Kelly

It hurt so much more than she had thought it would.

Not that she had any basis for comparison, since she’d never given birth before, but the reading she’d done said that the pain would be sharp and come in waves, so she’d expected it to be difficult but manageable.

It was completely unmanageable.

Back labor, the nurse had called it, and Kelly knew it meant the baby was lying face-up rather than face-down. This was not how the baby was supposed to align, and the position was putting pressure on her spine. That was the cause of the pain.

She tried to hold on to this thought, this rational, logical explanation for what was happening to her, as the next contraction began and the wave of the pain rose ever higher.

But the only thing she could think was, I’m not ready, I’m not ready….

With every contraction, she clenched the sheets tightly, ripping at them the way the spasms ripped through her. She whined and cried and babbled, no and please and stop and help.

When the wave receded and she was allowed to relax into the constant, vicious throb in her back, she gasped for breath and sniffled and considered pushing the call button.

She knew they wouldn’t give her anything more. Not yet, the nurse would say, as she’d done every other time Kelly had called her in. Just calm down. It feels worse when you get so upset. Then she’d give Kelly a brisk pat on the hand and leave her alone again.

No, they wouldn’t do anything to help her. Best to conserve her energy for the next swell of contractions, so she could get through it. There was a family waiting for this baby, and they were counting on her to deliver it safely.

Not it. Her. It was a little girl, a daughter.

She wasn’t Kelly’s daughter, though. She was someone else’s daughter, or at least she would be once the papers were signed. She had walked into the hospital pregnant, but she’d be walking out without a baby.

I’m not ready.

“Did you need something?”

The voice came from the doorway. It was graceful and lilting, with a lovely musical accent.

Kelly turned her head, squinting against the light from the hallway, wondering if she’d begun to forget things she’d just done.

“I didn’t think I called.”

“Ah, then you do need something…”

The nurse moved towards her bedside, and Kelly gazed at her in exhausted surprise.

There must have been a shift change, because she hadn’t seen this nurse yet. She would have remembered such gorgeous hair, if she had. Fiery red—real red, not box-dye red—tumbling out of its bun in soft, wind-blown curls to frame the nurse’s face.

At the bedside, the woman pursed her lips in concern and placed her hand on Kelly’s forehead.

Kelly closed her eyes. “Do I still have a fever?” The last time her temperature had been checked, it had been 101.7^o, and the doctor had ordered an IV line of antibiotics.

As the woman removed her hand, she brushed it gently along Kelly’s forehead. “It’s clearing up.”

Her accent was Scottish, or maybe Irish? Kelly struggled to tell the difference between the two on a normal day, and she definitely didn’t have the spoons to figure it out at this point.

She opened her eyes when she heard the sound of something scraping against the floor, and found the nurse dragging a chair up to the bedside… As she took a seat, Kelly caught a fleeting glimpse of an ID badge.

Brigid, her name was.

Irish, then.

And young—she didn’t look to be much older than Kelly was.

Brigid reached out and placed her hand over Kelly’s. “How are you feeling, then?” She let out a soft giggle. “Well, apart from the obvious.”

Kelly gave a rueful chuckle. “I don’t know.” She swallowed hard. “I can’t feel anything but the obvious.”

“Mmmm.” Brigid’s voice was melodious, even as a hum, and Kelly could feel her muscles beginning to relax.

“Tired. I’m so tired.” Kelly could hear the tears in her own voice. “I don’t know if I can do this, I really don’t. But I have to. But I can’t. I don’t know.”

“Of course you’re tired.” Brigid’s thumb was tracing soothing circles on Kelly’s hand. “You’re bringing a new life into the world. You’re working hard for your child.”

“She’s not my child.” Kelly shook her head. “She belongs to someone else.”

“Oh.” It was a statement of acknowledgment, mild and neutral, but there was a question in it as well.

