CHAPTER 16
About a month later, Erin’s ringtone sounded in my pocket. My
hands froze midchart, and my chest tightened. It was happening. I
could feel it.
I sped through the rest of my paperwork, then ducked into the
hallway and called Erin.
“Oh my God, Billie! My water broke!” she shouted into the phone.
“Did you call your doctor?” My heart was hammering, but my voice
came out clinical, calm, as if I were trying to convince us both.
“Yes. I’m on with her now.” She let out a nervous laugh.
“Well, you need to hang up and call your other doctor.”
“Not yet! Please. I need to stay on with you!”
I pivoted to the usual questions.
“Is the fluid clear?”
“Yes. It feels like pee, but I think it’s clear.”
“Are you feeling the baby move?”
“Yes. She just kicked.”
“Any contractions?”
“Not really. But it feels so tight.”
“Okay. That’s fine. But you need to go to the hospital now and have
them assess you.”
“Assess me?”
“They’ll do a sterile speculum exam to confirm amniotic fluid, check
your cervix, monitor the baby’s heart rate.”
“And then what?”
“Then we wait.”
“Wait for what?”
“Wait to see what this baby wants to do. Sometimes contractions kick
in naturally. If not, they might start an induction to lower infection risk.”
There was a long pause. Then: “I’m scared.”
“That’s normal,” I said gently. “But you’re doing everything right.”
“What if something goes wrong?”
“It shouldn’t. But that’s why you need to be at the hospital.”
“Are you worried?”
“No,” I said firmly. “Not at all.”
“I wish you were here.”
“Me too,” I whispered.
In that moment, I knew exactly what I was going to do. I hung up,
walked back into the clinic, and told my attending I had a family
emergency and needed to go. I didn’t ask for permission. I didn’t secondguess myself.
I took a taxi home, told the driver to wait, ran upstairs and threw
clothes into a duffel, then slid back into the cab where I booked the next
flight to Milwaukee. For the first time in years, my body moved before
my brain had the chance to weigh in.
—
I arrived at the hospital just in time. Erin was in the delivery room, her
hair in a tangled bun, her face dripping with sweat. When she looked up
and saw me, I watched panic melt into relief.
“You’re here,” she said, breathless.
“I’m here,” I said.
—
Labor felt more fragile with someone I loved. Time seemed to slow. I
knew the anatomy and the protocols, but none of my knowledge shielded
me from the scorch of her scream. Her nails dug into my arm, her eyes
wild. She cried and cursed me between pushes—“Stop telling me what to
do!”—but I stayed by her side, holding her hair back, pressing cool
cloths to her forehead.
I’d delivered babies before, but never like this—never with my whole
body drawn tight with love. In that room, I wasn’t a doctor. I was just her
sister.
Then, in the quiet of the early morning—4:44 a.m.—Phoebe arrived.
Tiny, pink, furious—with her mother’s mouth and lungs.
The nurse laid her on Erin’s chest, and Erin sobbed with a sound from
somewhere deep.
“She’s here,” she said, her voice breaking. “She’s really here.”
I pressed my forehead to hers and nodded, both of us crying—not just
for the baby, but for everything that came before. Everything we’d lost—
and everything we’d kept.
A moment later, Joan slipped quietly into the room and held her
child’s child. Three generations together.
I took a photo, then sat in a vinyl chair by the window, watching the
sky shift from slate to pink. The outside world was waking, yet in that
room, time felt suspended. My body ached with adrenaline and
exhaustion, but I didn’t want to sleep. I just wanted to stay in this
stillness, where the miracle had happened and nothing else had intruded.
Doctor, friend, witness, daughter—all of those roles collided in me.
I thought about everything that had led to this moment: years of
training, nights crying in supply rooms, friendships frayed and stitched
back together. And now—this. A brand-new life. A baby girl.
CHAPTER 17
t’s hard to believe Phoebe came into the world more than eleven years
ago—and that it’s been even longer since Mick and I broke up.
I dread calling him back, worried about what that conversation might
stir.
But as I make my way down Broadway, the morning air sharp in my
lungs, I know that isn’t the real reason. Good news sleeps in. Bad news
doesn’t wait for daylight.
I stop at my usual bodega, the bells on the door jangling. I push
inside, a blast of heat hitting my face. I grab a Perrier from the fridge,
then veer toward the hot case instead of my standard Greek yogurt and
berry parfait. I grab a foil-wrapped bacon-egg-and-cheese and bring
everything to the counter.
“Switching it up?” the cashier deadpans as he scans the sandwich.
I smile and nod.
“Have a good one,” he says.
“You too,” I say, tucking the bag under my arm.
I step back into the cold, inhaling the scent of diesel. A delivery truck
lurches past, hazard lights blinking.
At the corner, I catch the walk light and take the stairs underground.
On the platform, a familiar busker is there, guitar case open at his feet,
singing Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah.” His voice is rough and a little offkey,
but there’s something about the way he leans into the chorus that I
love. It gets me every time. I swallow, swipe my card, and keep moving.
A train roars in, screeching to a halt. I board a crowded car and brace
my foot against a pole. The doors close. The ground lurches.
I get out on 79th Street, quickly ascending the stairs before walking
east, crossing Amsterdam, then Columbus. I reach our clinic—Hope
Fertility—just off Central Park West. Always the first to arrive, I unlock
the front door and step into the reception area, an oasis that feels more
like a meditation center than a medical facility. I pause, inhaling the scent
of eucalyptus and fresh linen. A small fountain whispers in the corner.
Lesli and I thought the water feature was overkill—a bit too polished and
way too expensive—but Greer insisted. I’m glad she did. It adds peace to
a waiting room where anxiety is the overriding emotion for our patients.
I walk down the hall to my office. I power on my computer, set my
sandwich on my desk, and open the bottle of Perrier, taking a long sip.
My phone stays in my bag
