The Redo (Winslow Brothers #4) (37)

“Talk about a wild birth story, huh?”

“Pretty sure I might have to deal with some minor PTSD every time I get in an elevator now.”

“Girl, you had a baby in an elevator, in the middle of a blackout, on one of the hottest days of the summer. Without an epidural. You’re officially my hero.” Christina flashes a wink and a smile at me before walking over to where Izzy is currently lying in the hospital bassinet. “And just think, one day when this little lady is older, you’ll be able to tell her how much pain she put her mother through.”

“Yeah,” I say and swallow past the emotion that all of a sudden threatens to close off my throat.

Her mother. For better or worse and lack of any other option, I am her mother.

And for a reason only a newborn can understand, Izzy takes that as her cue to start crying.

“Uh-oh, looks like she has some things to say about her birth story, too,” Christina muses as she checks to see if Izzy has a dirty diaper. “Girlfriend, let me tell you, your momma is one strong woman.”

I wish I felt as strong as Christina seems to think I am. Truthfully, I mostly just feel like I’m trying to survive. Trying not to fail.

“I think she might be hungry,” I tell the nurse after she updates that Izzy’s diaper is surprisingly clean and dry. “But I’ve been having a lot of issues with getting her to latch.”

If there was one thing my sister was incredibly adamant about, it was breastfeeding. She was even planning on taking medication to hopefully induce her milk supply so she could be the one to do it.

Hell, when I was only eight weeks pregnant, she was already trying to get me to agree to pump my breast milk if her own milk supply couldn’t be induced.

Isabella wanted Izzy to have the best of everything. The best source of food and nutrients. The best pediatrician. The best schools. She and Oliver were even preparing to shift their work schedules so they would never have to use a nanny.

Goodness, I hope I can live up to my sister’s wishes.

“Would you like some help?” Christina offers, and I nod dramatically.

“Help would be greatly appreciated.”

The nurse lifts Izzy out of the bassinet, and I glance down once more at the phone that’s still in my hands. Remy’s text still sits prominently on the screen.

But the crying baby heading my way quickly becomes my priority.

Which, I guess, is the way it should be. And while there’s a part of me that would relish support from someone like Remy, I know my truth.

From here on out, it’s just Izzy and me.





Saturday, October 5th

Maria

When I was about seven months pregnant with Izzy, I watched a documentary where a forty-year-old woman ran a marathon, one week after her six-week postpartum checkup, with her baby in a stroller.

She made it look so easy. Like, she was all healed up and just crushing the whole motherhood thing so much that she had time to fit running 26.2 miles into her schedule.

Na?vely, after seeing that, I thought I’d be rocking and rolling just like her when I reached this point. Like my six-week postpartum appointment was going to be some kind of momentous occasion where I’d feel victorious.

Hence, why I thought I could fit it in during Dr. Maddox’s Saturday hours, on the same day as a listing appointment with a new client, and somehow juggle it all with a big-ass smile and happy baby to boot.

Ha. The joke is very much on me. And I now know that documentary woman was either a psychopath or a robot.

“It’s okay, sweet girl,” I tell Izzy, but her cries only get louder, bouncing off the walls of the small exam room in piercing waves.

To her? It is most definitely not okay. Apparently nothing is okay right now in Izzy’s little life.

Her cries only get louder, and I pull the flimsy paper gown around myself, trying to hold it in place with my right hand as I rock her stroller back and forth with my left.

Izzy’s been cranky around this time every day for the last several days in a row, and no matter what, I never know how to fix it. It’s as if she’s opposed to the angle of the sun—except she’s inside in a room without a window.

Gah, I just wish there was a way to know what’s upsetting her.

I rock the stroller faster and faster until the hiccup in her cry is less shaky, and I glance at the clock yet again. The doctor is evidently running behind this morning, and for someone on as tight of a schedule as I am, it’s the last thing I need.

Izzy’s pacifier falls to the side, and I grab it as quick as I can and push it back into her mouth. Her eyes are fluttering just enough that I know sleep has to be somewhere on the horizon. It’d be helpful if the horizon seemed a little closer, seeing as I’d like to spread my legs for my physician without holding a baby at the same time and then make it across town to my listing appointment without trying to tell my client “The hardwood floors are original!” over the sounds of Izzy’s wailing.

Her eyes blink heavily, and I have to caution myself not to rock the stroller faster with my eagerness. Finding something that works with a baby is a lot like finding something that works with sex. Don’t go faster, don’t go harder, don’t change the rhythm—don’t move a fucking muscle that you’re not currently moving.

And what exactly do you know about sex these days? It’s only been eleventy billion years since you’ve had it.