“I mean, I made her, but she’s not going to be mine. She has a family waiting for her. They’re good, kind people and they’ll love her and take care of her much better than I ever could.” She could feel a trail of wetness slide down the side of her face and into her hair. It ran into her ear, too, and it tickled slightly.

She sniffled, willing herself to be happy about her choice.

“Because I couldn’t take care of her. I’m still in college. I don’t know how to be a mother in college and if I drop out I’ll never make enough money for her life to be good.”

Brigid’s thumb continued to move in a circle on the back of Kelly’s hand, slow and reassuring. “What are you studying, then?”

Kelly choked out a rough laugh. “English. Which I know doesn’t give me much of a chance to make money, but I’m good at writing papers and I don’t know what else to study.”

Brigid nodded. “Well, you’re young still.”

“But everyone else knows what they want to do! They’re all set on becoming doctors, or engineers, or lawyers, or businesspeople, or teachers, and I don’t understand how they all know and I feel so far behind in everything.”

“What makes you so sure everyone else knows so much?”

“Because they have plans.” Kelly shifted a bit, to relieve the pressure on her back. “They have goals. They know what they’re working towards, and I don’t. I’m in school because I’ve always been expected to go to school. That’s the only reason.”

“Well, who knows? This everyone else you talk about, perhaps they have no more certainty than you do. They’ve picked what they have because they’re expected to go into a certain job, or have a job that makes a certain amount of money. Perhaps they haven’t even thought about what they wanted. I’d say you were ahead of the game, considering that.”

“Doesn’t feel that way.” Kelly shifted again. She could feel the next wave beginning to gather itself to rush over her again.

“Of course it doesn’t. But that’s just a feeling.” Brigid paused, squeezing Kelly’s hand, before placing her other hand gently on Kelly’s swollen abdomen. “What did you used to play at being, when you were small?”

“Lots of things, I don’t know. A superhero. Princess Leia.”

Brigid smiled. “You probably wouldn’t find many of those jobs available.”

“Probably not.” Kelly took a shuddering breath and shifted in pain. “Writer. Teacher. Astronaut. Actress.”

“My. That’s quite a list.”

“Yes.” Kelly gave a rueful chuckle. “I wanted to be all of them, too. I wanted to do everything, when I grew up. And now I’m almost grown up, and I can’t figure out what to do.”

“What did you want most of all to be?”

Kelly’s chin was trembling so badly, she could barely get the word out. “A m…mother.”

Brigid sighed, a soft, sympathetic sound.

“Yeah. I wanted to be a mother. It’s the only thing I’ve ever really wanted.” More tears escaped Kelly’s eyes, tickling at her ear as they ran past it. “That’s why I couldn’t just…” She wiped at the corner of her eye with her free hand. “What if this was the only chance I ever have to be a mother? What if I never get another one?”

Brigid’s hold on Kelly’s hand grew more firm. “This is not your only chance. I can promise you that. And you are a mother, and a true mother at that. You’ve put your child’s needs first.”

“I won’t know her as she grows up.” Kelly shook her head and sniffled. “It’s a closed adoption.”

“Did the adoptive parents ask for that?”

“No. I did. I didn’t want…I didn’t know if I could stand it, when she called someone else Mommy.”

Kelly turned her body slightly, trying to see if that would ease the growing ache across her middle. “The caseworker said I could write her a letter, and they’d put it in her file in case she comes looking for information when she’s older.”

“Are you going to do that?”

“I wasn’t,” Kelly admitted, her eyes focused on the window. The curtains had been drawn, but there was enough of a gap to see that it was snowing outside. “But I think maybe I might.”

Then she gasped, a short, barking sound, as another contraction began in earnest. “It hurts.”

“I know,” Brigid murmured, her hand soothing across Kelly’s stomach.

“It hurts.”

“Deep breaths.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.”

“I’m not ready.”

“You’re as ready as you need to be.”

Kelly sobbed, clawing at the pillow with one hand and gripping Brigid tightly with the other. “Please….”

And then she was gasping in desperation, incoherent in her pleas, riding the wave of misery as it pulled her this way and that, drowning her.

