“Doctor, you know that a midwife isn’t allowed to sew. It’s against the rules.”

“You made the cut, which is not against the rules. You can sew the cut, which is not against my rules.”

I take over. I’ve actually done it before—whatever the rules. Sarkar removes his gloves. Troy tends to the newborn, cutting the cord, binding the cord, wiping away meconium from the baby’s eyes, nose, and mouth.

“I’ve got to say it, Doctor—” I begin.

But Sarkar interrupts and says, “Rudi, please, Lucy. You must call me Rudi.”

“Okay,” I say. “I’ve got to say it, Rudi. It was a complete joy having you here.”

He smiles and takes the swaddled baby from Troy. He hands the boy to Marco, who places him on Bella’s chest.

I say, “I’m thinking Bella may just have given birth to the first Rudra Morabito in history.”

I also cannot help but think what I always think: It’s the only miracle that God lets us in on.

Sarkar seems as happy as the parents. He reaches in and takes the baby. “I’ll take him over to Pediatrics. Neonatal ICU is the best place for me to tape those giant shoulders. Come down and see him whenever you feel strong enough. Tomorrow he’ll be staying in this room with you.”

A big beautiful chorus of grazies fills the room.

Chapter 67

Chapter 67

“ONLY ONCE BEFORE IN my lifetime have I seen somebody use that clavicle-cracking method,” Troy says.

“I’ve actually never seen it,” I say. “But like Dr. Sarkar said, sometimes they don’t even have to break it. That’s how elastic a baby’s bones can be.”

Troy and I are standing outside the birthing room. It’s only been about forty-five minutes since the delivery. We sip some pretty awful coffee from the electric coffee pot at the nurses’ station.

“This stuff tastes like piss,” says Troy.

“I can’t agree or disagree,” I say. “I don’t have the faintest idea of what piss tastes like. But I assume this coffee is lousy enough to beat piss at its own game.”

“No word from Tracy Anne?” Troy asks.

“Nothing yet,” I say. “Let’s head down to the nursery.”

“Yeah, good idea,” Troy says.

Then I say, “And by the way, don’t think for a minute we’re not going to have a real long conversation about you and Tracy Anne and why you kept that information from me. I may not have looked angry, but—”

“Yes, ma’am,” Troy says. Then he takes both our cups of coffee and pours the contents of them into a huge potted plant in the corridor.

“What the hell are you feeding that plant?”

“Don’t worry, Lucy. These plants are designed to withstand everything—arsenic, motor oil, rat poison—”