Eddie

Dr. Saul kicked us out.

“Take her to the chapel!” he said, and that’s where we are sitting now, in the quietest room in the hospital. It’s as quiet as on the bottom of the ocean.

The boy has curled up in my arms with his eyes closed and is scraping his thumbs against his index fingers. He rubs them incessantly, whispering the whole time. I hug him, and it’s as if his head and the crook of my arm are made for each other. I’d like him to know that his father squeezed my hand before I had to let go to catch him. I’ll tell him in a minute. In a minute.

His name’s Sam. He’s Henri’s son.

Henri has a son.

I hold him tight—Henri’s son from a life I know nothing about. In awe, the same way I’ve held every one of my friends’ or employees’ newborn babies. In awe that such small, energetic life exists. It always feels as if life, however tiny, comes into the world fully formed.

Sam whispers something over and over again, and eventually I manage to make out the words of his prayer. “Come back!”

I join in, silently at first before whispering those words too. “Come back!” we whisper until our words are in step, and together we pray to our fathers: “Come back! Come back!”