She was worth it.
I know it's unwise and I'll pay for it soon, but I open my heart to this little girl, and like a flood, she rushes in. She squeezes herself into every inch, pervading any available space until a pressure builds in my chest and explodes in a sob.
"Oh, God." Tears sluice down my cheeks, imprinting joy on my face. "She's beautiful."
I look up to find Grip looking at me the way I must be looking at her-like she's a miracle I'm going to hold on to as long as I can.
"Beautiful," he agrees, the tips of his long lashes damp with tears.
"I can't believe I passed out." I look back to Zoe, determined to absorb as much of her as I can while I have her.
"Between the drugs and the fatigue, I'm surprised you weren't out longer. It was just for a few minutes, not long at all." Grip eases himself down on the bed beside me, sheltering us with his arm over our heads on the pillow. "The nurses said it happens."
"You cut the cord?" I pry my eyes away from her long enough to catch my husband's smile, pride shining from every pore.
"Yeah, I did," he says softly. "It was amazing."
"Good."
We both turn when the door opens. Dr. Wagner enters, her face a careful mask of polite concern. A nurse follows closely behind.
"How are we doing?" Dr. Wagner asks, picking up the chart hanging at the end of my bed.
"Okay." I meet her eyes frankly, gratefully. "I know you weren't sure we made the right decision, but thank you for getting her here."
"It wasn't that, Bristol." A smile breaks through her professional façade. "That decision can only lie with the parents. It's my job to make sure you have all the facts and know exactly what a decision entails."
I glance back down at Zoe and then to Grip. The reality presses in on us. We can't hide from the end that looms somewhere in the distance, though we don't know how close.
"With that said," Dr. Wagner continues, "you know time is short."
Her words, though true, puncture the joy I managed to find holding Zoe. Some part of me wants to pretend this is a normal birth, that any minute now, my baby will start rooting around, searching for my breasts, already heavy with milk. I want to believe we need to scramble to get a car seat because she came a month early and we were caught off guard and now we have to take her home, but we won't get to take her home.
"I know your family is outside waiting. As soon as you're comfortable, if there's anyone you want to meet Zoe," Dr. Wagner says gently, "you should bring them in soon."
"We will." Grip brushes a thumb across the plump curve of Zoe's cheek. "Thanks, doc."
"She's beautiful," the doctor says, her eyes on Zoe. "I better go make my rounds. If you need anything, let me know."
When she leaves, I notice a purple feather on the door.
"What's the feather for?" I ask the nurse checking Zoe's vitals.
"Pardon?" Her eyes flick from me to Grip in that carefully calm way that tells me she knows who we are, or rather who Grip is. Nobody cares who I am, and that's fine by me. We secured this whole section of the wing to ourselves, and there are no other patients nearby. This day is hard enough without the threat of cameras or other patients stumbling into our privacy.
"The feather," I repeat, pointing to the one hanging on the knob. "Does it mean anything?"
The nurse shifts her feet and her eyes, avoiding the probing look and the question.
"It's just something we do so the staff knows how to conduct themselves," she says evasively.
"Knows what?" Grip asks. "I walked the halls some earlier and didn't see it on any of the other doors."
She glances at Zoe before answering.
"We hang a purple feather on the door when the baby is a demise so the staff all remain sensitive to the situation," she says, her voice soft with sympathy.
A demise.
It sounds cold and final, when my baby is anything but as she lies in my arms. She feels warm and alive. It feels like the whole world is waiting for a demise when I'm begging for a miracle.
"So would you like to start bringing in family and friends?" she asks, obviously wanting to move past the awkward moment that still has me squirming painfully like a deer caught in a sharp-toothed trap.
"Hold on one second," I say. "I want to do something first."
With a glance at Grip, I gently lift the cap away from Zoe's head. I don't hide my flaws from Grip, and he loves me unconditionally. He doesn't hide his from me because he knows I love him with the same immutable heart. Our daughter, for as long as she's here with us, deserves no less.
I want to see her flaws because I know I'll love her just the same.
It's hard to look. Without the hat, the illusion that she's like every other newborn disappears with a cruel sleight of hand and confirms what the ultrasound showed us months ago. There are parts of her missing. A thin membrane covers the parts of her brain that developed, but it's not pretty.
Even so, she's ours.
"You okay?" Grip asks, his shoulders tight as if he's braced for a blow.
"Yeah." I pull the little cap back into place, even though I'll never forget what lies beneath. "She is beautiful, isn't she?"
Relief loosens the muscles in his neck and shoulders, loosens the frown from his face.
"She is." He drops a kiss on the little cap on Zoe's head. "Now let's introduce her to everybody."
It's not everybody, but it's that nucleus of people who have supported us. It's Ms. James, of course, Rhys, Kai, Amir, Jimmi, Luke, and even Jade. The nurse takes pictures of them all holding Zoe, some wearing tear-dampened smiles.
When my parents come, Rhyson stiffly greets them before stepping out of the room. Christmas dinner was okay. He and our father are doing better; he and our mother . . . better. The family counseling sessions have helped, but there is enough tension in the room without their unresolved issues adding to it.
My mother watches the door close behind Rhyson and sighs before turning her attention to me.
"How are you?" she asks, her eyes dry and steady on my face.
"As well as can be expected." I shrug, running a self-conscious hand over my nest of hair, licking my lips and wishing for a little color. An army of friends, family, nurses, and doctors have come through and I haven't thought twice, but without a word, this one woman reminds me that I'm probably not presentable. She's flawless as usual.
"You want to hold her, Angela?" Grip asks. "Your husband just took his picture."
"Where is he?" Mother looks around the room.
"He went to talk to Rhyson." Grip clears his throat when my mother's face falls. It's a sore spot for her that Rhyson has extended forgiveness to my father but still barely tolerates her. Of the two, she cracked the whip hardest when Rhyson was a child. She gave him prescription drugs to cope with his anxiety, and when he was addicted, she delayed getting him help because she didn't understand how serious it was.
"Yes, let's get the picture." She takes Zoe, and at first her arms are wooden, her posture arrow straight. Then, when she looks down at her granddaughter for the first time, maybe for the last, her face softens and her mouth quivers. Her body curves protectively around the little blanketed bundle. I'm astounded to see a tear skate over her powdered cheek. Then my mother does what no one else has dared to do. She inches the hat back to see Zoe just as she is. She looks up at me, and tears spring to my eyes at what I see on her face-not the agony I've seen with some, not the shadow of death, but awe.
"She's wonderful, Bristol," she says, blinking rapidly against more tears. "And of all the things you've done, I've never been prouder of you than I am right now."
I can only nod because my throat is clogged, my lips sealed. My mother is flawed, but I stopped my running tally of her mistakes long ago. The list got too long and just became a record of my bitterness. Despite all of that and as much as we've clashed through the years, I am an offshoot of this tree. I hope I grew straighter and that my roots have gone deeper. I hope my branches will reach wider, offering shelter that my mother often withheld, but if I ever have the breadth of a sequoia or the strength of a sycamore, watching her study my daughter with unflinching love, I know Angela Gray is the tree where I began.
The nurse patiently takes more pictures with everyone while they hold Zoe and some with Grip and me.
"We'll put these in Zoe's memory box," she says when the room is empty of everyone except Ms. James, Rhyson, and Kai.
"Thank you." An ache fists my heart in an ironclad grasp as I take Zoe from Ms. James. A sharp, deeply drawn breath lifts Zoe's chest, and everyone in the room goes completely still.
"Is she okay?" I ask the nurse, fear icicling my blood. "What was that?"