Holly nodded, trusting, childlike.

The guttural wail that followed gave me chills. Holly tightened her stranglehold on my hand. Summer placed her cool hand on top of ours. I’d given birth. I knew what it felt like. There was a reason women told and retold their labor-and-delivery stories. The experience was like Vegas—wholly over the top and with an entire foot over the line of decency. Labor was the original slot machine, with higher stakes, greater fear and anticipation, with the promise of an epic prize in the end. The gift that kept on giving. A family.

Summer whispered, “This is wonderful” as she angled her phone over Holly’s shoulder and captured the entire delivery on her phone.

Unnamed voices spoke encouragingly; someone said, “Okay, now the shoulder”; Rosie sucked in a breath and bore down, let out a slow groan that seemed to fold inside itself.

Holly, Summer, and I froze. There was quiet in the hospital room, as if the entire world had taken a slow-motion jump on a trampoline and we were all suspended in the air, waiting to touch back down to Earth.

And then we heard the baby make a noise between a mewl and a cry, and Rosie’s tearful laughter. “She’s here, Holly. Sweetheart, our little girl is here.”

From my perspective as a bystander, it was revelatory. Despite the medical degrees in the room, all the book learning and classes, in that instant the doctors and nurses became nothing but door holders, ticket collectors, spectators. It was as if Rosie’s body was a rock star on a stage shouting, Stand back, brainiacs—a mother is in the house!

Clamors of celebrations, tinny and joyous, leaked through the speaker.

The person holding the phone shifted, and there, in the iPhone rectangle, was a black-headed, soaking-wet baby.

“Oh, Holly,” I whispered. I wanted to pull over. To stop rotating my gaze between the highway and the baby, but I knew this moment was about taking care of Holly, not creating a better moment for Samantha.

“Hi,” Holly said, and the baby gave a cough and whimpered. Holly made a delighted sound, wiped her cheek of a heavy, fat tear.

Summer sighed and said, “So little!”

A woman in blue scrubs lifted the slippery-looking infant and placed her on Rosie’s chest. “Hello, darling girl,” and she flashed a quick look at Holly. Holly’s face, shown in the light of the screen, radiating warmth. Rosie’s face was dry and sure, but soft and buttery with love. And I knew this moment was a gift from the universe. That after all these years, I could be present for Holly and be a witness for all this. I wanted to say, Wait, wait. Slow down. Look! to everyone in the room cleaning up around Rosie as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening.

Whoever was holding the phone must have gotten distracted, because the phone dropped, and a thick, bluish-white, shiny rope filled the screen.

Holly gasped. “What’s that? What’s that thing on the baby?” She gagged and coughed, looked away.

“It’s the umbilical cord,” I said.

“What? That huge thing?” She gagged again, which made me laugh.

“We can’t see the baby,” Summer shouted.

The phone shifted, and Rosie said, “Don’t watch, Hol. We’re going to cut the cord.”

Holly squeezed her eyes shut, then changed her mind and opened them again. “No, I can take it. It’s okay.” But she gagged twice despite herself, adding, “Are they doing that right? Is that the chief resident because I don’t want a med student giving our baby a weird belly button.”

And just like that, Holly was back to being Holly.

The next fifty miles were filled with the soundtrack of Rosie and Holly’s love and their new baby attempting to latch on to Rosie’s breast. Unable to tear her eyes from the screen, Holly told me and Summer, “We chose Eleanor as her name as soon as we knew it was going to be a girl.”

It was hard to keep my eyes on the road, but I was determined to get my friend home to her family. I tried to give them their privacy. This was such a personal time for a couple. I knew because I hadn’t had it with Jeff. Katie had accompanied me to all the childbirth classes. She knew to lock eyes with me during the transition stage of labor, supported my shaking legs in the final pushes.

Listening to Holly and Rosie, I returned to the well-worn path of what I’d missed over the years by sliding into marriage instead of actively choosing a partner. Staying instead of leaving because I couldn’t speak up and get out. In the past, the intensity of that loss was made worse by knowing I hadn’t done the work, hadn’t learned how to ask for what I wanted because of my fear of conflict.

