Page 84 of Exiled

Small, fragile, but strong and loud.

A wail, high and thin and quavering.

“You’ve got a girl, Mama!” The OB lays a wet, warm, wriggling, squalling body on my chest, still smeared with blood and effluvia. Light hair, blond, thick in a ruff over the top of her head in a mohawk. Little fists shaking, clenched. Little feet kicking.

“Hi, Camila,” I whisper, clinging to her, cuddling her close. “Hi, baby girl.”

But then another contraction rips through me, and I have to push again, because oh yeah, there’s another baby inside me still, ready to come out.

A nurse takes Camila and then I can’t think or breathe or feel anything but the ache, the grip, the pressure, and You’re counting and I’m pushing.

It hurts.

I’m exhausted.

But I’m not done yet, so I push.

You count, and I push.

Is it hours, or minutes, that I push, crushing Your hands in a death grip? I don’t know, cannot measure time, only the increments of one through ten and the brief respite between contractions and the pushpushpushpushpushPUSH, almost there, keeping pushing, Mama...

Another push, and then the same pulling emptying sensation, a sense of relief, and the silence... the cry.

Oh, that cry.

It pulls at my heart, slices me open, puts my world, my life, my being, my love into a little bundle, a wailing wriggling bundle of baby boy.

“Here he is, Mama, a boy! He and his sister have all their fingers and toes!” But there’s an odd note in the OB’s voice.

I see why, when my son is settled on my chest.

Camila is fair, and blond. I see her, being lifted, cleaned, diapered, swaddled, and her skin is fair, like Yours, only not tanned golden by the sun as Yours is. Hair is platinum, like yours. And I just know, when she opens her eyes and the irises have adjusted to their permanent shade, they’ll be Yours, indigo, blazing blue.

But the boy on my chest . . .

He’s dark. Thick black hair. Swarthy skin.

Utterly unlike You.

I sob.

Because I know.

I know.

He is yours, Caleb.

His name isn’t Luis.

He is Jakob.

I look to You, and I see that You know as well. I don’t know how it’s possible, but one look tells me it’s not just possible, it’s undeniable.

You lean close to me. Kiss me. Brush hair from my face with a broad thumb, smile, that beautiful, sun-warm smile. “He’s perfect, Isabel.”

“But he’s—”

“Mine, my love. He’s mine. He’sours. Okay?” You lift him, slimy and afterbirth-gray, crying, shaking angry, indignant fists, and cradle him to your chest. “His name is Jakob.”