But no, it wasn’t drowning her. The waves were breaking over her head, yes, but she had something to cling to, something that helped her keep her head above water, and she held on for dear life.

She felt Brigid hold her hand even tighter, and heard the nurse’s lovely, melodious voice say, “You can do this. Just hold on.”

“It keeps coming,” Kelly gasped. “It doesn’t stop!”

“It will do,” Brigid reassured her. “Soon, it will do. It moves like a wave, you know. You’ve swum through waves at the beach, haven’t you? Remember how you did that. Swim through this one.”

Kelly did remember. She’d spent every summer of her childhood chasing waves at the beach. At first, she’d tried standing in front of the waves, trying to force them around her, but she hadn’t liked it much. Sure, she’d gotten soaked, and that was fun and all… But it hadn’t been very satisfying.

Then one time, on a whim, she’d tried lifting herself up as the wave rolled through, pushing her way up to the top and swimming along the crest of it as she was swept back towards the sand. It had felt wonderful. It had felt like flying.

She’d never pushed back against the waves again.

Kelly did her best to lift herself to the top of the pain and swim through as it swept her along, just as she’d done on the beach. It wasn’t a real wave, she was still in her bed at the hospital. It was only her imagination, and the contraction still hurt every bit as much. But she could breathe, this way. And that was not a small thing…

“Yes, that’s how you do it.” Brigid was rubbing slow circles over Kelly’s swollen belly. “You can’t stop the wave from coming, but you can choose how to swim with it.”

As Kelly resurfaced from the depths of her labor, she let go of the pillow and wiped her face.

“See? You did it.” Brigid smiled at her, but her brow furrowed as she looked across the bed, examining the equipment. “You’re on a pump, then, for your epidural?”

Kelly nodded as she caught her breath. “They said…they said it would keep the pain away.”

“It should, shouldn’t it.” It was a statement, not a question. “Hmmm.”

“Can it be turned up?” Kelly shifted onto her side and closed her eyes. “I know I’ve asked that before, and you all say no, it would be too much, but…”

“I can’t do that, myself,” Brigid informed her. “But I can have the doctor take a look.”

Kelly clutched at Brigid’s arm. “Don’t leave.”

“You won’t be alone for long, I promise.” Brigid removed her hand from Kelly’s stomach, and Kelly shivered at the loss of warmth there. “Your friend, Vicky is it? She’s off work now. She got the message you left her, and she’s almost to the hospital. She’ll make sure they take good care of you.”

“I know,” Kelly mumbled. “That’s why I asked her to come along.” She gave a tired chuckle. “No one messes with Vicky.”

“No, indeed.” Brigid squeezed Kelly’s hand as she let go. “And I’ll get the doctor to check the epidural pump for you. You just rest now.”

Kelly heard Brigid’s light footsteps cross the room, then fade away.

She drowsily hoped that Vicky would be there soon. If Brigid was right, she would be.

She didn’t recall telling Brigid about Vicky, but then again, she was so tired and feverish that she probably didn’t recall half of what she’d said or done that night.

I’m not ready, she thought, as her eyes tracked the falling snowflakes through the crack in the curtain.

And she heard Brigid’s voice in her head, as clear and bright as church bells. “You’re as ready as you need to be.”

~*~

 

Teresa

Teresa watched through the window as the soft, puffy flakes swirled and eddied, pushed this way and that by the winter wind. It wasn’t a sticking snow, by any means; there probably wouldn’t be any left on the ground by the time the sun rose. She might have missed the snowfall completely, if she hadn’t turned off all but one small light in the hospital room.

But Teresa’s mother had suggested she try to nap while she was waiting. After all, she’d pointed out, once the baby was here, Teresa would get very little sleep. And the baby was on her way into the world.

So Teresa had dutifully turned down the lights, while her mother had headed off to find a vending machine. She couldn’t sleep, though. How could she?

Somewhere in this hospital, her daughter was being born.

