Page 140 of Things We Burn

AVERY

Our first night in the hospital was exhausting.

I snatched a few hours of sleep at the beginning of the night, but that was mostly it.

Mabel was restless. She constantly wanted to be held by me or her dad.

I was in too much pain to do things as simple as reaching over the bed to lift her from the hospital bassinet. It was infuriating, humbling and deeply distressing that I couldn’t go to my daughter.

Kane did all the heavy lifting, even changed his first diaper. He did it like he’d done it a thousand times before, kissing Mabel lightly on the head, murmuring some lullaby.

I didn’t have to lift a finger. Never mind that I physically couldn’t do much more than shuffle off the bed, taking me about ten minutes to reach the ground. And when I did reach the ground, blood rushed out of me, puddling on the floor.

The first time it happened, Kane was so alarmed, he called for a nurse. I hadn’t known exactly what to expect postpartum, but the pain, the magnitude of it, was surprising. Same with the blood, the nurses who came into the room every couple of hours to push on my tender uterus and flush even more blood out.

I was not wearing an expensive robe, propped up, nursing my baby while looking fresh and well rested, like popular culture portrayed.

My hair was matted, and I wore my bloody hospital gown until a nurse kindly suggested I change into the pajamas I’d brought with me.

My meticulously packed hospital bag was barely touched, other than the aforementioned pajamas. I had brought a plethora of toiletries including shampoo, conditioner, body wash and skincare products. The thought of standing for the period of time it took to shower made my stomach roil, so I avoided that. I barely managed to splash water on my face and brush my teeth.

My mother and Maisie arrived the next morning, looking far fresher than the two of us.

Well, I should sayme.

Yes, Kane’s clothes were slightly rumpled, his hair messier than his usual tousled style, and his eyes were slightly bloodshot. But he still looked handsome, roughish. Just … softer now.

Then there was seeing him with Mabel in his arms. Yes, the sexual part of my body felt like it was shut down inevitably, but it might’ve made my womb clench if it weren’t already aching from shrinking down to its pre-pregnancy size.

“This is the best thing I’ve eaten in my entire life,” I moaned through a full mouth.

Maisie was holding Mabel, who calmed in my sister’s arms right away after fussing over a diaper change.

She sang to her quietly.

I was eating the ham sandwich my mother had brought, wrapped in wax paper. Devouring it like a wolf might’ve been a more accurate description. I didn’t know how starving I was until that moment.

I was still getting the hang of breastfeeding … and to just being a mother while in large amounts of pain. The fact that they didn’t give anything stronger than Motrin should’ve been criminal.

Kane continued to change tiny diapers with large hands, like an expert.

He fawned over me. Kissing me whenever he had a chance, jumping to help me to the bathroom, if he didn’t have the baby in his arms. Gingerly transferring her to my mother or Maisie if he did.

And when the lactation consultant returned, he was right there, front and center, observing the latch and asking questions about positioning, nipple care and what I could and couldn’t eat.

The answers to which he wrote down.

In a little blue notebook.

“It’s my dad book,” he explained proudly, waving it in the air. “It’ll be the dad bible. I’m going to put every piece of advice we get in here.”

There he was, Kane ‘The Devil’ Rhodes, waving a blue notebook around proudly, jotting down information about nipple care and the football hold.

“Google exists,” I reminded him.

“Fuck Google,” he muttered.

I smiled at him then at Mabel, who I was still struggling to believe was mine, that she’d come out of me. Sure, I had all the evidence, stitches and all, to reinforce that she was mine, but it was still surreal.

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