If anyone were to ask Evie about the lead-up to the birth, they’d get a weird set of events that jumbled together.
She’d been with Tilly, of course. Something enjoyable and soft and easy. So easy. Years and years to get to where they were now. Secrets and hidden feelings all brought into the open and here they were: so happy.
Tilly had given up a daughter, had made decisions at a tender age and thought she’d had to carry those decisions alone.
Instead, now Evie and Tilly shared them. Laura rang, once only, before the birth. Tilly sat outside in the tiny backyard as the day cooled and goosebumps crawled up her arms and shared with Laura.
Laura was filled with slight accusations and frustration. She still felt lied to, deceived. Angry at their parents, and Tilly. And Tilly let it wash over her, let Laura talk. She jumped from that to questions about Tilly, about her life back then and now. Tilly told her about how she’d used to run away, and now managed to stop. To plant her feet and let roots spread out.
Laura was filled with questions.
When the call ended, Tilly was vulnerable and damp-eyed and Evie pulled her into bed and wrapped her arms around her as best she could. Tilly thought Laura was figuring out how she fit now.
She didn’t call again before the birth, but Tilly and Laura did share some text messages: photos, memes, the odd short conversation.
Every time they did, a weight shifted off Tilly’s shoulders, until it was barely there anymore.
All of these things happened during a long two weeks.
Two weeks at home, waiting for the baby to be born already. Because Evie was huge and round and had no centre of gravity—or too much of one, she’d never quite understood that and she’d tried to read about it but information went in one ear and out the other the closer the birth got. She found the simplest of tasks too hard and often she ended up lying on the couch and letting Tilly take care of everything.
There was a lot of Netflix, although the details of the shows she watched were vague and barely there. Phone conversations with colleagues and friends. Her mum bringing food around. The thought of messaging her dad, and deciding she wasn’t there yet. Luke messaged constantly, trying to pretend he was just saying hi when he was clearly anxious and checking in. Her brother showed up at the door with seven little outfits because choosing one had been too hard. The dreams that were so strange Evie couldn’t even explain them when she’d wake up, confused, her legs wrapped in the sheets.
It was all a blur.
But then there were moments that were almost harsh in their clarity. They remained razor-sharp in her mind’s eye.
Tilly laughing when the baby would kick against her hand every time she spoke while Evie’s stomach moved like in Alien. Sean playing guitar to her belly, Cal tapping a tambourine next to him. Tilly falling asleep with her hand on the taut skin of Evie’s stomach. The feeling when she was alone that she wasn’t alone, the baby kicking and kicking as Evie would sit outside with a jumper of Sean’s on, sleeves too long for her and trying to pretend she could still cling to the summer sun that skittered over the tiny yard, when really, they were well into autumn. The neighbourhood cat she made friends with who only wanted to sit on her belly, its purr going on and on forever. The way the baby would still when that happened, as if finally calm. Tilly, concentrating hard as she wrote on a post-it and then stuck the bright pink piece of paper to the cot. Soon the house was peppered with post-its in bright pink, yellow, and green, all covered with Mandarin pronunciations; like they did in their shared room so long ago.
The morning her water broke, she thought she’d peed herself. A slow trickle moved down her legs. Mortification that set in, red creeping up her cheeks as Tilly stared at her and asked her what was wrong.
“I’ve peed myself.”
Tilly’s face immediately drained of colour. She glanced down to the tiny trail of wetness that was showing on Evie’s grey trackies. “Um.”
“Don’t look!”
Tilly’s eyes immediately jumped up to her face. “That’s not wee.”
“Yes, it is.”
“No, it’s not.” And, somehow, Tilly looked both terrified and delighted, a smile crawling up her face. “The baby’s coming.”
“No.” Evie’s heart started racing. She’d never be able to explain what she said next. “It can’t be, we haven’t had breakfast yet.”
Evie remained in denial the entire drive to the hospital. Tilly tried to be calm but ended up speeding a smidge, then slowing back down, then speeding again, just a touch.
It took hours. Hours and hours. She was in labour, in the end, for twenty-two very long, painful hours. Thankfully, somehow, afterwards she didn’t really remember much except to say, “Fuck, it hurt.” Her mum later told her it was hormones, something that made your brain forget the pain so you’d do it again.
Evie didn’t know about hormones. All she knew was the moment the baby was lifted up, squawking from the second it could, and left on her chest, she would have done it all again to have this baby between them. Tilly pressed close, a shaking hand cupping the screaming, red faced baby’s head, covered in something gross, and Evie had never loved something more.
Then this tiny baby became quiet, calm, with huge, solemn eyes that blinked up at her from her breast and Evie gave a sob that held every emotion ever known.
The baby drew in a long, shuddering breath, gaze switching from Evie, to Tilly. And Tilly’s own sob sounded like Evie’s.
“Hello, Taylor,” Evie whispered.
And Taylor blinked, long and slow, as if each of them had all the time in the world.