Only Children

by Rafael Yglesias

  “He has no eyebrows,” he said finally.

  “Yes, he does!”

  “Hardly. Just an outline.”

  “He’s a newborn.”

  Peter frowned again. Given the way Peter carried Byron—his arms stiff, holding Byron at a distance from his body, as if he were a bomb—Diane was relieved when the nurse arrived and, official procedure again, took Byron until they got outside the hospital.

  Diane was exhausted by the short trip home. Byron slept through it all, even the exaggerated delight and interest of the doorman and the two elderly women who were regular fixtures in the lobby.

  Diane was startled when they arrived at their apartment door, because it opened by itself. A broad-shouldered middle-aged woman, dressed in a white uniform, stood there, her eyes immediately focused on Byron. “He’ll be too warm in that, my dear,” she said, and took Byron away before Diane even got in the door.

  “This is Mrs. Murphy,” Peter said.

  Of course, the baby nurse, Diane reminded herself.

  “Hello, ma’am,” Mrs. Murphy said.

  Diane nodded in response, unable to talk. She wandered into her apartment, studying each room and its possessions with the curiosity of a stranger.

  “When is he due for a feeding, ma’am?” Mrs. Murphy asked, appearing with Byron. She had taken off Byron’s outer clothing. He squawked, a bony arm stretching blindly at Mrs. Murphy’s bosom.

  “Four o’clock.”

  “You should be resting, ma’am. You don’t have much in reserve after a Caesarean. I’ll bring the little one in at four.”

  “Thank you,” Diane said sweetly. Where was Peter? She heard his voice in the study, talking on the phone. She smiled graciously at Mrs. Murphy, just as she imagined this woman would expect a spoiled young mother to react to the competence and subservience of a baby nurse. You have no idea who I really am, she thought to herself as she walked by, pausing to kiss Byron. He was so soft! Like the soft hot interior of a muffin. The toothpick fingers pulled at her chin as she withdrew.

  “We’ll have a nice talk while Mommy rests,” Mrs. Murphy said to Byron.

  Yeah, she’s nice in front of me, Diane thought. She’ll probably smother him with a pillow the minute I’m out of the room. By the time Diane reached her bed, she was almost staggering. She felt lumpy and stretched, a sweater worn by a fat person. It was good to be in her room.

  Peter looked in the door. “Tony Winters is on the phone. He wants to congratulate you. And then he’ll put Betty on.”

  Diane listened to the eager voice on the phone. “Congratulations! I know you’re exhausted. So don’t talk. Betty and I are very excited. She wants to say hello.”

  “Thank you,” Diane said, and sounded hoarse, weak, just as she should. But her mind was clear, for the first time in months. The core of her intelligence glowed with energy. I’d better write a thank-you note to Stoppard right away, she thought.

  “Diane? It’s Betty. How’s the baby nurse?”

  She laughed. “Weird.”

  “I hated mine. She barely let me handle the baby. Always hinting that I didn’t know what I was doing.”

  “I can hardly move, so I guess it’s good. It’s better than my mother being around.”

  Betty made an appreciative noise. “That’s true. I’ll let you rest. Call me anytime.”

  “Okay, thanks.” That was strange. Betty’s friendliness was so ready, so eager, the relief of someone used to solitude at last finding a sympathetic ear. Was motherhood like that? Isolate you, leave you feeling alone, unappreciated?

  She heard—faintly, faintly—her son complain. Peter looked in the door. He seemed happy. “Good, you’re resting,” he said. “Isn’t Mrs. Murphy great? She knows just how to handle him.” He left, shutting the door behind him. What the hell did that mean? That I don’t know what to do?

  Diane closed her eyes and felt herself going, her strong, clear mind turning off.

  I know what to do, was its last thought before sleep.

  NINA ROLLED on ice cubes. Everywhere she let herself feel, there was cold, freezing through her like razors, shattering her bones.

  “Wha—”

  “You had a beautiful baby boy!”

  She couldn’t climb out. The blue cold strangled her. She twisted her neck to break the grip.

  “Wha … happen?”

  “You had a beautiful baby boy!”

  I’m dreaming, I’m freezing.

