Page 117 of The Hundred Loves of Juliet
But I know he’s scared, that he thinks death might be hiding in a shadow in this room, waiting to snatch me. Sebastien kneels beside the bed, closes his eyes, and bows his head as if in prayer.
“I love you,” he says, nearly inaudible. And then he says it over and over again, in every language we’ve ever known together.
T’amu.
Ich liebe dich.
Eu te amo.
Jag älskar dig.
Ti amo.
Σεαγαπ?.
Je t’aime.
And more.
A tear runs down my cheek for all the loss he’s suffered, for all the Juliets he’s had to say goodbye to, for all the loves he wasn’t ready to let go.
I squeeze Sebastien’s hand. “I would love you through a hundred lives, and more.”
He chokes down an anguished sob.
“But I’m not gone yet,” I say gently. “I plan to be around for a long time. All right?”
“All right,” he whispers.
“All right,” I say again, as if cementing the deal. And then a contraction ripples through me, the strongest one yet.
SEBASTIEN
I never thought I couldbe a father, never thought it would be possible. But our little girl greets the bright lights of the hospital with a delighted yelp, arms stretched wide as if ready to embrace the entire universe, already optimistic about her future from her very first breath. A nurse whisks her to the side of the room to be cleaned up, and I automatically follow. The sound of my daughter’s first cry is a tropical storm, a warm wave of a new kind of love that envelops me, and I want to chase after her, hold her close, defend her from needles and cold, monsters and curses, confusion and fear and all the bad things in the world.
She has Helene’s pert nose and pink rosebud lips, and a cotton candy–like layer of hair the color of butterscotch. She has ten fingers and toes, a perfect weight, a perfect length. She is the most beautiful child ever known.
The nurse passes the baby to me, and I cradle my little girl to my chest.
“Hi, sweetheart,” I whisper.
She lets out a long, happy coo and melts into me, as if contentment is being in my arms.
Itis,I think. Contentment is this tiny being whom so many Juliets past and I have wished for. And now she’s here. Finally.
“Can I see her, too?” Helene asks from behind me, voice teasing, but tired from labor. It’s only then that I realize I’ve forgotten to be afraid of the curse, that holding our baby erased all my fear for a precious moment.
But Helene is fine. More than fine. As I bring our baby to her, Helene is rosy and beaming with love and pride for this tiny life we’ve made.
“Congratulazioni,” the doctor says, patting me on the shoulders in the way of an Italian grandmother, as if to say,See? I told you all would be well.
“La ringrazio tanto,” I say, although there aren’t actually enough words in any language to express how grateful I am to her. Helene and our daughter are still with me. Safe.
The doctors and nurses finish the checkups they need to do. Then they leave our little family so we can have some time together.
I stand by the bed, simply gazing at the two most important girls of my long, hard-fought life. I feel nothing but peace, and it’s almost uncomfortable in its unfamiliarity.
“Come here,” Helene says, making room on the bed for me.
