Page 48 of The Lookback

“Not all deliveries are as hard as Donna’s,” Abby says. “In fact, most aren’t. You should know that.”

“But some are worse.”

Abby shrugs. “True.”

“If I tell him and then I decide not to have it,” I say.

“I know.”

“Nothing could hurt him more than that.”

“But most of the time,” Abby says, “babies bring people together. Keep that in mind, too.”

I’m thinking about it as we walk out of the door and into the waiting room, and it’s right then that David Park walks through the sliding doors of the parking lot, his arms straining to carry four very full bags of food. “Hey!” He lifts his arms a few inches. “I thought people might be hungry!”

His face is so bright, so animated, and so beautiful.

Until I decide what I want to do, he can’t know. Losing this baby would break us, and losing him might break me. I just want to come out of this whole thing unscathed.

I’m starting to worry that my wish isn’t even possible.

12

DONNA

My baby’s in the NICU, and I’m stuck in this hot, muggy room.

It’s not ideal, but they said I’ll likely be discharged sometime tomorrow, and then I can spend all my time in the NICU, keeping an eye on little Andrew.

“Are you sure about the name?” I’m filling out the form, but. . . “It’s not too late to name him after you.”

“He is named after me,” Will says. “Andrew William Earl.”

“We could make him a junior.”

“Aiden, Althea, and Andrew,” Will says. “They all start with a. I like it. We’ve talked about it.”

“I guess,” I say.

“And the more I thought about the junior thing, the more I felt like it might make Aiden feel bad.”

I blink.

“Think about it. If anyone ever asked, ‘why’s your second son the junior?’ we’d have to say, ‘well, Aiden’s not really my son.’ And how do you think that would make Aiden feel?”

His unassailable logic, even when making decisions about names, makes me cry again. It’s the hormones, I’m sure, but it’s also this man. He’s always putting everyone else in front of himself. He might want a junior, but he’d never admit it, not if it might make Aiden feel bad.

I feel sorry for some kids who have stepparents, but I never feel that way about Aiden. No one has a better dad than he does. And no one has a better husband than I do, either.

Some woman in black scrubs drops off a tray for me just as I’m finishing the paperwork. I’m nearly done with it, taking a break to poke at the dry and burned lasagna in a little foil pan with my fork, when Helen, David, and Abby walk into my room.

“How are you?” Abby’s face is full of concern, her eyes wide and scanning.

“I’m fine,” I say. “Just fine.”

“You didn’t sound fine,” Helen mutters. “It sounded like they were amputating your leg.”

“Have you ever had an episiotomy?” I ask.

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