Nicholas Sparks: Two by Two

It was time. Nurses were summoned and they readied the equipment with calm professionalism. Then, all at once, the doctor told my wife to push.

Vivian pushed through three contractions; on the third, the doctor suddenly began rotating his wrists and hands like a magician pulling a rabbit from his hat and the next thing I knew, I was a father.

Just like that.

The doctor examined our baby, and though she was slightly anemic, she had ten fingers, ten toes, a healthy heart and a set of obviously functioning lungs. I asked about the anemia-the doctor said it was nothing to worry about-and after he squirted a bunch of goop in our baby’s eyes, she was cleaned and swaddled and placed in my wife’s arms.

Just as I’d predicted, photos were taken all day long but strangely, when people saw them later, no one seemed to care about my appearance at all.

It’s been said that babies are born looking like either Winston Churchill or Mahatma Gandhi, but because the anemia lent a grayish pallor to my daughter’s skin, my first thought was that she resembled Yoda, without the ears of course. A beautiful Yoda, mind you, a breathtaking Yoda, a Yoda so miraculous that when she gripped my finger, my heart nearly burst. My parents happened to arrive a few minutes later, and in my nervousness and excitement, I met them in the hallway and blurted out the first words that came to mind.

“We have a gray baby!”

My mother looked at me as though I’d gone insane while my father dug his finger into his ear as if wondering if the waxy buildup had clouded his ability to hear effectively. Ignoring my comment, they entered the room and saw Vivian cradling our daughter in her arms, her expression serene. My eyes followed theirs and I thought to myself that London had to be the single most precious little girl in the history of the world. While I’m sure all new fathers think the same thing about their own children, the simple fact is that there can only be one child who is actually the most precious in the history of the world , and part of me marveled that others in the hospital weren’t stopping by our room to marvel at my daughter.

My mom stepped toward the bed, craning her neck to peer even closer.

“Did you decide on a name?” she asked.

“London,” my wife answered, her attention completely devoted to our child. “We’ve decided to name her London.”

My parents eventually left, then returned again that afternoon. In between, Vivian’s parents visited as well. They’d flown in from Alexandria, Virginia, where Vivian had been raised, and while Vivian was thrilled, I immediately felt the tension in the room begin to rise. I’d always sensed that they believed their daughter had settled when deciding to marry me, and who knows? Nor did they seem to like my parents, and the feeling was mutual. While the four of them were always cordial, it was nonetheless obvious that they preferred to avoid each other’s company.

My older sister, Marge, also came by with Liz, bearing gifts. Marge and Liz had been together longer than Vivian and I had-at the time, more than five years-and not only did I think Liz was a terrific partner for my sister, but I knew that Marge was the greatest older sibling a guy could have. With both my parents working-Dad was a plumber and Mom worked as a receptionist at a dentist’s office until her retirement a few years back-Marge had not only served as a substitute parent at times, but as a sibling confidante who helped me wade through the angst of adolescence. Neither of them liked Vivian’s parents either, by the way, a feeling that had coalesced at my wedding, when Vivian’s parents refused to let Marge and Liz sit together at the main table. Granted, Marge had been in the wedding party and Liz had not-and Marge had opted to wear a tuxedo, not a dress-but it was the kind of slight that neither of them had been able to forgive, since other heterosexual couples had been allowed the privilege. Frankly, I don’t blame Marge or Liz for being upset about it, because I was bothered, too. She and Liz get along better than most of the married couples I know.

While our visitors came and went, I stayed in the room with my wife for the rest of the day, alternately sitting in the rocking chair near the window or on the bed beside her, both of us repeatedly whispering in amazement that we had a daughter . I would stare at my wife and daughter, knowing with certainty that I belonged with these two and that the three of us would forever be connected. The feeling was overwhelming-like everything else that day-and I found myself speculating what London would look like as a teenager, or what she would dream about, or what she would do with her life. Whenever London cried, Vivian would automatically move her to her breast, and I would witness yet another miracle.

How does London know how to do that? I wondered to myself. How on earth does she know?

There is another memory from that day, however, that is all mine.

It occurred on that first night in the hospital, long after our final visitors had left. Vivian was asleep and I was dozing in the rocking chair when I heard my daughter begin to fuss. Before that day, I’d never actually held a newborn, and scooping her into my arms, I pulled her close to my body. I thought I’d have to wake Vivian, but surprising me, London settled down. I inched back to the rocking chair and for the next twenty minutes, all I could do was marvel at the feelings she stirred within me. That I adored her, I already knew, but already, the thought of life without her struck me as inconceivable. I remember whispering to her that as her father, I would always be there for her, and as if knowing exactly what I was saying, she pooped and squirmed and then began to cry. In the end, I handed her back to Vivian.

I told them today,” Vivian announced.

We were in the bedroom, Vivian had slipped into her pajamas and crawled into bed, the two of us finally alone. It was mid-December, and London had been asleep for less than an hour; at eight weeks, she was still only sleeping three to four hours at a stretch. Vivian hadn’t complained, but she was endlessly tired. Beautiful, but tired.

“Told who what?” I asked.

“Rob,” she answered, meaning her boss at the media company where she worked. “I officially let him know that after my maternity leave was up, I wouldn’t be coming back.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling the same pang of terror I’d felt when I’d seen the positive pregnancy result. Vivian earned nearly as much as I did and without her income, I wasn’t sure we could afford our lifestyle.

“He said the door was always open if I changed my mind,” she added. “But I told him that London wasn’t going to be raised by strangers. Otherwise, why have a child in the first place?”

“You don’t have to convince me,” I said, doing my best to hide my feelings. “I’m on your side.” Well, part of me was, anyway. “But you know that means we can’t go out to dinner as much and we’ll have to cut back on discretionary spending, right?”

“I know.”

“And you’re okay with not shopping as much?”

“You say it like I waste money. I never do that.”

The credit card bills sometimes seemed to indicate otherwise-as did her closet, which bulged with clothes and shoes and bags-but I could hear the annoyance in her tone, and the last thing I wanted to do was argue with her. Instead, I rolled toward her, pulling her close, something else on my mind. I nuzzled and kissed her neck.