has been working on the menu by country,” David says. “He’s not very good with Mexican food, which is hardly surprising out here, but he’s mastered Italian and French.”
“I love spaghetti and meatballs,” Will says.
David cringes. “The thing is, he was working on Mexican today, and he said the tacos and enchiladas were both a bust, and he can’t sell them.” He sets the bags on the counter by the window. “I said we’d take it all—free food, right!”
I’d curl up my lip and snarl at him, but I can already smell the garlic and tomato sauce, so I know he’s kidding.
“Olé,” Helen says.
But when David opens the bags and starts passing containers around, I notice that Helen visibly shies away from several of them.
“Is there Mexican in there after all?” I joke.
“No.” David frowns. “Why?”
“No reason,” I say. “But pass me some of that fettuccine alfredo, would you?”
A few moments later, Amanda, Mandy, Maren, and Emery show up. They all grab some food as well, and it’s nice to know my friends care enough to drive all the way out here with no notice.
After we’ve all eaten, Mandy and Amanda grab some flowers from the gift shop, head to the NICU to take a peek through the glass, and head home. I sort of expect Helen to take Abby and David home double quick as well. Helen’s not much for extended hospital stays. In fact, the only time I’ve seen her spend more than five minutes inside a hospital room was when her sister was basically shackled to the bed. She bought an ultrasound machine so her sister could come home, for heaven’s sake.
“You guys can go,” I finally say. “You don’t have to stick around for me. Will’s here, and I’m fine.”
But they don’t leave. Eventually David kisses Helen on the cheek and takes off, but Abby and Helen stay.
“I mean it,” I say. “You don’t have to be here all night.”
“I need to leave soon to pump,” Abby says. “I’m trying to wean Nate, but it’s been harder than I thought it would be.”
“Ah, the joys,” I say. “I’m actually looking forward to it. It’s made me sad not to nurse Althea.”
I don’t confess that I plan to try once my milk comes in for Andrew. I have no idea whether she’ll latch after six months of using a bottle, but I can at least give it a shot. I might be holding out hope that it’ll make her love me.
Which is stupid, I know, but the feeling won’t quite go away. When they wheel in the pump, I assume Helen will finally leave.
“What’s that for?” she asks.
“It’s a pump,” I say. “I’m not cleared to move around much, so I’ve only been to see him in the NICU once so far.”
“And?” Helen’s eyeing the pump strangely, but she knows Abby uses one. Maybe it’s the hospital grade variety that’s throwing her off.
“I have to try and make sure my milk comes in alright without him to stimulate it.” I point. “So I have to pump every two hours until he can nurse.”
“Oh.” Her eyes widen. “I thought your milk hadn’t come in yet so. . .you could just wait. But maybe I should take Abby home.”
