Sometimes I think Mark deserves someone better than Maureen...
The first installment of a trilogy of one-shots about a woman and her love for Mark Cohen.
By Eirene Adessi
And This is Why I Loved Him
It felt like I won the gold medal for women's weightlifting at the Summer Olympics. Five gallons of sweat and 167 pounds of steel later, you could feel your heartbeat returning to its normal pace and the relief of your triumph. Okay, so I didn't win women's weightlifting, but I bet you ten bottles of Gatorade (the green kind) it's the same feeling after carrying a baby for eight months. Sadly, my gold medal was finally being able to sit on my ottoman chair after being on my feet all day. I lifted my feet onto the footrest then noticed something awful.
One green fuzzy slipper. One blue animal slipper. I gritted my teeth. "Elijah, why am I wearing mismatched slippers? Do you want your mother looking like a weirdo?"
My son stuffed the last piece of turkey sandwich in his mouth and walked to a spot in front of me. "I don't think anyone in New York will notice," he said in between chews. "Besides, why do I have to tell you which slippers you're wearing?"
"Don't talk with your mouth full," I said automatically. "And because you've been assigned shoe patrol."
"Since when?" he asked.
"Since I can't see my feet," I said. "Now go wash your plate and put the dishes away." He rolled his eyes and stomped to the kitchen. I sighed loudly just as Mark came in the room. I closed my eyes, exhausted.
I had been losing sleep for the last couple of months mainly because my favorite groove on the bed was disappearing as my hips and bottom grew considerably large. I alternated between extreme, almost sickening, joy and level 10 Emo-depression, a phrase lovingly coined by my first-born, Elijah. "To have a child or to have an abortion: that is the question," he had recited poetically after an hour of bawling my eyes out. I had given him a death look and he chose the right route by excusing himself to his room. Irritability was becoming a more common characteristic these days, but that wasn't entirely my fault. How was I supposed to be a decent mother and wife if I couldn't fucking find matching slippers? I leaned my head back in frustration.
The room seemed to be reaching 110 degrees even though it was snowing out and I had specifically told Mark only minutes ago to set the thermostat at average room temperature.
"What is the average room temperature?" Mark had asked. "Seventy-five?"
"Seventy-two point five," I had replied, tiredly.
"Nerd," he muttered, fiddling with the switch.
"Droid." I had fired back immediately. "Mega-droid who can't even focus the camera long enough to get a decent shot."
He smirked and said nothing. It was true, however. Mark often had trouble shooting a scene steadily for a long period of time, especially if nothing exciting was going on. And his co-editor, Jason, always had a field day with him when he brought back the footage. I liked to stand close and watch the fun, act as mediator if things suddenly turned violent (it never did, but I always crossed my fingers). I sometimes wondered if shooting documentaries was the right career choice for him. Maybe he'd enjoy filming mind-blowing car chases instead.
I had given him a wide grin when he returned to the sofa, claiming my victory of the battle of wits, which weren't as witty these days because I had been so drained. But, no matter how lame my remarks were, he'd always let me win. I knew Mark—he'd fight to the depths of clever asides until he won, if it was anybody else. His looks were deceiving. Even though he appeared to be your average 21st century egghead, he really was a secret agent, who sought danger by day and romance by night.
Who was I kidding?
I lifted my head up and caught him staring at me.
"Would you stop looking at me? You're making me feel fat," I said, shifting in my seat.
"You are fat," said my eldest son.
"Well, it's not polite to stare," I said, then raised my voice, "and it's not polite to tell people they're fat, even if they are. Yeah, I'm talking to you, Eli."
I watched him closely as he reappeared from behind the refrigerator door with a glass of milk in one hand. He shut the door, took a huge gulp of milk and walked toward me. I was expecting only the most smart-ass remark.
"You look beautiful mom," he said suddenly, "You're the most beautiful woman in the whole Lamaze class." He paused then took another gulp. "And I love you." He marched back to his room and I wondered whether a robot alien abducted my real son from inside the refrigerator and replaced him with a fake robot son.
"You've never been to my Lamaze class!" I called before hearing his bedroom door shut. I looked at Mark. "Did you pay him to say that?"
"Not after that fat crack," he grumbled. He suddenly looked sideways before I can respond. "Jeremy, what are you looking at, son?" I turned my head to my right and saw our seven-year-old standing on grandfather's antique oaken side chair, gazing out the window, his face pressed against the glass. He waved slowly at what I assumed to be a passerby, but then he started to unlatch the lock.
