Before I Let You Go(40)

“Girl,” she whispers, and she shoots me a watery, terrified smile. “I hope it’s a girl. I won’t be disappointed if it’s a boy either, but I kind of pictured a girl.”

I hear movement on the other side of the curtain, and move to rise again, but this time a nurse gently presses my shoulder to hold me in place. I frown up at her, and her gaze is stern. I hear more movement—and urgent whispers—and someone is saying the word meconium and I know what that means so I struggle to get back to my feet, then I open my mouth to argue with the nurse. She shoots a pointed look at Annie. I pull my jaw shut and force my attention back to my sister.

“Remember when we used to play ‘mommies and daddies’ in the woods behind the worship hall?” she asks me unsteadily. I pause and focus because I have to really search my memory, but after a moment it comes back to me. I smile sadly at her.

“I was way too old to play that game.”

“You did it for me. I loved it when you let me be the mom.”

“I was a bit of a control freak, wasn’t I?”

“Was?” she stammers through her chattering teeth, and we both laugh nervously, then she asks, “Will you and Sam have kids?”

“One day. We’re not in any rush.”

“You’ll be a great mom. You’ve already had a lot of practice.”

“You will be, too, Annie.” She all but rolls her eyes at me, and I shake my head at her fiercely. “You will. You need to start believing in yourself.”

“God, even when I’m giving birth and scared shitless you can’t help but lecture me,” Annie says, but she smiles with some fragility as she says the words. “I think I’m going to shake my way off this bed. And it feels really weird down there.” Her voice rises, and I hear her mounting panic as she says, “I can feel pressure—a lot of pressure.”

“Are you in any pain, Annie?” the anesthesiologist asks urgently. Annie stares into my eyes, but she shakes her head.

“No, but I can feel them moving inside me I think.”

“That’s quite normal,” I tell her gently.

“I don’t like it,” Annie says, then there’s more movement on the other side of the curtain and urgent whispering, and Annie winces and groans. “No, I really don’t like it. Please—can you stop?”

“Almost done, Annie,” Eliza calls over the curtain, and then there is another rush of movement and I see a nurse carry something tiny away from the bed. I lean back to peer around the curtain as several doctors and nurses crowd around a table on the other side of the room. No one chastises me now. Every single person in the room is frozen, waiting for the cry.

“What is it? What’s going on?” Annie asks me frantically. I look back to her, and tears are rolling down her face. Helpless, I rub her cheek with the back of my finger.

“The baby is out, Annie. The doctors are working on it now.”

“Working on it? What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s a little girl, Annie,” one of the nurses calls, and Annie gasps in delight and gives me a shaky grin.

“Told you,” she whispers. I can’t even smile at her—I’m holding my breath, trying desperately to eavesdrop on the staff, straining to hear some sound from the baby. The tension grows and grows, until I can hardly stop myself from walking right on over there to see what is happening.

But then I do hear it—a tiny, fragile growl, and then a cough and an equally tiny cry. I exhale heavily, as does every other medical professional in the room. Annie’s eyes widen.

“That’s her? The baby?”

“Give us a few more minutes and you can see for yourself,” one of the doctors calls. It’s only a moment or two later that a nurse walks toward Annie holding a tiny, blanket-wrapped bundle. She leans low and rests the baby right up against Annie’s shoulder.

“Hey there, Annie. Meet your little girl. Isn’t she beautiful?”

And the baby is beautiful—purple and tiny and scrawny, her face is all scrunched up in protest at the cold air, but regardless of all of that, Annie’s daughter takes my breath away. Annie lifts one hand, and awkwardly holding the BP monitor on her forefinger away, she gently strokes the baby’s cheek with her middle finger, too overcome with emotion to do anything but stare at her.

“Now, we have to take her through to the NICU for some tests. If she’s doing well, someone will bring her to you in recovery later.”

“I don’t want her to leave me,” Annie whispers, and the nurse shakes her head.

“Sorry, Annie.”

Annie glances at me.

“Can my sister go? She’s a doctor.”

“Ah . . .” The nurse glances around the room to the team, and at their nods, she turns to me. “Come on then, doctor-sister.”

“Don’t let her out of your sight, okay?” Annie whispers, and I hesitate.

“Are you sure you want me to leave, Annie? You’re going to be here for a while.”

“No, please go with her. I’m scared she’s going to start withdrawal and there’ll be no one there to comfort her.”

“That will take a while, Annie. Maybe a day or so. And she’s going to be okay with the NICU staff.”

“She should be with someone who loves her.”