She doesn’t cry.
Just looks around the room with vast eyes. Suspended perhaps between the source and earth. Curious, but composed, as if evaluating this change in her circumstances.
Eyes magnified under wavy glass, with yawning circles below, the doctor whispers, be still. Then the needle dips up and down, and the lines on the doctor’s forehead deepen in concentration.
No feeling now, though relief came late. There were no rooms when we arrived so I sat in a wheelchair in the hall, blind-sided by the magnitude of the pain. The wall clock looks normal now. The hands no longer spin wildly, then stop— while hours pass. The door is shut, where before it opened and closed repeatedly, with groups of white coats and fresh faces standing in the doorway, staring between my open legs.
How odd, I’d thought.
They’ve moved her now and I can hear little yelps, less sounds of pain than discovery of voice. I’m distressed that she’s placed in his arms first, wrapped in warm towels. He sits in the bedside chair, murmuring. My body yearns, no, demands to hold her.
But I am paralyzed by the repairs and can’t even turn my head to look at her. The stitching has been going on forever; I feel only the pulling of tissue, as I watch the thread being drawn taut.
When I’m put back together, he stands, holds her out to me. His face is wet. Her fist clings to his finger, and her eyes focus on mine, appraising.