  “Wake up!”

  I’m dying in the cold.

  PETER WAITED in his study for rachel to call.

  He thought back to his earlier conversation with Tony Winters, the playwright. “You’ll see,” that infinitely sophisticated man had said, “the baby will turn you into sentimental mush. And it’s good. It’s really good. Like being young again, but without the foolishness. Like getting married, but with the commitment real, the product tangible, instead of impossible romantic ideals.”

  Peter had wandered into the nursery afterward and watched Mrs. Murphy expertly change Byron’s diaper. Peter looked away while she changed the bandage on the reddened circumcised penis, but he forced himself to glance at the blackened stub of the umbilical cord. Mrs. Murphy wiped it with a cotton ball dipped in rubbing alcohol. At first, Byron cried at these ministrations, but she handled him so well, lifting him by his feet and sliding the diaper underneath in one graceful motion, that Byron soon stopped and stared blindly at her.

  Mrs. Murphy kept up a running patter. “Do you see your daddy, watching, learning? So he can do this, too. And then he can take care of his little one, his treasure.”

  My treasure? Peter remembered while he waited by the phone. He could initiate the call to Rachel, but she had said she would be hard to reach.

  Earlier, Mrs. Murphy had put Byron in Peter’s arms and warned Peter to support the neck. Byron pushed his head at Peter’s breast, hoping.

  “There’s nothing there,” Peter told his son, feeling bad about it.

  My treasure? What can I give him? I don’t know anything. I don’t have any idea why I’ve lived the way I have, or what I hope for, or even what I wish had happened. I don’t love his mother and I didn’t want him to be born.

  That was the simple truth. Horrible, unspeakable. It was the truth Peter was rejecting, fighting off like a horde of insects, frantically, hopelessly. Could he change it? By an act of will, by sheer determination?

  The phone rang. He grabbed for it.

  “Hello,” Rachel said. “Everybody safe at home? Can we talk?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. The effort made his voice harsh. “We can’t do this anymore.”

  “Talk on the phone?” Her voice stayed cheerful, fought to maintain it. “Or anything?”

  “Anything,” he intoned.

  “Okay,” she said casually, and hung up. He was surprised at her easy surrender.

  Later he walked into Byron’s room, told Mrs. Murphy she could get herself coffee, take a break. “I’ll make myself some tea,” she said. “He’s an angel,” she commented while exiting.

  Peter knelt at the side of the baby carriage. Byron had two fingers between his lips, his eyes closed, his mouth working. He had his mother’s olive skin. A vein ran across his bald skull, pulsing as he sucked. Peter realized Rachel thought his resolve wouldn’t last.

  He knew it would.

  WHEN DR. EPHRON appeared, joining Eric in the slovenly hallway, she had a timid look on her face. Eric thought this was the natural companion to bad news.

  “Everything’s fine,” Ephron began. “As you could see, the cord was wrapped three times around the neck. Doesn’t make any difference until pushing. Then it tightens. She’d gotten him so far down I thought we might make it through without a general. But you saw. I had to get baby out quickly. At least we avoided a C section.”

  He waited. Now for the bad news.

  “Okay? I’m sorry if I yelled. I was startled. Fathers aren’t supposed to be present at a general. Hospital rule. In the
confusion— in the rush, I forgot you were there.”

  “They’re both okay?” he asked meekly.

  Ephron blinked. She smiled, not at him, but to herself. “Absolutely, Mr. Gold! They’re both fine. She’s still under, but she should be coming out of it soon. Your son is fine—you haven’t seen him!” Ephron, her manner now self-assured, opened the doors and whispered something inside. She turned back to him. “You can go in for a second to see him.” She held the door open.

  Eric moved into the operating room slowly, his legs advancing, although his mind wanted to retreat. Nina lay on the table, killed. He didn’t look at Nina for more than a second. The sight terrified him. A nurse blocked his vision anyway. She held a mass of white and offered it to Eric with a smile of expectation.

  Then it was in his arms. Light, nothing to hold, nothing like the weight it had been in his heart. He looked at the little face, at the little face of his son, his heir, his firstborn.

