Something Blue

by Emily Giffin

  His lips moved as he read silently. When he got to the end, he looked up at me and said, “It’s really nice.”

  “Yeah. These blankets are pretty nice too,” I said, stroking the silk border with my thumb. “I guess I no longer want her to go hell.” I laughed. “Just a dingy place in heaven.”

  Ethan smiled.

  “Does this mean I have to call her?” I asked him.

  Part of me wanted his response to be, “Yes, you must call her now,” because I wanted an excuse to swallow my pride and give in. But Ethan just said, “You don’t have to call. Just send her a thank-you note.” He handed the card back to me.

  I couldn’t resist rereading it aloud, parsing every sentence for its meaning.

  “She said she’s ‘sorry for what happened between us.’ Not what she did.”

  “I think that’s implied.”

  “So what does that mean exactly? That she’d take back what she did with Dex if she could?” I asked, redoing my bun.

  “She probably just wishes she had handled things differently,” Ethan said.

  “Like how?” I asked.

  “I don’t know…like waiting until after you and Dex broke up to start seeing him?”

  “Did she tell you that? Do you know that for a fact?”

  “Not for a fact. No.”

  “Okay,” I said, my eyes scanning the rest of the card. “Moving on here…‘Despite the distance between us,’” I read aloud. “Do you think she means emotional distance or geographic distance?”

  “Probably both,” Ethan said.

  “She thinks of me every day? Do you think she’s exaggerating?”

  “No. I don’t, actually,” Ethan said. “Don’t you think of her every day?”

  The answer was yes, but I pretended not to hear the question as I rattled on. “‘Pleased to learn from Ethan?’” I said, remembering the bits of the conversation I had overheard on Christmas. “What exactly did you tell her?”

  “Well, obviously I told her you were having twin boys. You said I could…and I just told her that you’re doing well here. That you’ve made some friends. And I told her about Geoffrey too.”

  “Have you talked to her since Geoffrey and I broke up?”

  “No.”

  I briefly considered asking him about Rachel’s engagement, but I decided that I still wasn’t ready to have it confirmed. I closed the card and tucked it back into the envelope.

  “She can’t honestly think that we could really be close friends again?” I asked, my voice trailing off.

  “She knows you pretty well, Darce. I don’t think she expects you to fold,” he murmured. His tone was matter-of-fact, but his expression said, “I think you will fold.” Or maybe, “I think you already have folded.”

  I put off writing Rachel’s thank-you note for nearly two weeks because I couldn’t decide on the content or tone. Should I forgive her outright? Tell her that I missed her, too, and that although I would never fully accept her relationship with Dex, I wanted to repair our friendship? Was that even the case?

  One evening, on the Saturday night of my thirty-fourth week, something compelled me to get out of bed and retrieve a small leather album in the closet nursery, stuck down in a side pocket of one of my suitcases. I had put together the album several summers before and had packed it at the last moment. I brought it back to bed and flipped through it, skipping past the photos of Claire and Dex and various other friends, and finding one of Rachel and me taken in the Hamptons right after she and Dex had graduated from law school. I studied our carefree poses, our broad smiles, our arms draped casually around each other as we stood by the water’s edge in our bikinis. I could practically smell the salty air, feel the ocean breeze and the sand shifting under my feet. I could even hear her laughter. I wondered why beach photos taken of lost loved ones always seemed so much more poignant than other photos.

  As I looked at that picture of us, I thought about everything that had happened between Dex and Rachel and me, deciding again that the cracks in our relationships had been a breeding ground for deceit. Dex and I had cheated on each other because we weren’t right together in the first place. Rachel betrayed me because our friendship was a flawed one. I lied to her about Marcus because of the same negative undercurrent—the unspoken competition that can corrupt even the best of friendships. That had ruined ours.

