CHAPTER 35

Still holding her hand, I kneel down next to Pilar on the floor, yelling to anyone who can hear, “Lady having a baby! We need a doctor stat!” That’s what they always say on Grey’s Anatomy, isn’t it? Ooooo, I hope that whichever white coat comes running looks like McSteamy, or I wouldn’t mind McDreamy either.

Alas, the doc who races over to help is more along the lines of Doogie Howser. I’m not kidding. He looks really young, like I can’t be sure he has his driver’s license much less his medical one. Doogie drops down on his knees in front of Pilar. “This is exciting, isn’t it?” he poses the cheerful question while pulling some latex gloves from the pocket of his lab coat. “Mind if I take a look?” He inclines his head toward the baby-expelling part of her anatomy.

She nods her assent, and he waves over some nurses who stand behind him, forming a surgical scrub-adorned wall that will block the view of any voyeurs in the ER, then he peeks his head under her skirt to see what’s going on. A few seconds later, he pops up between Pilar’s legs to announce, “Baby’s crowning, so it looks like we’ll be doing this right here.” Turning to the nurses, he reels off a list of supplies and equipment he’ll need to deliver the baby.

I can see Pilar’s lower lip trembling and I don’t blame her. This is really scary. She’s going to have to give birth to this baby, without benefit of drugs, on the grody floor of this ER where God knows what disgusting bodily fluids have been. “It’ll be all right,” I assure her (and myself). “You’re in good hands here with Dr. _____?” I prompt him.

“Pepper,” he supplies as the nurses return with a tray full of medical instruments and a blanket to drape over Pilar’s lower half.

I guffaw. “No way! That’s hilarious. Did you hear that, Pilar? Your baby’s being delivered by Dr. Pepper. You should keep the theme going and name your daughter Fanta or Sprite.”

“Not . . . funny,” she pants the words as she squinches up her face and bears down.

“That’s great, Pilar. Keep pushing, hard as you can,” Dr. Pepper (hee!) urges.

“I can’t believe . . . Ford . . . is missing this.” Tears spill from Pilar’s eyes down onto her flushed cheeks.

“Yeah, that sucks.” Poor Ford was ten minutes behind us and stuck in the same traffic jam on I-95. “Oh, I know!” With my free hand (the one that’s not being squeezed so hard it’s lost all feeling), I reach into the pocket of my dress and extract my cell. “We can shoot a video of the birth on my phone so that Ford won’t miss one, gory, disgusting minute.”

I’m about to pass the device to one of the nurses who doesn’t appear to be doing anything important when Pilar smacks it out of my hand, making the iPhone fly a couple of feet, then clatter to the ground. “Okay, so that’s a ‘no’ on the home movie then.”

Pilar groans in response, too busy pushing to speak.

“The head’s out!” Dr. Pepper announces gleefully, which makes me queasy. I wish he’d keep the play-by-play to himself unless he’s got something really interesting to report like the baby’s got stripes, or an ear in the middle of her forehead.

“Ahhhhhhhhh!” The glass-shattering pitch of Pilar’s scream raises goose pimples on my arms. I think she missed her calling. She should have bagged the whole psychology thing and become an actress in slasher films.

“I’m here! I’m here!” A breathless, wild-eyed Ford comes rushing through the ER’s automatic doors, and I’ve never been so happy to see anyone in my entire life. If he weren’t my sister’s husband and the father of this about-to-be-born baby, I’d French kiss him to show my gratitude.

He’s instantly on his knees, next to Pilar, kissing her face and hands, telling her how brave she’s being, and how proud he is of her, blah, blah, blah, lots of sweet, loving crap.

“Okay, cool, now that Ford’s here. I’ll just pop out and park your Volvo so that it doesn’t get towed.” I start to rise to my feet, anxious to get the hell out of Jackson before my niece makes her blood and slime-covered appearance. I can meet her later when she’s all cleaned up and pretty.

“Nooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” My sister tugs me back down, tightening her grip on my hand so that it feels like she’s crushing the bones. “I need both of you.”