  There was hair everywhere, a black down covering a monkey face. He was squashed; his cheeks, nose, forehead compressed. The eyes were shut, the mouth twisted in a complaint, and he meowed unhappily.

  “Oh,” Eric said, miserable for him. He thought of the cord twisting tighter and tighter, desiring his death. Eric rocked his arms back and forth. The features smoothed; the mouth smacked open and closed. “Hello,” he whispered. The eyelids were red, swollen, weary—a battered fighter.

  They opened. Just slits. Pools of blue. The red skin winced at the light and closed again. Eric wanted to hide him from the world, the poor thing—hurt, attacked by life.

  “Okay,” the nurse said, her arms out to take his son back. “We have to wake up your wife. You can wait for her in recovery.”

  Eric glanced at Nina as he turned to go. She was spread out on the table under the lights, her mouth open stupidly, her skin white, a dried-out fruit withered by the sun. He wanted to hold her, to rouse her, to tell her what she had accomplished.

  He’s alive, Nina.

  And Eric was back out in the hall again, pushed up against the wall, another discarded piece of equipment.

  Through the doors, he heard them try to bring her back: “Wake up, Nina! You’ve had a beautiful boy!” Pause. Then, louder: “Wake up, Nina! Time to get up!” It was a joke. This is modern medicine? “Wake up! Wake up! Time to get up! You have a beautiful baby boy! Get up!”

  He tried to convince himself that he was tired, that he had panicked unnecessarily about his son, that he was incapable of judging whether Nina was really in trouble.

  “Time to get up, Nina! Wake up! Wake up! You had a beautiful baby boy!”

  He knew Nina had never had a general anesthetic before. He knew that every once in a great while perfectly healthy people never awoke.

  “Time to get up! Wake up! Wake up!”

  “Wake up,” he whispered. He forced himself to move closer so he could see through the glass in the doors. Someone held Nina’s face, shaking her head. Her eyes rolled open for a second.

  “Get up, Nina! No more sleep! You have a beautiful baby boy!” Their shouts were abrasive, hostile. “Time to get up!”

  He hated them. They had saved his child. They were taking care of his wife, preserving her. He hated them.

  Nina’s all right, he told himself. He thought of his tiny son, the red, swollen eyelids opening … excitement came up from his soul, rising over the fatigue, the terror.

  Eric walked down the hall, back into the labor rooms, past the other worried fathers, and out into the general hallway, up to the pay phone next to the elevators.

  His father answered on the first ring.

  “Hello, Grandpa,” he said.

  Silence at first, then a worried voice: “When?”

  “Just a few minutes ago, Dad. You’re the first I called. It’s a boy.”

  “Is he all right?”

  “He’s fine. He took a beating, but he’s fine.”

  “What do you mean he took a beating?”

  “They had to knock Nina out and use forceps. They’ve left his face a little puffy and bruised. Like he went fifteen rounds with Joe Frazier.”

  “Is she all right?”

  “Fine. They’re fine. He’s a beautiful baby boy. He’s got blue eyes.”

  He heard his father call out, “A boy! It’s a boy! He has blue eyes! What?”

  His mother’s voice said something in the background. “What is she saying?” Eric asked.

  “They all have blue eyes when they’re born, she says.”

  “Tell her, thanks a lot. I better go. Congratulations, Dad.”

  “Call me,” his father pleaded.

  “I will.”

  Eric took out the crumpled paper in his pocket with Nina’s family’s phone numbers. He had intended to tell all four of her brothers and sisters, but he didn’t have time. He wanted to be in recovery when Nina woke up. He dialed her parents. Nina’s mother, Joan, answered.

  “Hi, it’s Eric,” he spoke quickly. He had always felt uncomfortable talking to Nina’s mother. “It’s a boy.”

  There was a long silence. He heard something, a material, a fabric rustle. In the background, Nina’s father said, “Who is it?”

  “It’s Eric,” Joan said. “Congratulations,” she said into the phone, and he could hear her voice tremble.

  “He has blue eyes,” Eric said, not caring that the information was meaningless.

  “He has blue eyes,” she repeated. “Is Nina all right?”