So Teresa perched on the edge of the bed, watching the snow dance and twirl past the window.

It was snowing the night you were born, she’d tell her daughter, every year on this very night. Or perhaps the next night. No one had given her any estimate of how long it might take the birth mother to deliver the baby. So, January 31st or February 1st.

But how to tell the rest of the story?

Her own mother had told Teresa so many details of her own birth, including how newborn Teresa had looked around the room, wide-eyed and curious, as the doctor cut the umbilical cord.

Teresa would never know how her own daughter reacted to being born, unless one of the L & D nurses was kind enough to seek her out and tell her about it. She’d never be able to start a story with, “When I was pregnant with you…”.

Could she even be a real mother, without having carried her child?

Teresa bit her lip.

They had decided, she and Dave, to be upfront with their daughter about the fact that she was adopted. They’d seen enough teen dramas and after-school specials to know that hiding something like that was a one-way ticket to Family Strife and Bad Things and Heartbreaking Drama.

If she’d been able to conceive and carry this baby herself, she would have had nine months to learn how to be a mother. Nine months of morning sickness, a rapidly growing stomach, unflattering clothing, and sciatica. Then she’d go through labor, with its intense pain, swelling nausea, and episiotomy scars.

It was a good thing, her mother had consoled her, that she didn’t have to go through any of that.

Teresa wanted it, though. She wanted all of it. The pain, the exhaustion, the hemorrhoids. She wanted the thrill of well-earned victory, the undoubtable testament of battle scars. It would have primed her for the struggle of raising a child to be strong and loving and creative and resilient.

As it happened, she wasn’t primed for anything. She was resting comfortably in a quiet room, still in her own clothes, free from needles and the prodding of random medical personnel.

I’m not ready, she thought.

There was a soft knock at the open door, and a liltingly musical voice spoke.

“Sorry to bother you, ma’am. I wanted to check and see if you needed anything.”

Teresa turned to see a woman in the doorway. She looked like one of the nurses—green scrubs, ID badge, stethoscope peeking out of her pocket—but Teresa didn’t remember seeing her before. She definitely didn’t remember hearing a voice with such a beautiful Irish accent. Perhaps there had been a shift change.

“I’m sorry, I’m not a patient. Do you need the room?” Teresa asked. They had told her, when she arranged to stay in the hospital while the baby was there, that she might need to surrender the room if a patient required it.

“Not at all. It’s still yours.” The woman stepped through the doorway, closer to Teresa’s bed. “You don’t have to be a patient for me to bring you something, you know, if you need it.”

“I guess that’s true,” Teresa chuckled. “And please, call me Teresa.”

The woman nodded. “Teresa. Nice to meet you. I’m Bridget.”

Teresa caught sight of the name on the ID badge, just as the woman said it.

“Oh, this is your hospital then?” Teresa joked.

Bridget laughed. “Of course it is! And I’m quite proud of what I’ve done with the place. The upkeep is a bear, though.” She raised an eyebrow in mock distress. “And the taxes –those are outrageous.”

“Aren’t they always?” Teresa rolled her eyes, and they both smiled.

Bridget seemed to be about Teresa’s age, with faint smile lines around the corners of her mouth and the calm, steadfast demeanor of someone with a great deal of experience in her chosen profession. Her green eyes were full of kindness and mirth; her fiery red hair was pulled back out of her face in a long ponytail, the curls tumbling and corkscrewing down her back.

What Teresa wouldn’t give for hair like that. Hers was mousy brown and too fine to hold much of a curl; it was subdued, rather than exuberant. It always made Teresa feel subdued herself, when she tried to do something with it.

“Are you sure I can’t bring you anything? It may be a long night.”

Teresa shrugged. “I can’t think of anything I want, except my baby.”

Bridget tilted her head and smiled. “You must be so excited.”

“Yeah,” Teresa gave a heavy sigh. “I guess I am.”