  As much as I wanted to hold them responsible, I knew that I was not blameless. We were all accountable. We had all lied and cheated. But despite everything, I knew we were still good people. We all deserved a second chance, a chance to be happy. I considered the expression “Once a cheater, always a cheater,” and I dismissed it as a fallacy. People generally didn’t cheat in good relationships, and I couldn’t imagine Dex and Rachel cheating on each other. I also knew that if I were ever with Ethan, I would never cheat on him. I would be true to him, no matter what, always.

  And at that moment, there on the doorstep of forgiveness, I went into labor. It started out as an intense cramping in my lower abdomen, and when I got up to pee, fluid ran down my leg. My water had broken. I felt a strange sense of calm as I phoned Mr. Smith and reported my symptoms. He confirmed that I, indeed, was in labor, and he instructed me to come to the hospital as soon as possible. He said he would meet me there.

  Ethan was at a sports bar in Piccadilly watching Stanford play in the NCAA basketball tournament. I hated to interrupt the game—he took March Madness very seriously—but he had made me promise to call for “the smallest of reasons,” and I figured that my water breaking qualified. He answered on the first ring, shouting into the phone with bar noise in the background. “Darcy? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine…Is Stanford winning?”

  “They haven’t tipped off yet,” he said. “I’m watching Wake Forest now. They’re looking pretty solid—which is good because I have them going to the Final Four in my pool.” I pictured him perched on a barstool gripping the yellow highlighter he used to mark up his brackets torn from USA Today.

  “When does your game start?” I asked, debating whether I should wait until the game was over to have him meet me at the hospital.

  “Soon. Why? Are you okay?”

  I hesitated and then said, “I’m really sorry, Ethan. I know how much you look forward to this tournament and Stanford playing and everything…but my water broke. Do you think you could come home and take me to the hospital?”

  “Oh, Christ! Don’t move!” he shouted into the phone. “I’ll be right there!”

  Ten minutes later he burst through the door and streaked down the hall toward the bedroom, yelling, “Cab’s waiting outside! Cab’s waiting outside!”

  “I’m right here,” I called out to him from the living room. My small duffel, which I had packed weeks earlier, was resting at my feet.

  He ran into the living room, kissed my cheek, and breathlessly asked how I was.

  “I’m fine,” I said, feeling relieved to see him. “Would you mind tying my shoes? I can’t reach.”

  “Oh, God. I’m so sorry I wasn’t here,” he said as he stooped down to tie my Nikes. His hands were shaking.

  “Where’s your jacket?” I asked, noticing that he had come home wearing only his lucky Stanford T-shirt. “It has to be freezing outside.”

  “I left it at the bar.”

  “Oh, Ethan, I’m sorry,” I said. “And I’m really sorry about interrupting your game too.”

  He told me not to be silly, he’d get the jacket later, and the game wasn’t important. As he bent down to pick up my bag, I noticed a clear patch adhered to his arm, peeking out from under his T-shirt.

  “You’ve quit smoking?” I asked, realizing that I hadn’t seen him with a cigarette in ages or, for that matter, detected any telltale tobacco odor on his clothing.

  “Yeah. Can’t have smoke around you or the babies.” He nervously rubbed his patch as if to give himself a needed boost of nicotine.

  I thanked him, feeling moved by his effort.


  “Don’t mention it. I needed to quit anyway. Now let’s go!” He pulled me to my feet and shouted, “Schnell! Schnell!” which I figured meant “hurry” in another language, maybe German. He helped me to the door, where he grabbed his only other jacket, a bright yellow raincoat. Then he inhaled sharply, rubbed his hands together, and said, “Well. This is it.”

  During our cab ride to the hospital, Ethan helped me with my breathing exercises, which was amusing because he seemed to need more help breathing than I did. We determined that my contractions were six minutes apart and lasting about thirty seconds each.

  “How bad does it hurt?” Ethan asked every time I winced. “On a scale of one to ten?”

  My pain threshold was normally quite low, and I’d been known to bawl even during the removal of a splinter, so the pain actually felt like an eleven. But I told him a four because I wanted him to be proud of my strength. I also told him I wasn’t scared—which is really saying something coming from a former pessimistic drama queen. But it was the truth—I wasn’t scared. I just knew everything was going to be all right with my babies. I had made it to thirty-four and a half weeks. And I had Ethan with me. What more could I ask for? I felt like the luckiest woman in the world. I was ready to meet my sons.

