Dear X,

We did it. I’m lying in a hospital bed right now, wearing that basic pale blue horribly unflattering hospital gown, and you’re not in my belly anymore, X. You’re out. You’ve arrived. You’re here.

I feel empty and full, at the same time.

I’m trying to sort it out now, to tell you about last night.

It basically started out like every other night lately. Yesterday was a Sunday, so we didn’t have much to do all day, Amber and me. We don’t go to church or anything resembling a brunch or an afternoon stroll. We laze around and watch television and, according to Melly, “eat her out of house and home.”

So that’s what we did yesterday. We sat around eating the proverbial bonbons, and I worked on a paper I’m writing for English class on Romeo and Juliet. We watched The Simpsons and I wrote my paper during the commercials, and I thought about how messed up even Juliet’s life was, a simple teenage girl back in the day who only wants to know what love is, and she can’t catch a break. Amber started in on like a pint of peanut butter cup ice cream, because she said she was so hot she could die, even though it’s cooler out now, and then she and I went out on the front porch to get some air. It was late evening by then, and the moon was up and full, as bright and big as I’d ever seen the moon, casting the whole street in a sheet of silvery white.

It was so beautiful it kind of hurt. Or maybe that was just my back.

“Give me some of that,” I said to Amber.

She passed me the ice cream.

“Did you ever consider,” I said around a mouthful of peanut-buttery goodness, “how the moon is shining on everybody, all over the world, and how it’s the same for all of us?” Right then I was thinking about how this very moon was also shining down on my mom, in Colorado, and my dad, in his lonely house on the hill, and on Heather and Brit and Teresa. And Dawson, wherever he was. And Ted. And it was like in that moment the moon connected us all together, into one space.

It’s shining on us now, X. On me, in here in this room, alone, and on you, in the nursery.

But Amber, of course, didn’t look at it that way.

“No,” she said flatly. “It’s just the moon.”

“Hey, I’m trying to have a moment here,” I said.

“You’re trying to be romantic. But you can’t be romantic about the moon. It’s a hunk of cold lifeless rock circling around our planet. Big whoop.”

“Lots of people are romantic when it comes to the moon,” I argued.

“Well, I’m not.”

“Obviously.”

“It’s just the moon,” she said again.

“You know what you should be when you grow up?” I said. “An accountant. That’s the perfect non-romantic job for you. That’s still the plan, isn’t it? Because people will always need accountants. Will you do my taxes someday?”

She frowned. Amber didn’t talk about her plans anymore. She didn’t talk about her baby or cloth diapers or the support system that’s going to help her raise her kid while she goes back to school. That was bullshit that she told us back in the day to make us think she had it all together. That all ended the night she showed up here with the bruises on her neck.

“Shut up,” she said to me. “What are you going to be, like a waitress? Or one of those women who cleans hotel rooms?”

“Don’t make me punch you in the nose again.”

“Maybe I’ll punch back this time.”

Neither of us really wanted to get in a fight. We were both just irritable and lonesome, in spite of the fact that we were together. It was the moon’s fault, I think.

I gave her back the container of ice cream. “On that note,” I said, “I am going to bed.”

I waddled back to my room and got into my nightgown (I don’t wear pajamas anymore because they can’t keep up with my expanding waistline) and washed my face. Then as I was brushing my teeth I noticed something.

Three drops of blood.

Right below where I was standing, there were three bright red drops of blood.

Now I can look back at it and think, cool. Three drops of blood against the white linoleum of my bedroom floor. Like in the Grimms’ fairy tale of Snow White, where Snow White’s mother pricks her finger when she’s sewing and three drops of blood fall to the snow. And afterward she gives birth to a daughter that’s red as blood and white as snow. It’s a good omen, those three drops of blood.

But right then as I was standing there at the sink I thought, well, apparently I’m bleeding. That can’t be good.

So I wiped up the blood and put on my slippers and went to wake Melly right away. You weren’t moving around right then, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt you move—I mean, I was sure you’d moved lately, but I couldn’t remember, and I wasn’t like gushing blood but I was bleeding a little and I’d seen way too many movies where the woman starts bleeding and then in the next scene the doctors are telling her that her baby has died. So I booked it to Melly’s room.

She wasn’t asleep. For once. She was sitting in her bed reading a book. Something about Ophelia.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, and I told her.

“Are you feeling any pain?” she asked, and I said I wasn’t.

“It’s probably fine,” she said, but she told me to wait for her outside the door while she got dressed and then she’d take me in to St. Luke’s to be sure.

I was out there waiting in the dark hallway when Amber came shuffling up.

“My water broke,” she said like she was reporting on the weather.

I knocked on Melly’s door.

“I’ll be out in a minute,” she called through the wood. “Can you go tell Amber that we’re going to the hospital, so if we’re not back in the morning, she’ll know where we went?”

“Amber’s here. Her water broke,” I say.

The door opened. Melly peered out.

“Your water broke?”

Amber would have answered, but by then she was bent over having a contraction. Then one hit me, too, a real contraction that started under my ribs and vibrated down through my entire body.

