Chapter 12: The Shower

Billie's garden in Dover looked like a wedding for people who liked babies.

There were white tablecloths under the oaks and three pastel banners tied between the trees.

A woman from my hospital had made a cake shaped like a stork carrying three bundles.

I was twenty-six weeks and my feet looked like loaves of bread.

"You're enormous," my mother said happily, adjusting my sundress.

"Thank you, Ma."

"It's a compliment. You've never looked better."

Fifty people had come.

The women from the oncology floor sat in a loud row, eating finger sandwiches and arguing about shift swaps.

My mother had brought three of her church friends, and Billie's bridge club had come in a pack, with canes and hats.

Everyone had a gift.

Nathan stood by the lemonade table, in a blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up, holding a long box wrapped in brown paper.

"This one's for you," he said. "It's not from a store."

I tore the paper.

Inside, lying on a bed of tissue, was a rocking chair.

It was pale wood, broad in the seat, with curved arms and a high back that would hold a woman and three babies' worth of exhaustion.

It was a little crooked on one side.

"I built it," Nathan said. "In the garage. Your mother came on Saturdays and shouted at me."

"He sanded the left arm for two weekends," said my mother, from behind. "I told him it was done in the first hour."

"I wanted it right."

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