Page 94 of One Last Summer
I shot Eloise a confused look. “Seriously?” I mouthed.
“It’s her labor playlist!” she whispered back as one of the nurses who’d been fluttering in and out of the room appeared to check Sam’s dilation, bending over her spread legs.
“If you wanna be my lover, you gotta get with my friends,” the Spice Girls warbled from the phone’s speaker.
“Clara, this song seems appropriate for your list,” Sam said in a husky, exhausted voice as the nurse bent over her. “Maybe you and Mack should dance to this?”
“I cannot believe you’re able to make jokes right now,” I said, positioning myself next to her head.
“Look, moms really are superheroes,” she quipped, closing her eyes. “And the epidural helps.”
Sam stilled, quiet, and then winced as she began breathing through another contraction, exhaling out a rumbling “Ahhhhh” as she clenched her hands, gripping the sheet beneath her.
“Honey, you’re nine centimeters dilated, and everything looks great,” the nurse said matter-of-factly. “The doctor will be right in any minute, okay? It’s almost time.”
“Time for what?” I asked her.
“Time for her to push,” the nurse said, like I should know exactly what was about to happen. “You can help by standing right by her and encouraging her.”
I knew what childbirth entailed, obviously. But I also felt completely clueless, desperate to duck out. But there was no leaving. I was here and determined to stay.
“Okay,” I said, heart racing. “Sam, is that cool? I’m going to be right here the whole time.”
“Give her something to focus on,” the nurse said, like it was obvious.
“Oh my god, should we seriously do the hypnotherapy breathing thing?” I asked, my voice rising an octave with panic.
“Just tell me a story,” Sam said, cracking a weary smile. “Like when the hell did you cut your hair?”
Another contraction hit before I could even open my mouth, and this time Sam let out a loud “Fuck!” just as the Spice Girls harmonized their final “zigazig-ah.”
My life in this moment was nothing like what I would have imagined it to be at fifteen. And yet somehow, I knew in my bones that being here, now, was everything I would have wanted.
40
OLIVE ANNE COHEN was born on a Friday afternoon in August, weighing eight pounds two ounces, and clocking in at twenty inches long. She had a thick mop of black hair, not shocking considering her mom. In the three hours that I’d known her, I’d gathered that her interests included scrunching up her very tiny face, squawk-crying, and pecking at her mom’s nipples as she figured out how to nurse.
Sam’s mom, Joann, had arrived just as Olive’s head was crowning, and now she was holding the tightly swaddled baby against her chest, bobbing side to side in the corner of the tiny recovery room.
“Auntie Clara!” Sam announced when I returned from the vending machine with my red Gatorade and the bag of Doritos I’d inhaled on the walk back. She had a hospital gown half draped over her body, her hair now loose and flowing. The adrenaline of childbirth was still emanating from her; she glowed, rosy and bright, and seemed like she could have leaped out of that bed and polished off one hundred push-ups, no problem.
“Do we need to be quiet?” I whispered, pointing at the watermelon-sized bundle in Joann’s arms.
Sam shook her head. “Babies love noise. The womb sounds like a highway at rush hour. They can sleep through anything.”
“Speaking of, do you want to try to get some rest?” I asked.
“You know, I thought I would be exhausted, but I feel like I could push a truck across a bridge with my hands,” she said, marveling at herself. “Also, my doctor told me I need to try to fart in the next hour, so buckle up.”
“Samantha!” her mom scolded with a laugh.
“Mom, why are you acting like we don’t talk about farts all the time?” she said before turning back to me with the kind of eye roll only a daughter could give their mom: irritated beyond belief and yet somehow still full of love. “She’s trying to impress you.”
“I find you very impressive already, Mrs. Cohen,” I said, hovering over her shoulder to admire her new granddaughter.
“Thank you, Clara,” Sam’s mom said, never taking her eyes off Olive.
“She’s so beautiful.” I couldn’t stop marveling at every small detail. Her face was pink and full, eyes shut like little crescent moons. She was everything; a galaxy of stars, a tiny universe. I’d never felt so overwhelmed by limitless love in my life.