Bridget’s green eyes gazed steadily at Teresa. There was no judgment in the look, no surprise at the morose way Teresa had spoken.

“I’m sorry.” Teresa spoke in a rush, her hand at her mouth in shock. “I don’t…I don’t know why I said it like that. I want this baby, I’ve wanted a child for a long time. I don’t know why I would sound so, I don’t know, anxious.”

“Because it’s how you feel,” Bridget offered.

Teresa shook her head. “Still…,” she began, and then trailed off.

Bridget moved to the window, and settled into one of the chairs in front of it. “Still…,” she prompted.

Teresa grimaced. “After everything we’ve been through, after everything we’ve tried, here I am acting like I’m being dragged into this. And I’m not.”

She leaned towards the nurse, intent on an explanation. “Because I’m not ungrateful. I am so, so grateful. I know what a gift this is, how lucky we are that it’s all worked out. I thought I’d never….”

Her voice cracked, and she stopped to clear her throat.

“Never have a child?” Bridget finished gently.

Teresa nodded, blinking rapidly. “It’s been so much, the waiting and the hoping and the treatments and the hormones. And oh, God, the money it all cost.”

“But it’s all worked out in the end, yes?”

Teresa bit her lip, her eyes focused on the whirling snowflakes. “I’m not staying home with her,” she ventured, her voice quiet, as if she was confessing to some great sin. “I know that sounds wrong, I’ve wanted her for so long and now I’m just going to hand her off to someone else to raise.”

“No,” Bridget objected. “You’re the one raising her. It’s your love that will lift her up, your values that she’ll take for her own. A good caregiver is a treasure, but no one will ever replace a parent.”

“I don’t know. My mom stayed home with us until my brother was in first grade. Most of the mothers my age, that I know, are staying home while their children are little.”

“It’s not an easy thing to do, on one salary.”

“We could, though. It would be tight but we could manage. A lot of what I make will go towards day care anyway, at least when she’s a baby.” Teresa shook her head. “No, I’m not doing it because I have to. I’m doing it for me. All those other mothers that I know,” she explained in a rush, “all they talk about is diapers and the preschool lottery and PBS kids and which stores are having sales on the latest toys. They all drive minivans and SUVs and they smell like peanut butter and juice and they don’t go out on the weekends and they haven’t read an adult book in years.”

She shrugged helplessly. “I don’t think I could live like that, without forgetting who I am. I don’t want to wake up the morning after she leaves for college and realize that I don’t even know what makes me happy or interests me anymore. I don’t want to realize that my life is defined by yoga pants and school fundraisers and caramel lattes and the weekly grocery ads.”

She examined her fingers to see what damage she’d done while she was picking at her nails. “Sounds awful, doesn’t it? Selfish. Maybe I’m not ready to be a mother.”

Bridget shifted a bit in her seat. “Well, no one’s ever really ready, are they? There will always be something unexpected that happens, and there will always be mistakes made. Let me tell you something, from my years of experience.”

Teresa nodded.

“I’m not worried about you,” the nurse stated. “You may feel overwhelmed at the moment, because of how much your life is about to change, but you’ll regain your equilibrium. No, what would worry me would be if you were dancing around here with not a care in the world, thinking life was going to be perfect once you had your baby in your arms.”

“Life is never perfect,” Teresa scoffed.

“No, it isn’t. But people want it to be. And they will pin all their hopes for a perfect future on something—a wedding, a baby, a new house, a new job—thinking once they get that new thing, everything will be sunshine and roses. Those are the people I worry about, not you. You’re as ready as you need to be, in my opinion.” She chuckled. “Although since you don’t know me, my opinion may not hold much weight.”

“It does, though,” Teresa assured her. “You’re right, I don’t know you, so it probably shouldn’t. But what you’ve said makes sense.” She laughed. “Well, logically, anyway. Emotionally, that’s a different thing.”

“I would imagine you’re having a whole messy jumble of emotions at the moment.”

Teresa lifted her eyebrows in sheepish agreement.

