Page 19 of Midnight Mass (Priest 1.50)
The nurse squinted at me like I was an insane person, and I kind of felt like one, surrounded by all these bustling nurses and monitors and then I made the mistake of looking over and seeing a nurse with her hand up Morales’s—
“I’m going to go park the truck,” I said uneasily, backing away. “Is there like a sister or a friend we can call to help with—” I gestured at the nurse/hand/vagina situation on the bed. “—All of this?”
There was a sister, it turned out. And then Morales’s husband called back, excited as hell and racing to the airport in a taxi, and by the time I’d parked the truck, Morales knew her husband was on his way and her sister was walking into the room. I stationed myself in the waiting room, examining my arm for bruises and feeling weirdly jittery. Why was I jittery? This wasn’t my baby.
But then I realized that what I thought were jitters were actually slivers of joy—bright, vibrant things piercing the fog of work and guilt. Morales was having a baby, right now, here in this very building. And I’d gotten to be a part of it, a part of this new life, this incredible, beautiful thing that was happening despite wars and genocides and bad politicians and shitty academic politics.
I couldn’t wait until I was in the hospital for my own baby. I sat back and let myself fantasize about it, about Poppy with a swollen belly, about Poppy swearing obscenities at me. About us, growing our family. It almost became too painful to think about—Poppy having my child—not because it made me upset, but because it made me so incandescently happy. I started smiling just thinking about it, wondering if she would agree to trying for a baby as soon as I finished my degree. Hell, we could do it now, because a baby wouldn’t be born for another nine months after he or she was conceived, although I should then really buckle down and think about what happens after this PhD. I couldn’t ask Poppy to have my child if I didn’t have a plan for my own life yet.
“Mr. Bell?” A nurse came out into the waiting room. “Ms. Morales wants you to know that she just delivered a healthy baby girl, and that you’re welcome to come in and meet her.”
I shouldn’t intrude, I really shouldn’t…
“Alright then,” I said, standing and following the nurse back into the room. As I did, I glanced at the clock. It had only been two hours since we’d gotten to the hospital, which seemed fast for having a baby…not that I really knew anything about having babies. My brothers had no kids, and Poppy’s brothers had their children long before I’d met her. Really, my only baby experience was from baptisms, and those tended to be fairly short affairs.
When I came into the room, Morales had fresh plum lipstick on and an expensive cardigan pulled over her hospital gown. “I’m sorry for all the things I said to you earlier, Tyler,” she apologized briskly. “I’m feeling much better now.”
“Yeah, now that they’ve given you pain medicine,” her sister pointed out.
Morales nodded towards the bundle in her arms. “Would you like to meet my daughter?”
I crept towards the bed, suddenly feeling shy—a feeling Morales rid me of quickly, by stretching the little bundle out for me to hold the second I was close enough. I didn’t know a lot about babies, but etiquette suggested it would be rude to refuse a proffered baby, so I accepted, surprised at how little the infant weighed.
I tucked her into the crook of my arm and peered down at her little face, her eyes slightly swollen and her head capped by a blue and pink striped hat. But she was awake and almost preternaturally calm, her dark eyes blinking and her little mouth parted, as if she were staring in wonder at the world around her. She was so unearthly, so perfect and yet so fragile, and in that moment, where her wide eyes seemed to peer up into mine, I felt both a peace and a turbulent joy, almost like giddiness.
I had heard many explanations for why Abraham had named his son Isaac, which means he laughs in Hebrew. That it was because Sarah had laughed when the Lord told her she’d bear a child, or even that he was named for God’s own laughter at the situation. But right now, I knew how Abraham might have felt, holding his own newborn, a bliss so triumphant and euphoric that he couldn’t help but laugh.
I kissed the little girl’s forehead, my chest rending itself open with adoration and hope, and then I (reluctantly) handed her back to Morales, who gave me a tired smile. “Bet you didn’t anticipate spending your Saturday night like this.”
“Beats writing in the library.” I smiled back, except then something cold and panicked seeped through my thoughts, like a blaring alarm that only becomes gradually discernible as you rouse yourself from sleep.
Saturday night.
There was something about Saturday night.
Out of habit, I checked my phone, where the calendar notification showed me exactly what that something was, and also that I was already an hour late to it.
Poppy’s gala.
On a good day, it takes about ninety minutes to get from our townhouse to the new flagship Danforth Studio in Manhattan. And when it comes to New Jersey traffic, it’s rarely a good day. So it was three hours past the gala’s start time when I finally skidded into the studio, my dress shoes sliding against the smooth wood floors as I made for the event space in the open loft above the main studio room.
I’d tried calling Poppy on my way home, and then again several times on the way there, and there’d been no answer. No answer to my texts either, and that was how I knew.
She was furious with me.
But there was a baby! My mind protested, as if she were already arguing with me. You can’t be mad at a baby!
Once she would let me explain everything, it would be fine. I was sure of it.
I just had to find her first.
The gala was still in full swing. The stars twinkled in the many large skylights above. Tipsy donors danced as a band jazzed their way through Gershwin; waiters circulated with endless rounds of drinks; people chatted and laughed on the edges of the dance floor. I searched frantically for Poppy, pushing past the guests as gently as I could, even though I felt like punching my way through the crowd. I had to find her, I had to explain why I was late¸ late even though she had explicitly explained to me how important it was that I support her tonight.
Shit.
I’d really fucked up this time.
I caught a glimpse of bright red lace out of the corner of my eye, and I swiveled on my heel, seeking it out. And then there she was, hair swept high off her neck, a small cross hanging in the dip of her collarbone. The dress plunged to a low, lacy neckline, showing off the uppermost curves of her perfect tits, and while the lace flounced out into a tea-length skirt, the nude-colored sheath under it stopped mid-thigh. Metallic gold heels and that emblematic crimson lipstick completed the look. For a moment, all the blood went from my brain to my dick, and my tuxedo pants became entirely too tight. I’d love to fuck her in all that lace. I’d love for her to spread those shiny heels while I knelt in front of her and lifted her skirt, and then I’d eat her pussy right where she stood.
