Cleo

My birthing machinery was proving inefficient. I took a bath, breathed and paced. I crouched like an animal, knelt like a peasant woman from the Amazon and would’ve willingly hung upside down from one of the bad-taste paintings on the wall if it might’ve got things going. None of it worked. Even though the contractions were increasingly uncomfortable they refused to get businesslike.

The doctor arrived around midnight and went to sleep in the next room. I was boring everyone, including me. I wanted to burst through the hospital doors and run away into the night.

Even though I was planning a natural birth with no pain-killers, I developed an attachment to a mask that exuded sickly smelling nitrous oxide. Why it’s called laughing gas I’ll never know. Nothing remotely funny happened, except everyone started talking in Donald Duck voices. They were only doing that to annoy me. Whenever they tried to pry the mask away from me, I clamped it over my face and refused to let go.

The doctor appeared and said she was going to rupture the membranes around the baby’s head. Baby? Was there a baby involved in all this pain? Suddenly a shimmering white cat glided into the room and stood over me, gazing at me with beautiful glittering eyes. Except it wasn’t a cat, it was Ginny!

“You’re making great progress,” she purred in my ear. “We can see the head. The baby has a fine crop of black hair. You can give a push with the next contraction.”

“That’s it,” said Ginny. “One more push…”

Just as well there was a spectacular waterfall to look at. A comet of diamonds, it arced toward the ceiling and landed somewhere beyond my right knee.

A loud cry filled the air. Miniature crimson legs and dainty feet were intertwined with red and purple rope thick enough to tie Steve’s ferry to the  wharf. Umbilical cord. Tiny hands curled like pink camellias. A face wise as a guru, fresh as dawn, peered curiously around the room from under a cap of dark hair. Never had I seen anyone look so confident they were in the right place. The baby. Our baby! A tidal wave of love surged out of me and enveloped the child.

“She’s absolutely perfect,” Ginny said, lowering her into my arms. “What are you going to call her?”

A girl was the last thing I’d planned for. My longing for a daughter had been so deep I’d been too scared to admit it to anyone, especially to myself. This child’s femaleness was a statement she had no intention of being a replica of Sam. Staring up into my face with shortsighted intensity she exuded such strong individuality I wasn’t tempted to mention Samantha, even as a middle name.

“Lydia,” I said. “After my father’s mother. I never met her, but everyone says she was a strong woman.”

“Lydia, little one,” said Ginny tenderly. “May you journey lightly through life’s rain showers.” As she delivered her impromptu blessing I noticed for the first time how Ginny’s eyes gleamed with unspoken wisdom, like Cleo’s.

Risk

A cat’s movements are fluid as milk and she always lands on all fours.

Rob was right. Cleo wasn’t the slightest bit jealous of the baby. Surrendering the bassinet without complaint, our cat seemed to understand Lydia was a precious addition to our household. Fascinated by the new human, Cleo welcomed Lydia’s interest in staying awake most of the night. In fact, Cleo seemed to think Lydia had invented a three-hour feeding schedule specifically to relieve the boredom of long, uneventful darkness. Whatever time the baby stirred, two a.m., three-thirty, or four-fifteen, a four-legged silhouette meowed as if she’d been merely napping in anticipation of this fun event. Cleo would spring onto the rocking chair to snuggle into the warm, damp intimacy of mother and newborn. Sometimes she perched on the chair’s headrest and, purring loudly, gazed down at us through huge translucent eyes. Standing sentinel over us, Cleo seemed to gather mystical power from the night and envelop us with love and protection. The spirit of Bastet traversed the centuries and beamed from our small black cat.

I’d never met a baby more comfortable in her own skin. Clasping my finger with her delicate hand, Lydia seemed to know she was where she needed to be. It was incredible to think she would never have existed if Sam hadn’t left us two and a half years earlier. I still wept for Sam and searched for him in the shape of her head, her eyes. But Lydia was determined to be accepted on her own terms. Great joy doesn’t obliterate grief. Both can be encompassed at the same time.