“Ow,” I said. “OW.”

Melly looked from Amber to me and back again. “Both of you? Oh my God, is it a full moon?”

“As a matter of fact . . . ,” I gasped.

“Come on,” Melly said, all business now. “Let’s get you girls in the car.”

She looked up as we were making our way down the sidewalk to where her car was parked.

“Goddamn moon,” she muttered to herself.

So the pain. The pain was pretty bad, X. I won’t lie. On a scale of one to ten, one being stubbing your toe, this was like twelve point five. At least at the end there, when I actually thought I might die. At the beginning, I didn’t think it was so bad, like period cramps, maybe a little worse.

I got to the hospital and they checked me out and said the blood was probably just a little of my mucus plug, but you were fine. I was fine. But I was having contractions, small ones that I didn’t really feel, every five minutes.

They hooked me up to a monitor and had me walk around a little, which was supposed to make things move along more quickly. I was only at like two centimeters when I came in, so not very far. That was at about nine p.m. We had a long night ahead, the nurse told me.

But by 9:45 I was at nine centimeters.

“I have to poop,” I informed the nurse.

“What?” She checked my chart. “No way.”

But she checked, and yes, I’d gone from two to nine in less than an hour. And I was ready to push.

That’s when the pain got bad. Before that, I thought people were being overly dramatic about the pain. It hurt, but not too much. But now, now the pain crashed over me. I stopped talking and tried to remember how they taught us to breathe in those classes they’d made us take at Booth, because breathing suddenly became a difficult task.

“Isn’t there some kind of position that’s supposed to make it better?” I asked the nurse.

“No,” she said. “There’s no magic position. Put your feet here.”

She guided my feet into the stirrups. It felt wrong. What my body wanted to do was to stand up, or maybe squat or get on all fours. With my feet in the stirrups I felt like a turtle who’d been kicked over onto its back. Everything felt pointed in the wrong direction.

“No, stay like that,” said the nurse as I moved to get down again.

“What about the epidural?” I gasped. “You know what I’m in the mood for right now? A good old-fashioned epidural. I’m not one of those hippie-dippie girls who think it’s a right of passage to feel the pain or I want to be all-natural or anything like that. Bring on the epidural. Now, please.”

“It’s too late for that,” the nurse said.

“No, no, it can’t be!” I may or may not have started to cry. “I can’t do this tonight. Maybe if I go home and rest up a little. Come back tomorrow.”

Melly grabbed my hand. “You can do this,” she said. “I’ll be right here with you.”

Then we both heard Amber scream from the room across the hall.

“She’s crowning,” we heard the doctor shout.

“Go on,” I said to Melly.

She let go of my hand and moved toward the door. “Goddamn moon,” I heard her say as she went out.

Now I was really on my own. My doctor wasn’t even there—he was delivering Amber’s baby, apparently, but I was okay. It hurt. A lot. But I could take it.

Then my entire body started to bear down without my say-so. I made this weird animal sound that I never knew I could produce.

“Don’t push!” ordered the nurse. “Wait for the doctor! He’ll be here in a minute.”

“Okay,” I agreed, and my body pushed again. I couldn’t stop it.

“I’m sorry,” I panted. “I’m sorry.”

“Just breathe,” the nurse told me. “Pretend like you’re blowing out birthday candles. Like this.”

She got right into my face and started to blow out these little breaths. Whew. Whew. Whew. I tried to do it with her. I could feel everything stretching, the watermelon versus the lemon, and then my body heaved again.

“Don’t push!” ordered the nurse.

“Can’t you just catch her or something!” I screamed, and then I made another animal noise.

I heard a baby crying. It was confusing, since my baby still seemed to be trying to rip me in half.

“Dr. Rutledge!” called the nurse. She was now down on her knees between my legs, preparing to catch you, X.

I felt like I was on fire down there. And the watermelon was definitely stuck.

“Dr. Rutledge, in here!” the nurse yelled again.

My body pushed again.

The doctor literally slid into the room, snapping on a fresh pair of gloves, mask already in place. He basically skidded in there right as you were making your grand entrance into the world.

I screamed.

Something gave way inside of me.

And then there you were. A baby.

Your face was purple, and your body was an alabaster white. The cord was around your neck, and in a flash the doctor cut it and gave you to the nurses, who wrapped you in a towel and started rubbing you all over.

You didn’t cry.

It was me who started crying. “Is she okay? What’s happening?”

Three people were working on you by that time, and the doctor returned to his spot to deliver the afterbirth stuff (gross) and started sewing me up. Apparently you came out so quick that I tore. You owe me, X. I’m going to be like Noodle after this, I know it.

“Somebody talk to me!” I yelled.

That’s when you cried. It was the best noise in the whole world. You cried, and everyone in the room gave a sigh of relief. Your body got pink instead of purple and white. The nurse held you up.

“It’s a girl,” she said.

“Yeah, I know.”

“A beautiful, healthy girl.”

“She’s healthy?”

“She’s fine. Gave us a little scare, is all. Would you like to hold her?”

