Chapter 5: The Limo

I signed myself out against advice at 6:58 that morning.

The pediatrician had checked Rosa's temperature, her feeding and her breathing three times, and she grudgingly said all of them were fine.

A nurse wheeled me to the side entrance with my daughter bundled in her arms.

The rain was coming down in sheets, and the car I had booked was waiting at the curb with its lights on.

Then Ruggero walked in through the sliding doors.

He wore the same shirt as yesterday.

His eyes were hollow, and his dark glasses hung from his collar.

He had been at Nerina's all night.

He looked at me in the wheelchair and the suitcase on my knees, and he understood at once.

"No," he said.

"I'm going to Chicago, Ruggero."

"You gave birth twelve hours ago."

"I'm a surgeon, and I signed the forms."

"Marisa."

"Don't say my name like that."

He turned to the nurse.

"Give her to me."

The nurse looked at me.

I should have said no.

But he held out his arms the way he had in the delivery room, with both hands open, and I nodded.

"Thirty seconds," I said.

He took Rosa and tucked her inside his jacket, against his chest.

He bent his head over her, and I heard him say something too low to catch.

Then he straightened and walked out into the rain.

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