And the hour before he got to it, which I said I did not push.
That is true and it is not the whole picture.
Because in that hour I did something, and it is on my phone with a time on it.
At eleven minutes to four in the morning on the twelfth of October, I looked up birthmarks.
In a side room, in a bed, nine hours after giving birth, with my husband sitting four feet away holding our daughter and unable to speak.
I went to my phone.
Three or four searches — whether they run in families, whether that sort means anything, whether it fades.
And I was doing it because I had decided, in about ninety seconds, that whatever had gone across that man’s face was a medical thing and that I needed to be ahead of it.
And he sat there for an hour, with a baby on his chest, working up to a name.
