Amanda nods me on. “Go help them.”
“William,” one of the nurses says, and I realize that's my child. My child. I have two, both squeaking and crying, sounding like billy goats with muzzles. On legs made of helium and concrete, I move to the staging area where William is screaming, eyes shut tight, arms out, naked and new to the world, the umbilical cord bulging and clamped with two clamps, a two-inch spot centered.
I'm handed a pair of scissors.
And I perform the ritual. I'm surprised by the feel of cutting it, how much effort it takes.
The nurse takes him and rubs him with a blanket, then wraps him like a burrito, another nurse moving me to Charlie, who could not be more different from his brother.
Brother. Amanda and I made brothers.
Charlie is calm, almost preternaturally so, staring up at me with dark eyes that take in everything.
As I reach for the scissors, eyes on him, his hand brushes mine, clinging to my glove-covered pinky.
“Shhhh, Charlie. Shhhhh.”
“Daddy's here,” one of the nurses says.
I've spent the entire labor and birth carefully restraining my inner turmoil, emotions there but pushed off to the side, in a sector with firm boundaries. Saying my son's name, giving him comfort, having him reach out to me like this–it's permission.
Permission to feel.
Tears don't come naturally to McCormick men. We're taught from a young age not to show emotion. The tacit message is: Don't express.
Even better?
Don't feel at all.
I'm breaking that cycle right now, letting the tears come, feeling them roll down my cheeks, tears of joy and gratitude, of connection and transition. I'm no longer the keeper of my genes, roaming the Earth as a self-contained entity, my heart lent to Amanda but not passed on to another generation.
But now? We've created one.
A new generation who won't just carry on the McCormick name, the McCormick genes, the McCormick business.
They'll break patterns that need to be shattered, and forge new ones.
Starting now.
I clip Charlie's cord, his eyes on mine for a few seconds before they slowly close, then open again, a nurse holding the clamps steady so I can do it one-handed. Then he's rubbed with the towel and burrito-wrapped.
Both of my sons are placed in my arms, Will still crying, Charlie quietly observing.
And I bring them to Amanda.
Hearts, as organs, have finite capacity.
As instruments of love, they're capable of holding infinite space.
All four of us fit inside my heart, tucked away in a small, quaint space where we're protected from the rest of the world, living in joy and happiness, our little family all I need.
Amanda can't move her hands, so I brush the boys' cheeks against her, tears streaming down her face as we look at each other. My eyes are connected to my heart, too.
“Thank you,” I choke out. “You did it.”
“Did what?”
“You won.”
Chapter 22
Amanda
It's a good thing women have two breasts and I didn't have triplets.
And it's even better that the hospital has plenty of breastfeeding pillows to prop up the babies, because avoiding the c-section wound is a full-time job.
Andrew is sitting next to me in a chair, holding Will, who just fed and is sound asleep, swollen eyes showing tiny spikes of lashes. Charlie's still attached like a vacuum cleaner, and I peel my tongue off the roof of my mouth.
Everything is a haze.
“What do you need?” Andrew asks in a voice just above silence, his tone so reverential.
“Water.”
Moving his knees carefully, Andrew lifts up, the ripple of thigh muscle under his workout pants something I admire.
Not sexually. Because that layer of hormones is just not present. If I'm sticking something between my thighs right now, it will involve multiple absorbent layers.
Visually, though, he's fun to watch.
Especially when he's holding Will.
“Here,” he says, handing me a stainless steel bottle. “It's the electrolyte solution. Hasn’t been opened before.”
I drink greedily, to the point where it overflows the corner of my mouth, a drop landing on Charlie's head.
“Wow. What else do you need?” he asks.
“Food.”
Gingerly, he moves across the room, Will in his arms, and I can't stop watching. My husband is holding my baby. Our baby. A baby who was inside my body until a few hours ago.
A baby who is finally here.
We're parents.
I'm a mom.
“I made sure to bring these,” he says, setting a ziplock bag full of Cheeto marshmallow treats on the tray in front of me, using one hand to awkwardly open the bag.
My laughter wakes Charlie up. It hurts, too, my ab muscles completely sliced open.
“Ow. Don't make me laugh,” I groan.
Tap tap tap
My mom's face comes into view, her eyes filled with tears, right arm cradling a huge fresh fruit and chocolate basket with two little teddy bears in it.
“Oh!” is all she says as she walks into the room, puts the basket on the small, circular table by a chair, and comes to me, her hug tentative, her tears wetting my shoulder. She's curled away from me so the baby doesn't get hurt, and as she pulls back, she looks down, hand going to Charlie's head but halting just before touching, hovering.
“He's–you're–oh, my little Mandy is a mommy.”
And now I'm crying all over my poor baby.
“Say hello to your grandsons, Pam. This is Will,” Andrew says, pivoting closer so she can touch his head, too. “William Warrick McCormick.”
“And I'm feeding Charlie. Charles Warrick McCormick.”
“Such big–names–” she's sobbing, “–for such little boys!” Mom puts her hand on Andrew's shoulder and stares at Will. “May I?”
“Of course.”
Careful and methodical, my mom walks into the bathroom, the sound of the faucet making it clear she's washing her hands before touching the babies.
It occurs to me that this is part of the delicate work of protecting brand new humans. Mom does it instinctively.
I need to remember this ritual. This request.
This demand when someone wants to hold the new life I created.
The transfer from my husband to my mother is a visual transition, a moving through time that can't be done any other way, one generation handing the new one off to the old. Her smile is incredible, decades peeling off as I see–right here, right now–what my mom must have looked like the day she first held me.
The day she became a mother.
“Grandma?” I say aloud, the question only hitting me now. “Do we call you Grandma? Grammy? Something else? We always called your mom Grandma.”
“That sounds good to me. I'm not fussy. Call me Grandma, Will. I'm so, so happy to finally meet you.”
Charlie pops off at that exact moment. He hasn't gotten much from me, because colostrum is all I have, but I'm following the lactation consultant's instructions. I make eye contact with Andrew and he comes over, lifts Charlie from me, and gives him to Mom.
She's full up in the grandchild department.