Before I Let You Go(43)

Annie is in the first bed in the recovery ward, flat on her back staring at the ceiling. Her gaze is as unfocused as her daughter’s seems to be, but as soon as I near the bed, she perks up. She stretches her head up from the pillow to catch a view of her daughter.

“How is she?” Annie asks me. Her speech is a little slurred, and her words are rushed—she’s anxious, and I wonder how they are handling her pain relief. Is the epidural still active? Or is she on morphine? Annie will be seriously resistant to opiates after so many years of abuse. Her dosage is going to be difficult to calculate, and I hope the staff is accounting for this.

“She’s great, Annie,” I say gently. I push the crib up close to Annie’s bed, and I carefully lift the baby out and hold it toward my sister’s face. She’s still on a little oxygen, but mainly as a precaution given she’s breathing pretty well on her own. Annie starts to cry, and she reaches to stroke the baby’s cheek with her forefinger.

“Oh, she’s so perfect,” Annie croaks.

“She is. She’s doing well. Really well.”

Annie leans carefully to very gently kiss the end of her daughter’s nose. “Hello there, little one.”

“Are you thinking about breast-feeding her?”

“I’m only going to be here for a week. Doesn’t seem much point.” Annie sighs, and I shift the baby a little closer to her on the pillow.

“A week is still a great start, Annie. She’d at least get your colostrum.”

“The nurse told me that, too. But if I start feeding her, I’m scared it will be even harder to leave.”

“It’s totally up to you. Either way, I think they want to give her something to drink soon.”

“Okay,” Annie murmurs, and she sinks back into the pillow, but turns her head to stare at the baby. “She’s just so beautiful. I can’t believe something so perfect came out of me.”

“What are you going to call her?” I ask my sister softly.

“Dandelion,” Annie whispers, and I lean closer to her and frown to concentrate. Surely I misheard her.

“Sorry? What did you say?”

“Dandelion.” Annie says the word firmer now, but there is a quiet determination in her voice, as if she had anticipated my resistance.

I drag myself to my full height and frown down at my sister as I say carefully, “I don’t think ‘Dandelion’ is actually a name.”

“It is,” Annie murmurs simply, then she stops and stares at me, issuing a challenge with her slightly glazed eyes. I fall silent as I try to figure out how to play this.

“Well, it’s not a very well-known name,” I say eventually.

“Listen, Lexie,” Annie says flatly, “I know what I want to call my daughter. I’ve had a lot of time to think about this, and Dandelion is the name that I have chosen. I realize it’s not the most common name, but I think it’s beautiful. So, that’s my decision.”

“It’s selfish to give a child a name like that,” I mutter, and I glance at the baby again. Dandelion. What middle name is she going to choose—Cactus? Banana?

“Well, it doesn’t actually matter what you think,” Annie whispers. “This is my daughter, and I’ll call her what I want to. Her name will be Dandelion. I’ll call her Dani for short.”

“This little baby is already having a very tough start because of you. Do you really want to lump her with a name that’s going to haunt her for her entire life?” I say, and my tone is sharp—much sharper than I have ever used in polite conversation with Annie. We’re both a bit taken aback. I usually reserve that tone for our arguments—the screaming matches that come after she’s done something self-destructive. But this is worse than self-destructive—the stakes have been raised. Now there’s another life in the mix. Annie frowns at me, and I can see she’s annoyed with my interference, but damn it—I can’t sit back and let her name the child after a weed.

“How dare you?” Annie says, and now her tone is sharp, too, but she’s still weak and although she forces the words out, there’s no power behind them. I take this as a sign that Annie is also unsure of her choice, and so I go for the knockout punch. I know I’ll be glad I did this later, when the baby has a sensible name. A real name. A name she can proudly claim when she’s on the Supreme Court one day.

The problem is, I’m just so angry with Annie. When I speak, I’m not just sharp with her, I’m positively bitter.

“I dare because someone has to speak up for that little girl. She’s got enough hurdles to overcome because of you without being burdened by a silly name.”

Annie stares at me. I should feel guilty, but I don’t, because although I’m embarrassed by my awful tone, I’m actually relieved I didn’t vent all of my frustration and anger toward her. There’s still plenty bottled up, and there’s still a chance it might explode, depending on what she says next.

“But . . .” Annie swallows, and she looks at the baby again. She is visibly uncertain, and I exhale a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.

“Daisy,” I suggest. “Daisy—it’s still floral, still unusual, but it’s an actual name. What do you think?”

“Yes, Daisy is nice,” Annie says weakly, then she clears her throat. “I’m awfully groggy, Lexie. Do you think you could take her away for a while so I can sleep?”