  We checked in at the hospital, and Ethan pushed my wheelchair to our assigned birthing room. He then helped me undress and change into my hospital gown. He blushed as I stood naked in front of him, and for a second I was embarrassed too.

  “You ain’t seen nothing yet,” I said to ease the awkwardness. I laughed. “There is no modesty from here on out…And I sure hope you’re not squeamish.”

  He smiled, held my hand, and said he could handle it. Then he helped me recline in bed. I felt relieved to stretch out—and overcome with a profound sense of fatigue. All I wanted to do was sleep, but the pain was too intense for napping. About five minutes later, Mr. Smith and his midwife arrived. She started my IV while he checked my cervix and informed me that I was nearly five centimeters dilated.

  Shortly after that, an anesthesiologist brought my epidural. I’d never been so excited to see a needle, anticipating a marvelous high, something akin to laughing gas at the dentist. Instead of a tingly, floating sensation, however, the epidural only caused the absence of pain. But on the heels of my vicious contractions, the absence of pain felt downright euphoric.

  Everything happened very quickly after that. I remember Ethan holding one leg, under my knee, my midwife gripping the other, while Mr. Smith coached me to bear down and push. I did—as hard as I could. Again and again. I remember panting and sweating like mad, and making all kinds of ugly faces and guttural cries. After a very long time, my doctor announced that the first baby was crowning. I sat up, straining to see, catching a glimpse of dark, matted hair, then shoulders, torso, and two skinny legs.

  “It’s a boy,” Mr. Smith confirmed.

  Then I heard my son’s first plaintive note in the world. His voice was hoarse, as if he had been crying in the womb for hours. My arms ached to hold him. “I want to see him,” I said through sobs.

  “Just one moment,” my doctor said. “We have to cut the cord…. Ethan, do you want to do the honors?”

  “May I?” Ethan asked me.

  I nodded and cried harder. “Of course you can.”

  Ethan took the big metal scissors from my midwife and carefully snipped the cord. Then my doctor tied it and briefly examined my baby before bundling him in a blanket and resting him on my chest. I shifted his head over my heart, and he instantly quieted while I continued to sob. I gazed down at his angelic face, taking in every detail. The curve of his cheeks, his tiny but still full lips, the dimple in his left cheek. Strangely enough, he looked an awful lot like Ethan.

  “He’s perfect. Isn’t he perfect?” I asked everyone and no one.

  Ethan rested his hand gently on my shoulder and said, “Yes. He is perfect.”

  I consciously savored the moment, deciding that everything I had ever read, seen, and heard about childbirth paled in comparison to what I was actually feeling.

  “What’s his name?” Ethan asked.

  I studied my son’s face, searching for the answer. My earlier flamboyant choices—names like Romeo and Enzo—seemed ridiculous and utterly wrong. His name suddenly came to me. “John,” I said. “His name is John.” I was certain that he would live up to the straightforward but strong name. He was going to make a wonderful John.

  That’s when Mr. Smith reminded me that I had more work to do, and my midwife scooped up John and handed him to a nurse. I tried to keep my eyes on my firstborn, but a fresh wave of pain enveloped me. I closed my eyes and moaned. The epidural seemed to be wearing off. I begged for another dose. My doctor told me no, offering some explanation I couldn’t begin to focus on. Ethan kept repeating that I could do it.

  Several minutes of agony later, I heard another wail. John’s brother was born seconds after midnight. Identical twins with their own, separate birthdays. Although I knew the babies were identical, I was no less eager to see my second born. Ethan cut the umbilical cord, and my midwife swaddled the baby and handed him to me. Through more tears, I instantly surmised that this baby shared his brother’s features, but his were slightly more defined. He was also a bit smaller, with slightly more hair. He wore a determined expression that struck me as amusing on such a tiny, new baby. Again, his name just came to me.