“That’s birth for you,” Bridget pronounced. “That’s what it does. Whether you’re bearing the child yourself, or just awaiting its arrival, it’s a whole messy emotional jumble.”

“It is,” Teresa murmured.

Bridget stood, smoothing the front of her scrubs. “And about the working thing. You’ve been on an airplane. Don’t they always tell you to put the oxygen mask on yourself, before you put it on anyone else?”

“Yes?” Teresa was unsure of the woman’s point.

“You’ve got to be you, before you can be an effective mother. Before you can be a good mother. Put your mask on first, so you can breathe long enough to put on your child’s.”

“Nice analogy,” Teresa complimented.

“Thanks. It’s not original but I do like it very much.” Bridget smiled, faint dimples appearing on her cheeks. “It was good talking to you, Teresa. You take care. Give your daughter a kiss for me.”

A swell of joy swept up through Teresa’s chest. I’m going to kiss my daughter soon.

“Thank you for sitting with me,” she told the nurse. “Have a good night.”

“You too.”

Teresa turned back to the window. Bridget’s footsteps sounded behind her, but it didn’t take long before they disappeared.

Teresa paid no attention to them, nor did she pay attention to the wind-blown snow. She was imagining soft baby skin, quiet little baby noises, and the sweet, sweet smell of a baby’s head.

Somewhere in the hospital, her daughter was being born. And for her, Teresa would be as ready as she needed to be.

 

~*~

 

Peg

As soon as she’d gotten to the hospital, she’d begun craving Oreos.

It was her go-to food when she needed to do some nervous eating.

So, as soon as she’d settled her daughter into a room, Peg had gone in search of a vending machine. She’d found one on the fourth floor, in a little waiting room with floor-to-ceiling glass windows and several potted plants. It was a pleasant enough place to pass the time, if you were forced to pass the time in a hospital.

To Peg’s immense relief, there was a bag of mini-Oreos in the machine. There were several, in fact. Peg limited herself to buying two, and followed up by purchasing a bottle of water from the adjacent machine.

She took a seat facing the wall of windows and opened the bag. She wasn’t prepared to return to the room yet—Teresa was the light of her life and Peg would do almost anything for her, but she drew the line at sharing her small bags of anxiety Oreos. Best to finish them, so she wouldn’t feel compelled to give some to Teresa.

There had apparently been a decent snowfall; the car roofs down in the parking lot were covered by a blanket of sparkly, cotton-like snow. It didn’t look like a snow that would last, however; most likely, it would melt away by morning.

Of course, it was almost morning now, if one were being technical about it, and almost February, too.

Peg was glad of that. She hated January. It was the longest, coldest month of all, dark and grey, with no twinkling Christmas lights to add color and joy.

She hoped her granddaughter would hold off her arrival until after midnight, so she wouldn’t have to have a January birthday.

My granddaughter.

Peg shivered.

As a child, she’d thought that the moment a woman’s grandchild was born, her body would morph into a round, grey-haired, stoop-backed version of its once-young self, like some kind of magical transformation. She’d found herself checking her own reflection in any available reflective surface, once Teresa had called to say the baby was coming.

She didn’t look any different than she had this morning. Not yet, anyway.

There was some grey in her hair, but it was in small whitish streaks near her ears. It didn’t look too bad, since her hair was a light blonde. “Honey Blonde” was the actual shade of her hair; at least, that’s what the box said.

Lately, when Peg colored her hair, those white-grey streaks remained. She didn’t know the chemistry of why the streaks refused to turn Honey Blonde, but it didn’t matter. It was somewhat of a classic look, she thought. Distinguished.

Women weren’t usually called “distinguished”, that was a male descriptor, but Peg thought it fit her hair nicely, all the same.

When she’d texted her younger son, to let him know he was going to be an uncle soon, he’d responded by calling her “Granny”.

Peg did not want to be called Granny.

She took a quick, nervous look at her reflection in the window, Still no difference.