I’d been thinking about whether I’d hold you ever since Heather. I wanted to. There was something about the skin-to-skin contact, and something about the special milk, and more than that, you were right there. I could see your little fist waving in the air, like you were reaching for me. I could smell you. I wanted to count your fingers and toes, to kiss the top of your head, to whisper hello in your tiny ear.

But then I wouldn’t have let you go.

I couldn’t have.

In that way, maybe Amber was right.

I couldn’t hold you and then give you up again.

“No,” I whispered. “I can’t hold her.”

The nurse nodded without judgment and snuggled you closer to her body, like she was going to play the part of your mother now. Then she wrapped you in a blanket and took you away.

The next bit was hard. They moved me to another room, and they gave me a big shot in the hip because of my blood type or something and made me pee before they’d take the IV out of my arm. When I’d done all that, when I could walk a little, they gave me a rubber glove full of ice to stick between my legs and left me alone.

In that hospital, every time there’s a baby born they play part of a lullaby over the loudspeakers. So I lay there, drifting in and out of sleep, crying a little, and listening to the song. It played three times. It reminded me of how many babies there are in the world. Five last night in this hospital alone, you and Amber’s baby, who arrived right before you.

In the morning Melly came to see me.

“You did good, kid,” she said. “I’m proud of you. I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”

“How’s Amber?”

“She had a girl, too.”

“And what’s going to happen with her?” I asked.

Melly looked sad. “I don’t think she knows yet.”

“Did you see my baby?”

She smiled. “I did. She’s a beauty. I’m obligated to tell you that your baby is cute, but most newborns look like they’ve been in a boxing match and lost it, if you know what I mean. But your baby is beautiful. She’s already got everyone wrapped around her little finger.”

“What about her parents?” I asked.

“She’ll go to a foster family for six weeks, and then they can come and get her.”

“Why six weeks?”

“That’s how long the state gives you to change your mind.”

“Oh.” I swallowed. “Well. I’m not going to change my mind.”

“Good for you,” she said. “I think you’re doing the right thing. The best thing for her.”

“I know.”

She left, and I used the hospital phone to call Dawson at the Kappa house. He didn’t say much, but he seemed happy that you’re alive and well.

“And how about you?” he asked me.

“I’ve been better,” I said. “It’s hard.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” I told him. “Be happy for her.”

“Okay,” he said. “I will.”

After a while I got up and made my way down the hall to Amber’s room. She was lying there all alone, like me, staring toward the window where the light was streaming in. It was nice outside, sun shining, the leaves starting to turn against the foothills. A pretty fall day.

Amber looked surprised to see me. “Oh, hi.”

“Hi. How are you feeling?” I asked.

She wiped at her face. Tears tears tears.

“Me too,” I said, handing her a tissue.

She blew her nose. “There’s so much I can’t give her, and I want to give her the world.”

“I know.”

“I’ve been a brat to you.”

“Yes, you have.”

She smiled. “But I admire you. You always knew what you were going to do, and you stuck to it. You’re so sure of yourself. You make the rest of us look bad.”

“Yeah, well, I’m thinking about sneaking down to the nursery and grabbing my kid and making a break for the parking lot, if that makes you feel any better.”

“It does,” she said. “You won’t, though.”

“I won’t.” I sighed.

“I won’t, either.”

“You’re going to give her up?” After the way she talked, I didn’t think there was any way she’d choose adoption, no matter what.

“She deserves more,” Amber said.

I nodded. “If you want to talk, I’m right down the hall. I swear I won’t punch you.”

She laughed. “Promise?”

“As long as you’re not too annoying.”

After I left Amber’s room, I made my way to the nursery. Not because I intended to steal you back, but because I wanted to see you again. I couldn’t help myself any more than I could yesterday when I couldn’t stop pushing. My body took me to you. My feet had a mind of their own.

The nursery was set up with a bunch of plastic bassinets in a big room in front of a window, just like you see in the movies. It took me no time at all to find you, a little bundle right in the middle, still waving your fist.

The other babies had their last names already, written on a card on the back of the bassinet. Baby Holmes. Baby Marushia. Baby Payne.

They didn’t put my name on you. Your card was labeled, “Baby Star.” I liked the idea—like you were born as more than a mere infant. You were a star, fallen to earth. You were shining so bright.

You were wrapped in a white blanket with a pink-and-blue stripe along one edge, and you were wearing a knitted pink cap, so I don’t know if you had any hair, and I can’t remember from yesterday. But your eyes, X. Your eyes were darker than mine, but maybe that’s a baby thing. They were a deep, ocean blue.

I stood there for almost an hour staring at you, while other people came and went, mothers and fathers who were there to visit or pick up their babies, grandparents and aunts and uncles who wanted a look at the new member of the family, that sort of thing. The nurses fed and changed and rocked whoever cried.

You didn’t cry. You stared up toward the ceiling, waving your hand.

I took a deep breath. I waved back.

“Nice to meet you, Baby Star,” I said. Then I blew you a kiss and went back to my room, and now that I’ve said hello, I started writing this letter to tell you goodbye.

S