Happy Birthday Zoë
8:00 PM, February 25, 2017
The driver next to us in his rattling busted Chevy is a fucking idiot. This, I say in my head. I’d been composed during the entire process. But, my nerves are also shot, so…
"You’re a fucking idiot!" I yell, my voice cracking with frustration.
The streets of New Orleans are chaotic—headlights slicing through the rain, horns blaring. Everyone is driving recklessly tonight, which probably means that I’m probably, maybe, perhaps, also driving recklessly. The city pulses in time with the rain, a restless, living thing. Toya groans beside me, curled into the passenger seat, her usual rock-solid composure fractured by pain.
"My stomach is burning so bad." Her voice is tight, almost swallowed.
It’s been twenty minutes of this. This wasn’t supposed to happen yet. We were told another month. Another month to get ready, breathe, and hold off the inevitable. I swerve down Broad, weaving through the madness, only to slam into the worst possible blockade—Endymion parade traffic. A sea of floats and revelers trap us, drowning us in flashing beads and drunken cheers. Toya shifts, wincing. The movement is slower than it should be for her. Usually, she’s all motion—early morning jogs before work, lunges while waiting for the coffee to brew, stretching at red lights just to keep her body in check. But now, she’s still save the whirling and wincing. A guy, a random drunk guy, motions for us to roll down the windows. Toya and I exchange a look.
"Ain’t nobody tryna’ catch no damned beads right now." we yell at him. "get out of here! Get on outta' herrrrre man!"
9:16 PM. Ochsner Baptist ER.
We've been here before, three times already. Each time, the same dismissal—indigestion, false alarm, go home. Her grip tightens around my left hand, fingers like steel cables, pressing hard enough to blur the edges of my vision. I try to distract her—cracking the worst jokes I can think of.
“I ever tell you about the cows that ride on the backs of cats?” I start, drawing a glare that’s half pain, half IKYFL.
Then the blue curtain whips open, and the doctor steps in like a conductor about to cue the symphony.
“Good news,” she says, smooth and sure. “Zoë is coming tonight.”
Toya and I freeze. The weight of panic, anticipation, and everything lifts. We breathe through a smile and sigh. Four hours later, I hold Zoë Mishelle Smith in my arms and sing “Isn’t She Lovely” as her mother sleeps beside us.
Birthday cupcakes & hugs.
With all my heart…Té