Her children had called their grandmothers Gram (on their father’s side) and Gamma (that was Peg’s mother). She supposed Gamma wasn’t too bad, since it sounded scientific, but she didn’t like those names for herself, either. They were too old.

I don’t want to be old, she thought. I’m not ready.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I don’t mean to disturb you,” a woman said, her voice light and charmingly accented. Irish, Peg thought. Perhaps Scottish, but more likely Irish.

“Not at all,” Peg demurred, turning towards the voice. “It’s not a private room or anything.”

“I know,” the woman said. “But you looked so contemplative sitting there, I didn’t want to break the spell.”

“Go ahead and break it,” Peg encouraged. “It’s not my favorite spell.”

 

The woman was tall, and she bore the same soft roundness that Peg had learned to live with on her own body, since she’d been through The Change. She wore scrubs and her hair was plaited into a single long braid that ran down her back. Her hair must have been magnificent when she was younger; there were streaks of grey through it now, but there were still vibrant flames of red behind the grey. Peg caught herself automatically assuming that the woman was older than her, and gave herself an unwelcome reality check. The woman was probably close to her age.

The woman put coins into the vending machine nearest Peg and made her selection. As she bent down to retrieve a bottle of water, her ID badge shifted enough for Peg to catch a glimpse of her name.

Brigit.

Peg immediately thought of Brigitte Bardot, although this woman was clearly neither French nor an actress.

“I like to sit here when I have a break,” Brigit explained. “It’s a nice room, with all the windows and the plants.”

“I’ll bet it’s even nicer when the sun’s out,” Peg responded.

The woman sat near Peg, but left two seats between them, so they weren’t crowding each other. “Oh, yes. Of course, it gets hotter then too, because of the windows.”

“The air conditioning in hospitals is usually set very low,” Peg observed. “I’d think that would help.”

“It does, a little. But sometimes I wind up hotter than I expect.”

Peg chuckled in recognition. “Don’t worry, soon that will be over and we’ll be cold all the time. At least, that’s how it was with my grandmother.”

“The wonders of aging.” The woman toasted Peg with her water bottle.

A brief silence fell between them, as they took in the view through the windows, before Peg confessed, “I’m about to become a grandmother, actually.”

“Well, that’s wonderful!” Brigit exclaimed. “Congratulations!”

“Thank you, I think,” Peg answered, taking a sip of water.

“You’re not happy?”

“I’m happy there’ll be a baby, and I’m excited to meet her,” Peg corrected. “And I’m thrilled that my daughter is going to be a mother. She’s wanted this for a long time, and she’s going to be so good at it, too.” The lights in the parking lot became blurry, as her eyes began to mist over. “I can’t wait to see her blossom. She will blossom, you know.”

“I’m sure she will,” Brigit agreed.

“But I’ve never thought of myself as a grandmother,” Peg shrugged.

“Well, who does?” Brigit asked. “Until they are, I mean.”

“Right?” Peg nodded in agreement. “Grandmothers have grey hair and they’re all comfortingly round and they bake cookies and listen to old-time music. Okay, so I’m a tad bit round and I’ve been known to bake the odd batch of cookies, but I’m not what you’d call a grandmother.” She gave a short laugh. “My God, I still feel like I did when I was eighteen!”

“I know what you mean,” Brigit nodded. “Caught a look at myself in the mirror the other day and I thought, ‘Who is that woman and where did she get all those wrinkles?’”

Peg chortled. “Exactly! That’s me every time I look in the mirror! I keep thinking I’m all fresh-faced and firm, and then I see myself and I don’t know who I’m looking at!”

“And buying a bathing suit, Good Lord, don’t get me started.” Bridget shook her head. “I’ll be looking at all the cute, colorful little suits, but I always wind up with some big, drapey monstrosity. In black, no less.” She took a sip of her water. “I have to say, I don’t mind the AARP discounts, though.”

“I do like those,” Peg agreed. “Too bad they come with wrinkles and bad eyesight. Do you know, I had to take my glasses off to read the directions on a frozen pizza the other day?”

