The Break(21)

“Hello, O’Sullivan family,” she says in a soft voice, smiling at the three of us. I wonder if she sees how much Gabe and I hate each other in that moment, maybe the most we ever have. Gabe slaps a smile onto his face for the pediatrician, and then my phone rings. I scramble for it in my pocket, but it’s hard to wrench it out while I’m holding Lila in the other arm. “I’m so sorry,” I say. Why is my pocket so small? I can’t get the phone out. “I should’ve turned off my ringer. I’m really sorry.” I finally free my phone and see a number I don’t recognize with a 518 area code. I silence it.



The doctor sits on a stool with wheels. The mauve cushion goes pffft as she rolls closer to us. “Lila’s not gaining weight like she was last week,” she says.

My heart ratchets up a notch. “Oh no,” I say. “Is that really bad?”

“Babies are supposed to be back to their birth weight by the time they’re two weeks old,” she says. “And at the appointment last week, Lila was. But this week she hasn’t gained. She’s actually lost an ounce. Which does give me cause for concern. We can get you working with a lactation consultant to build up your supply, if it’s even a supply issue. I don’t think it’s a transfer issue because Lila was gaining well at first.”

“Transfer?” I repeat, my mind scanning for a definition in this context, coming up blank. “What does that mean?”

“It means Lila’s ability to actually transfer milk out of the breast. And again, I don’t think that’s the problem here. Sometimes babies are just so sleepy they’re not getting as much as they need, and it’s just important that we get to the bottom of it. I’ll give you the card for the lactation consultant we work closely with, and you should have her come today if possible or by tomorrow. It may just be that you need to pump additional breast milk after feedings and give Lila that extra milk in a bottle to be sure she’s getting enough ounces. We need her to be drinking twenty-four ounces per day, and whether she gets that from the breast or bottle is fine. So let’s see what happens when you start to pump, and the lactation consultant can help with all that. Do you have a breast pump?”

My phone buzzes with the missed call alert. I ignore it.

“I do have a pump, a good one I think because a friend recommended it,” I say. My heart is going so fast I feel like I’m going to pass out. I almost lean into Gabe, but I’m still so prickly at him that I don’t. Dr. Templeton must sense how awful I feel, because she says, “That’s great. So start pumping today for ten minutes after your next feed. See how much milk you get, and give me a call and let the nurse know. And then feed that bottle of milk to Lila, nice and slowly. Do you have infant bottles?”

“Um, yes, we do,” I say. At least I read enough stuff to know I was supposed to have a pump and infant bottles on hand. How do people do this who don’t have access to all the information they need or anyone to help them? I probably should have read more; it’s just that I always found those parenting blogs so overwhelming with all the car seat reviews and product recalls and recipes for pureeing your own baby food. It seemed like a bunch of extra stuff was thrown in with the necessary stuff, which is great if you want to read all of that; it just strikes me that maybe there should be one resource with the vital stuff. “I should have taken a breastfeeding course,” I say to the doctor.

She taps a pen against her clipboard. Gabe still isn’t saying anything. He read zero books and took zero classes, so I guess there’s not much he could add. “Did your OB recommend a class?” she asks.

“Um, I think so?” I say. “He had a poster up about a breastfeeding class, but I kept focusing on those childbirth classes. I went to one of those instead.” Some good it did me, I almost add, but I’m not exactly ready to joke about how bad the birth was.

Dr. Templeton nods sympathetically. “Even the hospital doesn’t push the infant care class if the parents don’t want to take it,” she says, but then she gives me a wave. “But we don’t need to focus on that. I’m here for you and Lila now.”

It brings tears to my eyes. “Okay,” I say, “thank you.”

Now Gabe’s phone starts vibrating. The doctor turns to him, noticing. He doesn’t apologize; he just acts like it isn’t happening.

“We’ll turn off our phones next time,” I say, embarrassed for what seems like the twentieth time during this appointment.

Gabe shoots me a look, but he takes his phone out to turn it off. I glance at his screen and see the same 518 number. “Where’s a 518 area code from?” I ask the doctor, which is a strange thing to ask in the middle of Lila’s appointment, but I’m too exhausted and jittery to have any filter.

“Albany,” the doctor says, seeming unbothered by the interruption. “I went to college at SUNY.” She smiles at me, prettier by the minute. Kindness is like that.

“Must be a sales call,” Gabe says, turning off his phone. “We don’t know anyone in Albany.”

“Yes, we do,” I say. I hear the satisfaction in my voice at knowing something he doesn’t, and it makes my stomach turn. Why am I being like this, so small and petty? “June’s family is from around there,” I add, gentler.

His eyes narrow, but I can’t read the look. He almost seems confused. Either he didn’t know June was from there or he’s wondering why anyone in her family would ever call us.