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“Ricky?”
    I
have told Ally the bare minimum about the uncle who died two decades before she
was born, but what she does know has stuck.
    “You
think?” I say, sure now that I want a girl. Not because of Ricky, but because
of Ally, the heartbreaking thoughtfulness of her.
    “It’s
nice,” she tells me softly. “It would make you happy.”
    It
occurs to me that Ally may know more than I think, may have borne silent
witness to the breakdowns I’ve had at Christmas and on Ricky’s birthday.
    “I
like Brayden,” I say, “or maybe Owen.” I smile. “We still have time to decide.”
    ----
    Babies
come when they want to, when they decide, due-date charts and
ultrasounds be damned.
    I
phone Tim from the office. “Okay, don’t panic.”
    “What?
What’s wrong?”
    “I
think my water just broke,” I tell him, when in fact I know.
    As
if it matters, he says, “But we haven’t even… Are you sure?”
    “Call
Dr. Patel,” I insist coolly, “and meet me at the hospital.”
    “You
can’t drive.”
    “Yes,
I can; there are no contractions.”
    “But
what if…?”
    I
interrupt, “It’s only fifteen minutes. I love you.”
    Before
he can object further, I hang up. Then I switch the phone off and bury it
inside my purse. Now he has no choice but to cooperate.
    When
I tell my assistant, Laurie, what’s happening, she stares at me as if I’ve
sprouted another head. “I can call an ambulance,” she offers nervously. “It’s
no problem.”
    I
am not a cripple and bristle at being treated as such. “Not necessary,” I
flatly state. “Just clear my calendar for the next six weeks and let the other
VPs know.”
    “Okay.”
    Over
my shoulder, I add, “And don’t forget to water my plants.”
    ----
    Dr.
Patel is on a mission to Timbuktu, news I struggle to accept when Tim delivers
it. “The doctors on staff here are topnotch,” he says in hopes of allaying my
concerns. “They handle over two-thousand births a year.”
    I
had our daughter in this hospital. On this floor. Maybe even in this room and
this bed. “I know,” I say, coming to terms. “I’m sure it will be fine. Where’s
Ally?”
    “Mom’s
picking her up from camp,” he tells me, the words ringing incestuous. His
mother has been more pertinent than my own, but the thought that we share her
throws me.
    It’s
been a while since anyone has checked, but the most recent stats on my labor shake
out like this: two centimeters dilated; one-hundred percent effaced; zero
contractions.
    I
wish to see the nurse, and miraculously she appears. “How’re we doin’ in here?”
she asks in a bubbly, singsong tone. “Can I get you some ice chips?”
    I
wonder if babies like the undulating way she speaks. “Sure,” I say. Ice is all
they’ll give me.
    She
turns to Tim. “I can man the fort here, if you want to sneak down to the
cafeteria.”
    Tim
is on a sympathetic hunger strike. “I’m good.”
    “What
about the Pitocin?” I ask, distracting her from the bedside monitors. “Are they
going to induce?”
    I
didn’t have this problem with Ally either, the lack of contractions. But
I’ve heard about it from friends and read the literature.
    “The
doctors are discussing that right now,” she informs me with a placating smile.
“They just tracked down your group B strep results.”
    Tim
asks, “Her what?”
    My
husband’s confusion strikes me as funny, but I manage to stifle a giggle. As
obsessed as I’ve been with this pregnancy, Tim has been doubly so. I didn’t
think there was a stone he’d failed to overturn.
    “It’s
a strain of streptococcus bacteria,” the nurse explains, “that can be
transmitted to the baby during delivery. It can lead to sepsis, pneumonia,
meningitis.”
    Tim’s
hand tightens around mine. To calm him, I say, “But it can be treated with
antibiotics, right?”
    The
nurse nods with enthusiasm. “Sure can.”
    “Prophylactically?”
Tim asks.
    “That’s
the idea.”
    I
say what Tim is thinking. “Was my