“No!”

“Yes! Ugh. I felt like my grandmother.” She stopped, her water bottle raised halfway to her mouth. “Of course, I will be someone’s grandmother very soon. Probably before sunrise.”

“It’s not all bad, being a grandmother,” Brigit mused. “You don’t have to do the hard work of it anymore. You can play with the baby and feed it and give it baths, and then when it messes a diaper you can hand it back over to its mother.”

“True,” Peg considered. “I can sleep all night if I want.”

“Feed the child all the sugar it wants, then send it home.”

“Buy her the clothes or the shoes or the toys that her mother doesn’t want to buy her.”

“Oh, you’re wicked,” Brigit giggled.

“It’s a family tradition,” Peg informed her. “You should have seen the junk my mother sent Teresa and Kevin home with.”

“Those are your children, then?”

“Yes. Oh, and let’s not forget the ultimate grandmother prize—watching your child experience karma in the form of their offspring.”

“Ah, yes, there is that.”

“I’m a good person, though, so I won’t gloat,” Peg promised. “But I will enjoy it.”

They each took a sip of water, and Peg’s gaze fell upon the potted nearest to her. It was sitting near a heating vent, and its leaves were trembling ever so slightly in the air current.

“Here’s the thing,” Peg said, her eyes locked on the wavering leaf. “Being the grandmother means being the oldest generation. For most people anyway, I know some are lucky enough to still have their own parents with them, but I don’t. I’m the oldest generation now. This baby, my grandchild, will never know me as anything but her grandmother. Everything I was when I was younger, all that energy and youth and drive for the future—she’ll never know any of that. She’ll never really know me.”

“Mmmm.”

“When you have a child…,” Peg paused, trying to figure out how to put words to the feelings in her mind. “When you have a child, it’s like you’re having the future. You’re creating your own family, and your child is growing within that family, and you’re part of that life and growth. When you have a grandchild, you’re looking at the future, yes, but it’s someone else’s future. It’s someone else’s shiny little family tomorrows, and you may not even get to see all of it.”

The two women stared out the window in silence for a second, before Teresa grimaced. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to harsh your mellow or anything.”

“My goodness,” Brigit said., in a tone of shocked wonder “I haven’t heard that phrase in years!”

They looked at each other for a long minute. And then they burst out laughing.

“Harsh your mellow,” Brigit chortled.

“I don’t know where that came from,” Peg admitted, wiping her eyes. “It’s so old.”

“So old,” Brigit agreed. “Like us.” She raised her water bottle to Peg.

“To old ladies,” Peg toasted, raising her water bottle in return. They both took a swig, and Peg shook her head. “I’m not sure I’m ready to be one.”

“I’m not sure we’ve got much choice,” Brigit pointed out. “Ah, you’re as ready as you need to be, I think. You’ve got wisdom and humor and a sense of the poetic in your soul.” She rose from her chair, screwing the cap back on to her bottle of water. “Besides, think of all the fun you’ll have, spoiling and playing and gloating over karma. It’ll be most enjoyable.”

“It will indeed.” Peg moved her legs slightly, so they’d be out of the nurse’s way. “It was nice meeting you.”

“Nice meeting you, too. Thanks for making my break so enjoyable.” They gave each other a quick wave, and Peg turned back towards the window again. The snow had all but stopped. And Brigit must have been moving quickly, because Peg saw no reflection of her in the mirror.

She hoped she hadn’t kept the woman past the end of her break.

Peg drained the last drops of water from her bottle, and decided that her granddaughter could call her Nana.

She supposed no one was ever really ready to get old, and no one was ever really ready to die. Just like no one was ever 100% ready for anything that happened in their life.

And you didn’t need to be, when it came right down to it. You would do well, in any situation, by being as ready as you needed to be, in that moment.

Peg carefully rolled up the open end of her first bag of Oreos, and stood up to start her way back to her daughter’s room.