Light of Day by Jamie M. Saul Page A

breathe … again . That’s it.” Jack held Anne’s hand. He wiped her forehead with the towel. “Easy now,” he said softly. “Keep breathing. Easy.” Anne lay on the hospital bed and screamed with each contraction. She cursed God for making her a woman. She cursed Columbia-Presbyterian Hospital and the nurse for going along with this “fucking-asinine-natural-bullshit-child-bir—Oh shit .” She gripped Jack’s hand tighter. Jack told her to breathe with him, deeply and quickly. Anne’s screaming grew louder. Anne, who had turned to him inthe Fine Arts building and literally took his breath away when they were students at Gilbert College, was now giving birth, giving breath, to their baby.
    â€œNice deep breaths,” Jack told her. “Nice deep breaths and… push .”
    Anne screamed so loud it seemed she would tear her throat apart.
    â€œEasy,” Jack said. “Breathe nice and easy. Think about the week in Eleuthera when we sang to each other in the hammock. Think about that. Okay?”
    Anne screamed, her face contorted and pained.
    â€œThink about the soothing pink light surrounding you.”
    Anne only screamed.
    Jack started singing, “Breathe in the good breath…Exhale the pain…”
    â€œOh God ,” she cried.
    â€œBreathe in. Breathe—”
    â€œFuck you.” Anne’s body heaving. She screamed. Perspiration dripped off her face. “Fuck all of you. I want drugs.”
    The nurse’s face got tense. She whispered something to Anne. A moment later the top of the baby’s head appeared, and its neck and shoulders. Anne exhaled.
    â€œKeep pushing.”
    Anne let out a loud and exhausted cry.
    â€œPush. Push. Keep pushing and breathing. Easy…Easy…”
    The nurse held up the dark-wet body, more like larva than flesh. She shook it gently into awareness. “A boy,” she announced.
    Later, after the nurse had wiped the baby dry and wrapped him to keep him warm, she presented him like a little trophy, and said to Anne and Jack, “I’ll leave you alone for now.” But they weren’t alone, there was a baby with them, lying on Anne’s chest. Jack sat on the edge of the bed and ran the back of his hand across Anne’s cheek and curled his finger around the baby’s tiny wrist. Anne whispered “Oh my God” as she cradled the baby against her neck and chest.
    They stared at the tiny face, wrinkled and red, his body squirming so slightly, flexing his incredibly small hands. We have a baby, Jack thought, a living, breathing person; and he was overcome with the kindof damp panic that only an irreversible act engenders.
    He was Daniel Benjamin Owens on the birth certificate. It was “To Daniel Benjamin Owens” that Jack’s parents toasted and his friends and colleagues toasted. But to Anne and Jack he was: The Baby. He lay on his back gurgling contentedly at the square of blue sky Anne had painted on the ceiling. He watched with alert and deep eyes all who had come to drink to his health, to his long life. “To Daniel Benjamin Owens.” But it was The Baby who Anne held in her arms. The Baby to whom Jack toasted while the three of them posed, the happy triumvirate, for the camera.
    Those first weeks the loft was rarely without people eating, drinking and celebrating. Jack’s parents brought a crib, toys and clothes. Aunts and uncles and cousins brought toys and clothes. Anne’s staff brought toys and clothes. Jack’s students and colleagues brought toys and clothes. Toys that made noises and toys that did nothing at all. Toys for next year and the year after that. Mobiles that jangled or merely sparkled in sunlight. Puppets and dolls and stuffed animals. Little red coats and blue coats and mittens for winter. Hats and pajamas and bibs and jeans. Baseball caps no wider than a teacup and football jerseys the size of a child’s doll.