Louisiana Lament

think there may be complications.” She swallowed hard. “Corey needs you.” The lie slipped out cleanly.
    “Corey? But what about Michelle?”
    “She’s in the delivery room.”
    “Already? How long has she been in labor? Why didn’t somebody call?”
    “Mrs. Tircuit, this happened very suddenly.” Talba made her voice very calm. Somehow, that got the message across.
    “Is she all right? Is my daughter all right?”
    “We hope she’s going to be.”
    The woman broke the connection, evidently panicked. Talba hoped she had someone to drive her to the hospital.
    Talba was stuffing her cell phone back in her purse when it rang again. “This is Ardis Tircuit.” Talba thought:
She must have caller I.D.
“What hospital did you say?”
    “Baptist.”
    Reluctantly, Talba went back to join her mother and Corey. Miz Clara had her eyes closed. She looked like she was in pain, but Talba knew it was only a deep focus. She’d seen it before; her mother was rocking back and forth in prayer. Her brother was still holding hands with her. He looked like a trapped animal.
    Talba simply didn’t see how she could sit here with this kind of tension. She herself did not pray. What she did to tune the world out was read, and she was way too wound up to do that right now. Or to speak.
    She ended up doing nothing, letting her mind wander, sweating and feeling miserable, until the first of the Tircuits got there.
Maybe I could talk to them for him,
she thought, but Miz Clara appointed herself family spokesman and when the elegant Mrs. Tircuit burst into tears, told her she had to be strong and trust in Jesus.
They’re probably Episcopalians,
Talba thought.
    Not that Episcopalians didn’t trust in something or other, but Talba was pretty sure they didn’t talk about it in polite company. Still, there wasn’t an answer to what Miz Clara said; Ardis Tircuit could only nod and shut up.
    Her husband arrived soon, in a business suit, and then a couple of sisters, the latter two wailing. It was turning into a deathwatch, everyone dressed up and praying or crying.
They certainly are pessimistic,
Talba thought.
It’s as if they’ve already given up on her.
    And Talba realized that she hadn’t, that she wasn’t remotely ready to, that—like Corey—she couldn’t imagine life without Michelle. “It’s going to be all right,” she said automatically, patting an arm here, a knee there, and actually, she felt that it was. Women gave birth every day, even if there were complications.
    And yet—it oughtn’t to take forever. What was happening? Talba imagined them doing a C-section, sewing her back up—what else? Transfusions?
    Even as she was thinking it the doctor came out, finger-combing hair just out from one of those surgical shower caps. She was frowning, intent on her hair, scanning the room for Corey.
    When she found him, she smiled. “Everything’s fine.” She looked as if she was going to say more, but Corey’s eyes closed and his knees buckled. One of the Tircuits caught him. Miz Clara said, “Lord, Lord!” Oddly enough, it was Talba who thought to ask about the baby.
    The doctor smiled. “A beautiful girl.”
    “She’s okay?”
    “They’re both fine. Mrs. Wallis had what we call an abruption. In simple terms, that’s when the placenta starts tearing away.” Everyone looked at each other fuzzily. “It can be life-threatening to the baby—and sometimes to the mother as well. In this case, the baby’s heart rate started dropping so rapidly, it…” She looked a little squeamish and stopped, apparently realizing she shouldn’t finish this sentence in front of the family. Talba filled in the blank for herself:
…it really scared us.
The doctor said instead, “We had no choice but to do a C-section.” She smiled again, this time at Corey. “But you got her here in time, Dr. Wallis. They’re both doing great. Congratulations on your daughter.”
    And then they were all hugging each other and crying, even Talba. She felt unbalanced, as if the ground had shifted.

Chapter Eleven
    She slept the sleep of the dead and woke up Monday morning thinking of her newborn niece and her dead friend, Babalu Maya, AKA Clayton Patterson. A couplet came to her: “Life is a leaf / that hovers in the wind.” She considered it, decided against. She had to get around to this one, though. Something important had happened to her—she just wasn’t sure what it was.
    She opened her closet and selected a white blouse and