the end of his little finger into Levi’s mouth, and his eyes pop when he feels his son apply himself to his pinkie.
“That is intense, isn’t it?”
The new father nods, surrendering completely to the terrifying power of the life he created.
“There’s your low-tech pacifier. You’ll need that. Ruth won’t want to hear Levi screaming when she goes to the bathroom. Number two is the dread of every small mom who has had a giant baby. All right, Ruth, are you ready?”
Again the queen-mother nod and Eric, careful as a bomb squad, lowers the baby into his wife’s arms.
When Levi is snuggled in, I coach, “Ruth, bring his chin in deep. Make sure his lower lip is out.”
I watch for a few minutes, jot down some notes, tell the new father, “Eric, set up the perfect spot for chair feedings. Keep the weight off that incision. See to it that Ruth has plenty to drink. Mostly water. Be there to take over when Ruth needs to rest.”
I head for the door. “I’m not worried about you three,” I say, pushing the door open with my back, but they are too engrossed in the new family they are creating to notice my benediction.
Out in the hall, Celeste calls to me, “Mom in twenty thirty-four asked for a consult.”
I check my list. “I don’t have her down. Did she take a class or something?”
“Didn’t mention it. I think she’s just another Cam fan. She demanded in no uncertain terms that she had to see you and only you. Very ‘empowered,’ ” Celeste adds, hooking quote marks around the word. “Certainly fits your fan-club profile.”
“Get out,” I protest, but it’s true. For the past few months, I’ve been even more passionate than I already was about all mothers getting what they want. My students, in turn, seem to have become equally passionate that I be part of that. The recent appearance of this “fan club” has helped me do my job the way I truly want to do it. “What ‘profile’?” I ask Celeste.
“You know, tattoos, had to remove a piercing from a very tender place for delivery. And, uh, incidentally, ow. Anyway, you know, one of yours.”
One of mine.
“Sorry, haven’t even finished charting her yet. Basics are prima gravida. Five, fourteen. Not eating.”
“Thanks.” I hurry off, knowing that 2034 is a first-time mom who had a scrawny five-pound, fourteen-ounce baby that doesn’t want to nurse. Outside her room, I rub in sanitizer, shove the door open with my hip, and meet my next patient.
The new mother—young, painfully young; lovely copper-colored hair twisted into dreadlocks that droop from her head like a jester’s cap; plump arms sleeved with tattoos of anime princesses and a wizard trailing stardust—has her head down and doesn’t notice me enter. Her breasts, rosy as Pink Lady apples, are exposed, offered to the infant in her arms. She lifts her head. Fairy wings beat in my memory and a little girl with a voice like Ethel Merman, as dreamy as she was brassy, looks up at me. My head fills with the smell of cinnamon, sugar, and butter from the endless pieces of cinnamon toast with the crusts cut off that I made for her and Aubrey to eat.
“Twyla, you came home.”
Twyla nods, holds her free arm out to me, and I hug Dori’s daughter and Dori’s granddaughter. Twyla smells of labor, the hard, painful work of dragging a new soul onto this earth. Her baby smells like the reward. Running beneath both those scents is a fragrance as essential as newly cut wood that defined Twyla for me from the instant I first put my nose into her auburn curls a dozen years ago.
“You have a baby.”
“Yeah, you pretty much have to have one to get in here.” Twyla has grown into her husky voice; it fits her now. “I remembered that this is where you worked. I waited until my baby was already coming, so they had to admit me. I wanted to get her started right.”
“Can I have a look?”
She nods, and, gently, I peel the soft flannel of the receiving blanket away from Twyla’s daughter’s face. She has given birth to a fairy baby as enchanted as the ones she and Aubrey once pretended to be. Her tiny lips are a perfect Gummi Bear pucker of cherry. Her squinted eyes twitch as she follows the dreams of a newborn waking to an unimaginably alien life.
“Oh, Twyla,” I whisper. “She’s beautiful.”
A princess released momentarily from an evil