“Motherfuc—” she screams when the head is almost there.
“Hey, hey, look at me. Look at me.”
She does, her face red and sweaty. I pass a cool, wet cloth over her forehead. “You got this. You’re almost there. You’re amazing.”
She studies me for a long moment, then nods. It’s the most trusting look I’ve ever seen on her, and one I never thought I’d see directed at me.
And then she’s pushing and shouting, too—she’s my hero for doing this without an epidural—and my eyes fill when I see the head crowning. I join the nurse and the doctor encouraging her to push. I let her squeeze my free hand so hard, I become numb.
And suddenly, like a sunray peeking through rain clouds, the softest, shrillest cry.
The baby is brought to Keira’s chest, her arms shaking as she wraps them around it. The cries don’t last long before the baby calms against Keira. And then, a beautiful, light silence settles in the room, the tension evaporated.
“Hello, you,” Keira says, peering at her daughter’s wrinkled face.
I’ve seen this hundreds of times before. I’ve cleaned babies and sucked mucus out of their nose and mouth while they were absorbing the heat of their mother’s body. I helped mothers breastfeed and gave lessons on how to give baths for the first time. But this is like nothing I’ve experienced before. I’m in awe, gaping at this tiny creature like it’s the eighth wonder of the world. I don’t see the medical part of it. I just see them; a person I love so much and the new world she’s just created. This small creature who will develop an entire life, who will grow to love and laugh and learn. It’s as if I can see all that awaits her in a flash.
In this moment, I’m not thinking about me or the baby I’ll never have. I’m not engulfed in grief and sadness. I don’t drown in envy. The tears on my cheeks are from pure joy.
The baby slowly blinks as she reaches up, where Keira gives her her finger to wrap onto. My sister then looks up at me, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen her this happy. At peace.
“Thank you,” I say, not bothering to wipe my tears. “Thank you so much.”
When I kiss her head, she lets me.
I spend the night with them.
Since I’m Keira’s chosen partner, I don’t get kicked out when visiting hours end, and I take the uncomfortable chair/couch/bedusually reserved for the other parent. I now understand why so many dads complain about it even though I’d never admit it out loud. The night is noisy, and poopy, and exhausting. It’s wonderful. After a wild discussion on names—so many have to be crossed out because they belong to people we hated in high school—Keira looks down at her and says, “How about Billie?” It’s random, not even close to her previous options, but somehow, it’s right.
“Billie,” I repeat, and that’s that. She has strong McIntyre traits, just like us and her brother. I can’t stop looking at her.
By the time Keira gets her leave from the hospital, I barely want to let them go. I drive them home with the car seat Mom brought this morning when she came to visit us. I didn’t expect her to be emotional about the visit since I’ve never seen her cry, but she got teary when she rubbed a finger over Billie’s pajama-clad foot. I thought I’d cried enough, but seeing all of us here, together, it did something to me. Like finally, being a part of the McIntyre family could be a good thing. A great thing, even. She left an hour ago, just before the pediatrician and the obstetrician came to do their final check-ups and gave Keira the okay to leave.
When I pull into her driveway, I hurry out of the car to help her out.
“I’m fine,” she says while letting me take the car seat out.
“Let me take care of you for one last minute, okay?” I walk Billie to the front door, and only when I’m as far as I can go without entering the house do I put the seat down. “You call me if you need anything. And I meananything.”
“I will,” Keira says.
“Promise me.”
“God, you’re annoying.”
I don’t give her the time to hesitate or protest before I hug her tightly. “You got this, all right?” A few hours after Billie was born, Keira called Rob to let him know. He broke down over the phone, while Keira kept her tears quiet. He’s supposed to come over in an hour to meet Billie. “And if you need me to kick his ass, just say the word.”
“If someone’s kicking his ass, it’s me.”
“That’s my sister.” I pull back, squeeze her shoulders, then walk back to my car. I don’t remember the last time I’ve felt this light. Like for once in my life, everything is just right.
When I finally make it to Eli’s, I’m almost asleep on my feet. However, a bolt of energy spears me when I hear a female voice coming from outside the screen door.
I’m not a jealous person. Never have been. Michael had good female friends, and I never worried about him going out with them and their other friends. In fact, the thought never even crossed my mind to be anxious about it.
But now, my heart rate speeds up as I walk toward the back door. It’s a horrible feeling. I definitely preferred indifference.
I slide the patio door with a little too much force. Only, I’m not met with a woman hanging out with Eli, but with Liz playing in the backyard with Zoe. They’re sitting in the turtle-shaped sandbox, where Zoe appears to be showing her mother some kind of insect on her finger. Zoe is giggling, and Liz is radiant. To my right, about a hundred yards away from the sandbox, Eli is sittingon an Adirondack chair, pretending to read a book. He’s doing a terrible job at it. His gaze is laser-focused on them, body ready to bound at any moment. He’s wearing a taupe T-shirt that hugs his chest deliciously and makes the brown of his eyes look orange in the late afternoon light when he turns to look at me, as if feeling me staring.
