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Show Motherlunge a novel 144 "I don't think he's hungry," Pavia would say skeptically, which is to say she mused. "Look, he's still asleep. Anyway, I don't have my milk in yet." Nevertheless the nurses-lactation consultants, Jack seemed gratified to hear them refer to themselves-continued their relentless ministrations. And on the third day, in accordance with their assurances, Pavia's milk rose up. Moored at her chest, her breasts filled and lifted like two miraculous pontoons, white and worthy. Thus encouraged, X. began to feed better, clinging to them with his sharp little hands. Of course, during this time in the hospital Pavia's bedside phone rang again and again. Whenever I answered I told people that Pavia was resting comfortably. This sounded like a nice thing to be doing, and Pavia didn't want to talk anyway. She wanted to sleep. Eli came and took a photo of her that way, Pavia asleep with her hair ratted up behind her on the pillow like a dark mantilla, her puffy hand across her chest showing pink where they had had to cut her wedding ring off the day before. He took a picture of X., too, while the co-parent Jack held him up in front of his own face and smiled broadly and irrelevantly behind X.'s curving newborn back. And so it went until breastfeeding was well established and the patient's (Pavia's) hypertension had resolved, and it was time for my sister and X. to go home. Jack and I packed up, working side-by-side like a pair of polygamous sister-wives. Over the last few days the room had filled up with instruction sheets (Vaccinations, Signs of Jaundice, Precautions Against Infant Abduction), stuffed animals (bunnies, lambs), and personal hygiene products. We agreed to leave the flowers on the windowsill; the nurse helping us pack up told us that the flowers would be shared with patients who didn't have any. |