“We’re almost there. One more big push, Pilar!” Dr. Pepper (still funny!) commands.

I squeeze my eyes shut tightly and pray that the newest member of the Alvarez/Fordham clan comes out healthy, with the right number of fingers and toes, as well as a luxurious head of hair. (Bald babies creep me out!) I also pray that there’s a liquor store nearby because I am going to need a good, stiff drink when this is all over.

I hear a final groan of effort from Pilar followed by a baby’s cry. Hooray! I open my eyes, but don’t dare to look anywhere but at my sister. I might hurl if I see a just-born baby with its umbilical cord still attached.

“Do you think I can have what’s left of my hand back now?” I ask the new mom.

Pilar chuckles through her tears. “Sure.” She releases my hand, and I shake it a few times, trying to get the blood flowing again.

“Thank you for everything, Izzy. I couldn’t have done this without you.” Pilar lifts her arms in the air, and the nurse places the baby, who’s now swaddled in a white blanket, in them. Pilar cuddles the child close, staring down at her adoringly while she strokes the baby’s chubby cheek with the side of her finger. A beaming Ford lowers his head to place a sweet kiss on his daughter’s forehead. It’s clear that they’re both already besotted with this child and I’m sure there’s plenty of spoiling in her future. I think the three of them could use some alone time to bond, so I make myself scarce, telling them I’m going to run Pilar’s SUV back to their house and check on the kids. I promise Pilar I’ll return in a couple of hours with the bag she had packed for the hospital.

I take side streets to Pilar’s house because I can’t bear the thought of getting back on the freeway after what I’ve just been through. Although it was a harrowing ordeal, it’s also a damn good story, full of drama, poignancy, unexpected obstacles, and an incredible, last minute save by the heroine (that would be me!) whose skills behind the wheel are on par with Danica Patrick’s. I’m dying to call someone and tell them what happened, but the person I think will most appreciate the story since he’s crazy about his own niece is probably at the drugstore, buying a jumbo pack of condoms so that he’ll be ready for his date with Miss Tea-and-Crumpets.

Okay, that’s not fair. I shouldn’t be casting aspersions on Z’s character. I know that he’d never have sex with someone on a first date. He likes to court a woman and make sure there’s a real connection before he takes her to bed. I’ve always poked fun at him about that, scoffing at his sappy, romantic ways, but maybe he was onto something because sex with him really did feel different, and I can only attribute that to our pre-existing bond and how well we know each other. I think about the word Pilar used earlier when asking about my history with Z. She wanted to know if we’d been “intimate” before. That word does accurately describe my experience at the crap shack the other night. I may have gotten naked with plenty of guys over the years and thoroughly enjoyed those interludes for the amount of time they lasted, but I didn’t feel close to any of them and there was no connection aside from the physical one. Unfortunately, with Zane, my heart somehow managed to get involved. Thanks a lot, heart. You picked a hell of a time to start working. I thought we had a deal. You were never supposed to love anyone but me. Now look at the mess you’ve gotten us into!

The question is: what am I going to do? Should I stay the course and marry Eduardo despite having all these mushy feelings about Zane? Or do I give up this five-star lifestyle I’ve worked so hard to get so that I can be with the man I’ve unwittingly fallen for? Zane is so talented and he followed his bliss with his career, which is laudable, but let’s be real . . . photographers generally don’t make a lot of money. So, being with him means an eternity of living in a crap shack and eating a lot of Top Ramen and hot dogs, which will get old really fast no matter how good the sex is. I’m really not a fan of either of those options.

I’m set upon by Gabi and Nate the minute I enter their house from the garage, where I parked Pilar’s SUV. Although Ford already called them to report that their sibling had arrived, they want assurances that mother and baby are both doing well. Gabi proclaims she will love and look after her little sister just like her mamá has always done with me, and I get momentarily choked up thinking about the circle of life. The sisterly bond is something special, and I’m glad Gabi will get to experience that.