I’d learned so much on this trip. I tried to hide the first tears that leaked out and slid to my jaw. Those tears were followed by more tears. I heard Peanut reposition, and his head appeared at my shoulder. He licked my jaw, catching the salty liquid. I laughed, but it came out half giggle / half blubber—the release so rich and whole, so satisfying, it was as if I’d swallowed something delicious.

Summer peeked around Peanut and said, “Awww, Sammie,” kindly, and I decided this nickname had a new feeling to it.

“Eleanor, I’d like you to meet my friends,” said Holly in the singsong tone that every mother adopts the second a baby shows up.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

LIFE PARTNER

Ten miles from Saint Mary’s, the hospital that housed both Katie and Rosie, Holly unhooked her seat belt and shouldered her bag. The safety alarm sounded.

“We have ten more minutes,” I said.

“I know.”

“Holly.”

She reclipped her seat belt but looked ready to vault.

“I don’t think you can bring Utah in there. At least not until we clear it with the hospital.”

“I’ll put her in my purse.”

“You’re going to hold the baby. Kiss Rosie. Utah is an animal that has been with a bunch of other animals. You can’t expose Rosie or the baby to any kitty critters. Leave Utah. Wash up. Go see Rosie.”

Holly blinked.

“I’ll take care of her,” Summer volunteered and moved to cradle the purring kitten against her chest.

Holly fidgeted and wrapped her cold, bony fingers around my wrist. “I’m nervous. I can’t believe I’m going to meet my daughter.”

She released her seat belt, and the alarm sounded again, like a game show ding-ding-ding right answer. Holly threw Summer a kiss. “Take care of each other.”

All together we said, “We will!” and chuckled at our unified enthusiasm.

I steered the car into the circular hospital entrance and stopped. Holly ejected herself from the car and loped across the pavement, and it was as if I was back one hundred years ago, dropping her off for a history class. She disappeared into the revolving door.

“She moves like an emu,” said Summer.

“Do you think I can sneak Peanut into Katie’s room?”

“I’m not the best person to ask about appropriate behavior. But, no. You can’t. This dog smells like pancakes and wet hair. Also, it might be truly illegal. Which I normally wouldn’t care about, but this was a big trip. Let’s not screw it up.”

“You’re oddly wise, Summer.”

“Odd only because you’re blocked about where wisdom comes from.”

I couldn’t argue with that; she was right. “Can you read my aura? Does it say I can go see Katie?”

“Your aura is already out the door. Go. I’ll sit with the dogs and Utah. I’ll be fine.”

“I won’t be long, my friend, and then you and I can go home, together.”

The cool, humid Wisconsin air cleared my head. I moved on autopilot through the parking ramp and into the hospital, having done this trek so many times before. Inside, the security guard didn’t bother to look up.

Outside Katie’s room I steadied myself, and with a gentle push on the door, I saw my dearest friend sleeping, the green light of the IV shining in her hair. I sighed with initial relief. Somewhere on the unit a monitor dinged. I heard a groan from across the hall; a bed rustled as a body repositioned.

My Katie, with her long eyelashes and hair, her hand folded under her chin.

“Katie?” I said in the same tone I reserved for Maddie, a loving mixture of I’m here and I love you.

Nothing.

I ran my gaze over her forehead, smoothed my clothes, wept silently and deeply as adults learn to do. I wiped my face with the shoulder of my shirt. I said her name again.

She opened her eyes, reached for me. I crawled into bed with her. “I’m so happy you’re here.”

“I’m so happy I’m here.” I inhaled. “You smell like Katie.”

“You smell like McDonald’s.”

“Holly and Rosie had the baby!”

“Holly texted me. She sent a picture. So cute.” I knew Katie was thrilled, but I saw her working to conserve her energy. My heart skipped a beat.

“How are you feeling?”

“Hand me my water.” She pointed to the peach-colored water pitcher. “Tired. You know how it is.”