Do They Wear High Heels in Heaven? by Erica Orloff Read Free Book Online

my head and kept trying to stroke my forehead to relax me.
    “Stop fucking touching me!”
    “Push, Lily.”
    It had been seven years since I gave birth to Tara, and now Noah was being born in the middle of a snowstorm while my poor husband, David, was stranded in Manhattan, with no trains operating out to the ’burbs.
    “Come on, Lily,” Michael pleaded with me. “Push!”
    “How many fucking kids have you pushed out?” The pain was searing, starting in my back, and I felt like I was literally splitting in two.
    “Breathe!”
    The doctor between my legs said, “Concentrate, Lily.”
    I glared at her, too. “I can’t.” Suddenly, this wave of exhaustion took over the pain, and I collapsed back against the pillows. I could hear the baby’s heartbeat on the monitor and a steady beep-beep of machines. I had my relaxation tape on. Fuck Lamaze. I mean, I love a little Wyndham Hill and jazz as much as the next person, but piano music and a pan flute aren’t going to transport me to my fucking happy place.
    Dr. Gorman looked at Michael. “She needs to push with each contraction now. The baby’s head is right here. I see a head of black hair.”
    Michael leaned up close to me, his voice in my ear. “You can do this, Lily. You’ve done everything you’ve ever put your mind to, gotten every job you wanted, every assignment. You can get this baby out of you. Find your inner bitch and push.”
    “Get—the—fuck—away—from—me!” I grunted as another contraction came. They were in waves now overtaking me time and again until I felt like I was drowning in pain. But his pep talk made me lean up on my elbows a bit and push.
    “Atta girl!”
    “Don’t ‘atta girl’ me!”
    Another contraction. Michael pulled on my left thigh and a nurse on my right.
    “I’m not a wishbone,” I shrieked.
    “Quiet, Lily,” Dr. Gorman snapped. “Concentrate.”
    So I did. I thought of how desperately I wanted to hold this baby. I was tired of practically needing a forklift to climb out of bed. Tired of not being able to see my feet or tie my sneakers. I wanted a baby to snuggle.
    “A few more pushes,” Dr. Gorman said excitedly.
    “Come on, Lily,” Michael urged.
    And then with a burst of energy from Lord knows where—maybe the thought of getting to have my favorite martinis again and fit into my old jeans—the baby’s head popped out, then a shoulder and…Dr.Gorman plopped him on my chest.
    “It’s a boy!”
    I started crying. Michael started crying. I counted ten fingers. I counted ten toes. He was covered in sticky whiteness and had blood on his face, but he was here. My angel, Noah.
    Michael stroked my forehead. “I knew you could do it.”
    “I guess I did, too. What was I supposed to do, leave him halfway in and halfway out?” I laughed.
    He kissed my forehead. “You made a life.”
    Michael cut the cord, and the baby was taken to the nursery. I was exhausted. The doctor gave me a shot of Demerol for the pain—I’d had a pretty major episiotomy. In a few minutes, drowsiness took over. Michael stroked my forehead and pushed my hair, which was matted to my cheeks from the sweat and pushing of labor, off my face. I felt his fingers, connecting me to reality, even as I floated away to dream of Noah.
     
    After I came to, maybe three hours later, my surgeon appeared looking grim-faced. Apparently, he hadn’t liked what he’d sliced from my breast. I wanted to accuse him of being drunk on the job, but I didn’t. I just shut my eyes when he was done talking to me and pretended I was still out of it from the anesthesia. I didn’t want to talk to Michael. I didn’t want to talk to Ellie, who had taken a half day from her job as a graphic artist and come to the hospital to sit with Michael and wait. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. So I shut my eyes and tried to go someplace serene.
    Despite what the radiologist at the women’s center said, she was full of shit. Three weeks later, I could safely say it