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Show Motherlunge a novel 123 "Natural? You mean, like, with no makeup?" She had smiled at me. "No. I'll do whatever it takes to feel as little as possible." But at the hospital, pain relief seemed not to be a priority for the staff. "She wants an epidural," I said again, this time to the nurse who took Pavia's blood pressure and slid a monitor across her belly. And eventually a third nurse brought in a clipboard of papers to sign; when they were complete, she told us, they would page the anesthesiologist. Pavia was sitting in bed by now, her arms crossed over the draped berm of her bosom, her eyes closed. "Sign these," I said. "Sign these to get your drugs." She opened her eyes. She shook her head. "I've changed my mind. I can do this without the shot." The whites of her eyes were scribbled with tiny blood vessels-a movie screen showing the hairs stuck in the c projector. I held the clipboard and felt the seconds race past us end-to-end in frames with a fearful, whirring sound. I hated my sister. "Sign them in case you change your mind," the nurse told Pavia mildly. "Then we'll have them all ready." Pavia unfolded the pale arm she had clutched around her chest, and sloppily signed the papers on the clipboard. I handed the clipboard over and the nurse left the room. "Okay," I said, leaning into my sister, who had dropped her head and was now rocking back and forth. I put my hands on her back and pushed in. "Tell me why no drugs," I said when she had straightened up again. "This is terrible, Pavia!" "This is labor," Pavia let out a frayed breath. "It's supposed to hurt." "Why?" I sounded like a child. |