I leave my niece in the kitchen so that she can “assist” the nanny with preparing dinner while Nate accompanies me up to the nursery. I know how important it is for Pilar to bring her daughter home to the beautiful space she envisioned, and the baby is going to need sheets and a comforter on her bed, so I dig into the bags from Apple of My Eye. I assign Nate the task of assembling and installing the musical mobile while I make up the crib and we chat about him helping me with another project (a binder may once again be necessary).

As promised, I return to the hospital with all of Pilar’s essentials a few hours later and find her room filled with the other members of our immediate family. My parents, along with Ana and Raymond, are all crowded around her bed, fawning over the new addition, saying how gorgeous she is and how she looks just like her abuela, which pleases my mother to no end.

“I brought your stuff,” I tell Pilar, holding up her Michael Kors weekender bag, then dropping it down on the floor at the foot of the bed.

“Finally, you’re here!” Mamá exclaims, preempting Pilar who had just opened her mouth to thank me. “We’ve all been waiting.”

“Why?” I’m confused. Is there something in Pilar’s bag they needed for this celebration? Bubble gum cigars? Pink champagne? A DNA test to prove the kid is definitely part Alvarez? My mother has been overly concerned about baby-switching at hospitals ever since that happened to the heroine on her favorite telenovela.

“Your stubborn sister has been refusing to tell us mi nieta’s name until you returned.”

“I just thought it would be nice if everyone heard our big announcement at the same time,” Pilar offers as her defense.

“Well?” Ana prompts. “Don’t keep us in suspense.”

Pilar looks up at Ford who’s wedged in next to her and the baby on the twin-sized hospital bed and smiles. The corners of his mouth turn upward, and he clasps her hand with both of his.

Turning back to us, Pilar says, “As an homage to this feisty, little girl’s aunt and godmother, Ford and I have decided . . .”

Oh, God, no, she’s naming the baby after Ana? Not that it’s a bad name, I just can’t abide the person attached to it. And this tribute is going to make her even more unbearable than usual. She’s already grinning from ear to ear, looking so smug I want to smack her.

“ . . . to name the baby Isobel.”

There are several audible gasps in the room. I think mine is one of them!

“You can’t be serious!” Ana protests. “Why would you make her,” she stabs an irate finger at me, “this poor, innocent child’s godmother? She can’t take care of anyone, including herself.”

“You’re wrong,” Pilar tells our sister in her most firm, this-is-not-negotiable tone. “Izzy has proven herself to be very capable throughout my pregnancy. She organized and threw that wonderful birthday party for Gabi when I couldn’t, and she was this baby’s guardian angel today, getting her to the hospital in time to be born under circumstances that were incredibly challenging and stressful. I was scared to death, but she kept a cool head and did her best to reassure and distract me. And she stayed with me through the birth even though I know she was totally grossed out by the whole thing,” Pilar teases me, with a smirk.

“Yeah, I think I’m going to need some intensive therapy to get over the horrors I witnessed today,” I parry back, and the two of us chuckle. “I really am honored that you want me to be little Izzy’s godmother.”

“We thought we’d call her by her full name,” Ford tells me.

Pilar nods in agreement. “There can be only one Izzy in this family. We just hope Isobel will grow up to be as much of an original as the woman she’s named after.”

“If she’s anything like Isidora—,” Mamá starts to say.

“Good luck!” Ana finishes, and everyone laughs.

Oh, Ana, when will you learn that taking swipes at me always backfires on you?

“Speaking of children behaving badly, how is George’s suspension from school going?” I query in a dulce de leche sweet voice.

My sister’s face falls and Raymond’s jaw drops while my shocked parents shout, “What????”

“Was there a meeting with the principal before disciplinary action was taken?” Papá goes into lawyer mode. “What was the reason for George’s suspension?”

“It was nothing,” Ana dismisses his questions with a wave of her hand. “Just a harmless prank. You know, boys will be boys.”

“He set off homemade firecrackers in the bathroom at the middle school,” I supply all the dirty deets, which earns me an incendiary glare from Ana.

“¡Ay!” Mamá throws her hands up in the air. “I knew that boy’s fascination with fire would get him into trouble one day. And you said he would grow out of it!” She tosses the accusation at Pilar.

