Anna held the tiny yellow socks by the toes, her thumb smoothing the soft cotton knit. The maternity ward room at Saint Jude Memorial Hospital was small, costing us forty-five dollars a day in parking fees alone, but we had prepared for months. Our budget did not allow for luxuries, not on my forty-two thousand dollar high school teacher’s salary, but we had saved enough for the essentials. We had painted the nursery green and bought two second-hand cribs from a family in Elmwood.
We had driven from Elmwood in the dark, the heater in our old Buick clattering against the dashboard. The autumn wind had chased yellow oak leaves across the empty asphalt of the hospital lot. The parking garage machine had swallowed my five-dollar bill and refused to return change, a minor annoyance that felt like an omen before we even reached the elevator.
“Michael, do you think he will fit into these first?” she asked.
“Owen is measuring slightly larger than Caleb, but they should both fit,” I said, rubbing my gold wedding ring.
A sharp contraction tightened her features, and she pressed her head back against the thin pillow, her fingers twisting the hem of her gray cardigan. I watched the green lines on the display screen jump, recording the sudden spike of physical effort. She did not cry out, but her knuckles turned white where she gripped the metal bedside rail.
“The doctor said they would be here before noon,” Anna said, her voice dropping to a hurried whisper as the pain receded.
I checked my watch, calculated the hours of my lesson plans left on my desk at Elmwood High School, and wondered if our savings would stretch to cover the thirty-eight dollars a can for the specialized formula. Every expense felt like a mountain we had to climb, but we had climbed them all together so far.
The heavy wooden door swung open, but it was not the obstetrician.
Eleanor Vance stood in the doorway, her cashmere coat draped over one arm and her manicured fingernails tapping the latch of her designer leather handbag. She did not look at the medical equipment or the white tiled walls, keeping her eyes fixed entirely on her daughter. Her presence always seemed to shrink the room, bringing the cold air of Shaker Heights with her.