  “She’s fine. They had to knock her out and use forceps, but everybody’s fine.”

  “Why did they have to—” She hesitated, shying away from using his phrase. “Why did they need forceps?”

  “He had the cord around his neck—”

  Joan gasped.

  “But he’s fine. They just needed to get him out quickly. I’d better go. I want to meet Nina in recovery.”

  “She’s not in her room yet?”

  “No, no. It just happened. I’m in the hallway. I’ll call you later. Can you tell her brothers and sisters?”

  “Sure, Eric. Give her my love. Call me. Call me when you can.”

  “I will.” Joan had said his name so sweetly, unlike her more typical formal tone. He had never heard any emotion in her voice before.

  He walked back, through the rooms that an hour ago he had thought would be witness to a great tragedy. They looked small, dirty, unimportant now. A nurse waved him into a room with several beds separated by curtains. “She’s over there.”

  Nina was asleep, her head rolled to one side, her lips cracked and dry.

  “You can wake her,” the nurse said. “She won’t remember, but you can wake her.”

  Eric shook her shoulder. Nina’s eyes opened. They were large pools of blue, unfocused. “Hi,” she said, her voice lilting, although hoarse.

  “We had a boy,” he said softly.

  “Really?” She sounded happy.

  “You had a beautiful baby boy!” the nurse called out. “He’s big like his daddy.”

  “Is that true?” Eric asked. The nurse nodded. He looked down at Nina. She was asleep again. He took her hand, the IV still plugged into her thin arm.

  Her eyes opened. “What happened?” she asked.

  He started to laugh, then realized she didn’t know. “You had a boy.”

  “Really?” The same wonder and happiness and surprise.

  “She doesn’t remember?” he asked the nurse.

  “The anesthesia. You had a beautiful baby boy! Lots of hair! Big!”

  “Have you seen him?” Nina asked.

  “Yeah, I held him! You did great, Nina.”

  She shivered. “I’m so cold. Can I have a blanket?”

  She was already covered by two. He turned to the nurse, who answered before he asked: “The anesthesia. She doesn’t need a blanket.”

  When he looked down at her, she was asleep again. He moved to go, but her eyes opened. “Eric?”

  “I’m here.”

  “What
happened?”

  “You had a baby boy. He’s fine.”

  “Really?” Pure happiness. Then sleep.

  He waited. The nurse said, “Go home. You need rest. She’ll be out of it for a while.” But he waited.

  Nina opened her eyes, her teeth chattering.

  “Eric?”

  “I’m here.”

  “What happened?”

  “We had a baby boy.”

  “Really?”

  Finally, he left, convinced his presence was pointless. The walk home was tedious, dreary, and made him feel his almost hallucinogenic fatigue. There was no noise of congratulation. There should be a parade, a crowd of welcome. People went about their business as if it were just another day.

  But he knew it wasn’t. His son was born. His missile into the future. Eric had to make his fortune for him, ready the world, beat it down if necessary, so his boy could tread on a smooth surface into glory.

  Ramon, the small, plump doorman, was on duty. He pumped Eric’s hand. “Un muchacho!” he said. “A boy! You must be happy.”

  Frances, a mother of three (she was explaining to the eldest that Eric and Nina had just had a baby), interrupted: “Now, now, a girl is just as good.”

  Ramon nodded solemnly at her and then winked at Eric.

  Eric went upstairs and walked into their empty apartment. Then he remembered that he had forgotten to ask if Gomez was dead.

  He went into the bedroom that tomorrow he would have to set up as the nursery. Next to the phone was the list of friends he was supposed to call.

  After four conversations, he quit. The tone of them was hollow, routine, drained of the pleasure he felt and wanted to go on feeling. The memory of that little face, scratched, puffy, needing him, came back over and over.

  He left the phone off the hook and went into the living room, searching for the right cut on the Messiah, and gingerly put the needle down. He did something that Nina never allowed—he turned the volume all the way up:

  “And unto us a child is born … ”

  The thrilled voices drowned everything, the traffic, the vague echo of conversation from the courtyard. He climbed on top of the coffee table, shut his eyes, and swayed, embraced by their exhilaration and his joy.