  “You are Thomas,” I whispered down at him. He opened one eye and peeped at me with apparent approval.

  “May I hold them both together?” I asked my doctor.

  He nodded and brought John back to my chest.

  Ethan asked me if I had settled on middle names. I thought of Ethan’s middle name, Noel, and decided that each of my sons should have a part of the best man I knew.

  “Yes,” I said. “Their names are John Noel and Thomas Ethan.”

  Ethan took a breath, blinking back tears. “I’m so…honored,” he said, looking both surprised and touched. Then he leaned down to embrace us. “I love you, Darcy,” he whispered in my ear. “I love all three of you.”

  Thirty-Two

  For the next twenty-four hours, I had no sense of day or night. It was just a blur of time with John and Thomas. Ethan never left my side, unless on a specific mission for peanut butter crackers from the vending machine, painkillers from the nurses, or booties from the gift shop in the lobby of the hospital. He slept on a cot next to my bed, helped me to the bathroom, and snapped roll after roll of black-and-white film.

  Ethan also saw to it that I phoned my mother. When I balked, saying I was too exhausted and hormonal to deal with her, he dialed my home number on his mobile and said, “Here. You’ll regret it if you don’t do this.”

  I took his phone just as my mother answered.

  “Hi, Mom. It’s me,” I said, feeling defeated before the conversation even began.

  “Hello, Darcy.” Her voice was as formal and stiff as it had been on Christmas Eve.

  I refused to be hurt and instead swiftly delivered my news. “I had my babies, Mom.” Before she could respond, I covered the basics, giving her their full names, as well as their weights, lengths, and times of birth.

  Then I said, “Can you believe it, Mom? Twins born on separate days?” I looked down at John, sleeping on my chest, and then over at Thomas, whom Ethan was holding.

  My mother asked me to repeat everything so she could write it down. I did, and then she said, “Congratulations, honey.” A softness crept into her voice.

  “Thanks, Mom,” I said, as Ethan prompted me to share the smaller, but in many ways more important, details. “Tell her how John cries more than Thomas and has a birthmark in the shape of Italy on his knee. Tell her how Thomas peeps at you with one eye,” he whispered.

  I followed his lead, and although it could have gone either way, my mother chose to be satisfying, nearly joyful.

  “I can’t stand the thought of you being alone,” my mother said in a nurturing and repentant tone.r />
  “Thank you, Mom. That means so much to me…. But I’m not alone. I’m with Ethan,” I said, not to be contrary, but because I wanted her to understand Ethan’s importance in my life.

  Ethan smiled as he repositioned Thomas in his arms and then kissed the top of his fuzzy head.

  “Still. There is no substitute for a mother,” she said firmly.

  “I know, Mom,” I said, feeling moved by the truth of her statement.

  “So I’ll come visit as soon as I can…In early June. As soon as we get through Jeremy and Lauren’s wedding.”

  “Okay, Mom,” I said. “That would be really great. Thank you.”

  “And Darcy?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m so proud of you.”

  I basked in her words. “Thanks, Mom.”

  “I love you, honey,” she continued, her voice cracking.

  “I love you too, Mom. And tell Dad and Jeremy and Lauren I love them. I’m really sorry I won’t be able to come to their wedding.”

  “Jeremy understands,” she said. “We all do.”

  As we said good-bye, I found myself pondering what Thomas and John’s birth meant in the larger scheme of things, in the fabric of our family. I had created a new generation. The responsibility of it was awesome. My eyes filled with tears for what felt like the hundredth time since I had arrived at the hospital.

  “This postpartum thing is no joke,” I said to Ethan as I wiped my eyes with the sleeve of my nightgown.

  Ethan brought Thomas over to me, and the four of us crowded into bed together. “Is she coming to visit us?” he asked.

  The us was not lost on me. I smiled and said, “Yeah. After Jeremy’s wedding.”

  “How do you feel about seeing her?” he asked.