This Girl: A Novel

“Eight?”
    “Yeah, I know,” he shrugs. “I guess she wanted to be covered, just in case. And they were all numbered, so that one goes with this kid.”
    I smile and look down at the star in my hand. “Is it for Lake too? I don’t know if she’s in the mood for this right now.”
    Kel shakes his head. “Nope. Just for you. Lake got her own.” He pushes himself up off the floor. He pauses after taking a few steps back toward the waiting room, then he turns around and looks down at me. “My mom thought of everything, didn’t she?”
    I smile, thinking of all the advice I’m still somehow getting from Julia. “She sure did.”
    Kel smiles and turns away. I open the star; one of many that I incorrectly assumed would be the last.
    Will,
    Thank you for taking on the role of father to my little boy.
    Thank you for loving my daughter as much as I love her.
    But most of all, thank you in advance for being the best father I could ever hope for a grandchild of mine to have. Because I know without a doubt that you will be.
    Congratulations,
    Julia
    I STARE AT the star in my hands, wondering how in the world she could be thanking me when they’re the ones who changed my life. Her whole family changed my life.
    I guess in a way, we all changed each other’s lives.
    “Will,” Lake yells from inside the room. I quickly stand up and put the star in my pocket. I walk back into the room and over to the bed. Her jaw is clenched tight and she’s gripping the handrail so hard, her knuckles are white. She reaches up with one hand and grabs my shirt, then pulls me to her. “Nurse. I need the nurse.”
    I nod and once again rush out of the room. This time to actually find a nurse.
    •••
    WHEN THE WORDS “You’re ready to push” come out of the doctor’s mouth, I grip the rail of Lake’s bed and have to hold myself upright. This is it. This is finally it and I’m not sure I’m ready. In the next few minutes I’m going to be a dad and the thought of it makes my head spin.
    I am not Gavin.
    I will not pass out.
    The seconds turn into nanoseconds as the room fills with more nurses and they’re doing things to the bed and to the equipment and to Lake and to the lights that are really, really, really, bright and then a nurse is standing over me, looking down at me.
    Why is she looking down at me?
    “You okay?” she asks.
    I nod. Why am I looking up at her?
    I’ve either shrunk six feet or I’m on the floor.
    “Will.” Lake’s hand is reaching over the side of the bed for me. I grip the rail and pull myself up. “Don’t do that again,” she breathes heavily. “Please. I need you to suck it up right now because I’m freaking out.” She’s looking at me with fear in her eyes.
    “I’m right here,” I assure her. She smiles, but then her smile does this twisted thing where it flips upside down and turns into a mangled, demonic groan. My hand is being twisted worse than her voice, though.
    I lean over the rail and wrap my arm around her shoulders, helping her lean forward when the nurse tells her to push. I keep my eyes focused on hers and she keeps her eyes focused on mine. I help her count and I help her breathe and I do my best not to complain about the fact that I’ll never be able to use my hand again. We’re counting to ten for what feels like the thousandth time when the twisted sounds begin coming out of her mouth again. Except this time the noises are followed by another sound.
    Crying.
    I look away from Lake and at the doctor, who is now holding a baby in his hands.
    My baby.
    Everything begins moving in fast motion again, but I’m frozen. I want so bad to pick her up and hold her but I also want to be next to Lake and ensure she’s okay. The nurse takes our baby out of the doctor’s hands and turns around to wrap her in a blanket. I’m craning my neck, trying to look over the nurse’s shoulder at her.
    When the nurse finally has her wrapped up, she turns and walks to Lake, then lays her on her chest. I push the rail down on Lake’s bed and climb in beside her, sliding my arm beneath her shoulders. I pull the blanket away from our baby’s face so we can both see her better.
    I wish I could explain how I feel, but nothing can explain this moment. Not a vase of stars. Not a book. Not a song. Not even a poem. Nothing can explain the moment when the woman you would give your life for sees her daughter for the very first time.
    Tears are streaming down her face. She’s stroking our baby