“He still could; he’s only thirteen,” Pilar tries to placate her.

“And he’s already a serial arsonist!” Mamá declares, referencing all the other things George has torched over the years, including her expensive couch which was set aflame during her “fiftieth” (she wasn’t kidding anyone; it was her fifty-fourth) birthday party. “He’s setting a bad example for the rest of your children,” she tells Ana and Raymond. “You should send him off to military school.”

“I am not sending my son anywhere!” Ana states defiantly as a splotchy redness climbs from her neck up to her face. I wonder if the top of her head will blow off when it reaches her hairline. That would be fun!

“Mis queridas,” Papá wraps an arm around both women. “Let’s go out to the waiting area and discuss this calmly. “I’m sure something can be done . . .,” I hear him say as he steers them out the door, into the hospital corridor, with Raymond trailing behind.

“Whew, I thought they’d never leave!” I say jovially as I make my way over to the side of Pilar’s bed that’s been freed up by our parents and sister’s departure and plop down next to her.

“That wasn’t nice,” Pilar chides me. “You know Ana was keeping George’s suspension from Mamá and Papá because she didn’t want them getting in her family’s business.”

“Oooops!” I say, with a playful wink. “Pass over that baby, would you? I want to get a good look at her now that she’s been de-gooped.”

“She’s just waking up, so . . .” Pilar gingerly hands her precious cargo over to me, with the warning, “Support her head!”

I roll my eyes. “This is my sixth time becoming an aunt to a newborn. I think I know how to handle one of these now.”

Yikes! I’d forgotten how small and squirmy babies are when they first arrive. This one is kicking her legs out and I can see her pushing her tiny fists against the blanket she’s wrapped in. “She doesn’t like being swaddled,” I quickly determine. Isobel backs me up by scrunching up her face and letting out a wail of frustration.

“Oh, dear.” Pilar takes Isobel back, setting her down on her lap and unwrapping the baby burrito. As soon as her arms and legs have been liberated and she can flail around as much as she likes, Isobel stops crying.

“Take note,” I tell her parents. “Just as long as you do exactly what she wants, your lives will be a lot easier.” Staring down at my niece, I say, “She really does look like Mamá, doesn’t she?” Same black hair, olive complexion, full lips, and big, dark eyes.

“And you,” Pilar points out lest I forget that I am the Alvarez daughter who most closely resembles Miss Miami 1977.

“Yeah, I guess she does.” I grab one of Isobel’s little feet and pull the limb out to its full length. “These are definitely the legs of a future supermodel.” Lowering my head, I coo, “Do you want to get photographed wearing bikinis like your Aunt Izzy?”

“Not a chance!” Ford quickly covers the baby with her blanket again. “I’m buying her a whole wardrobe of burkas that she’ll wear exclusively until she’s thirty. No, forty.”

“Ha! That’ll never work. If she’s got it, she’s going to want to flaunt it. With great beauty comes great power, Isobel. Use that power wisely . . . and to get lots of free stuff.” I tickle her stomach, and she laughs. Okay, gurgles, but that’s the newborn equivalent of a chuckle.

Pilar shakes her head disparagingly. “She’s only a few hours old, and you’re already leading her astray.”

“No, I’m bestowing valuable life lessons on her. Here’s another one, Isobel: There’s nothing fun about being torn between two men, so avoid romantic triangles at all costs.”

Pilar places her hand on mine and gives it a sympathetic squeeze. “Why don’t you talk to Zane? That might give you some clarity.”

“I know what I have to do, and—” Before I can lay out my plan, Isobel starts fussing.

“I think it’s time for a feeding,” Ford attempts to translate his daughter’s cries, which could just as easily mean she needs a diaper change or she wants us all to shut up so that she can get some sleep.

I immediately spring off the bed, declaring, “I’m out!” because watching my sister breastfeed is at the very bottom of my Things I Want To Do list. “Enjoy your meal, Isobel. ¡Adiós, padres!” I give a little finger wave to Ford and Pilar and leave them to it, thankful that the only person I need to worry about feeding is myself.