"No, Jeremiah, what did mommy say about opening windows?" I said. I feared heights and it didn't help that we lived on the fifth floor. I tried to get out of my seat then remembered that gravity hated pregnant women.
"No, Jeremy, you'll let the cold in," said Mark, standing up and walking over to the window. He picked up our son and moved the chair aside, trying to get a better look of who Jeremy was waving at. He pushed the brim of his glasses and squinted, scrunching up his face. I couldn't help thinking how much he resembled a kindergartner who just took a whiff of something putrid from behind the dumpster (dead cat, maybe?). I smiled. And this is why I loved him.
"Oh God," he breathed, stepping slowly away from the window and setting Jeremy down. My heart began to beat a little faster as I wondered what could possibly induce him to react that way.
"Jeremiah, honey, help mommy up then go to your room, okay? I'll be there in a few minutes to read you a bedtime story," I said as calmly as I could. He scurried over and I grasped his tiny hand. Using him gently to steady myself, I pushed myself up from the ottoman chair and walked over next to Mark. He began to open the window, but then realized I was standing beside him.
"What are you doing up? Relax, Eliana. Sit down, I don't want you near the window," he said urgently.
"I want to see what's so interesting," I pressed and shoved him gently aside. I opened the window and felt a huge gust of cold air slap my face. I coughed and shivered, half-thinking that maybe I shouldn't have done that, but wanting to know what was outside. I felt something warm sweep over my shoulders and recognized Mark's old anorak jacket. He put an arm around my shoulders and kissed me on the cheek. I laid my head on his chest, hoping that his body heat would provide more warmth.
"What are we looking at and is it worth catching the death of cold?" I asked scanning the streets filled with random passersby. Then I saw him. A middle-aged black man with a navy-blue beanie, dark earmuffs, and a large brown coat was looking up right at us. "Is he a friend of yours?"
"He used to visit me when I lived in East Village." He stopped and I thought he was going to say more, but he remained silent. Oh, for goodness sakes.
"Well, ring him in. He must be freezing," I said.
"Oh… right," he said and headed toward the buzzer by the front door. I gestured the stranger from below to come up and closed the window. As Mark rung him in, I took off the jacket and returned it to the closet. I never met any of Mark's old friends—he use to talk about them often before we were wedded, but he stopped mentioning them altogether when we had Elijah. He didn't have many close friends now, just the few who worked in our business. We traveled a lot so we had more pen pals than anything else. Honestly, Mark was my best friend and I didn't really mind pouring all my banal details to him. He was actually the first guy to ever listen.
"December 24th, you're right on time, man."
"Long time, no see, Mark." I didn't notice that the man I saw on the street was suddenly in our apartment. Trying to make up for my absentmindedness, I plastered on a smile and offered the man a seat.
"Thank you, thank you," he said rubbing his hands together.
"You're wet," I pointed out. He was dripping. "Mark, get some dry clothes, won't you? Let me take that." I helped him get his coat off and asked him for his beanie and earmuffs, as well. Mark grabbed them from me and said he'd take care of it. I thanked him and turned to the man, who was smiling right at me. I didn't know if it was because I was pregnant or had mismatching slippers, but I tried to return the smile.
"My name is Eliana," I said sticking a hand out.
He shook it and replied, "Collins. Thomas. You can call me Collins. And this is?" his eyes narrowed to my oversized belly.
"David. Ilana. I have no idea, really," I admitted sheepishly. "Mark and I wanted it to be a surprise, but his mother has nearly convinced us it's a boy. Just what I need, more men around the house."
He raised his brow. "You have other men living here?"
I grinned and realized the indication. "My two boys. Elijah's twelve and Jeremiah is seven. You wanna know something interesting? Eli was conceived one voluptuous evening on Valentines Day in Venice; Jeremy on Veteran's Day visiting my parents in Virginia. Closed verandas, too much vodka on both accounts."
He laughed. Oh, good, he liked my jokes. Ten points. I relaxed a little. "And this one?" he asked patting my belly. "Victory Day at Voronezh?"
It was my turn to raise my brow. I knew he was merely joining in on the wordplay, but something told me this man must have been a part of an inspiring group of literati. Intrigued, I responded carefully.
"Actually, Daylight's Savings. The time change confused us."
He laughed again and reached for his bag. It took him a while to dig around and he finally pulled out a bottle of Pinot Noir. "I figured it would be kind of rude not bringing any offerings in return for your hospitality, so…wine. It's not vodka, but it'll do, right?"
"Of course, but you didn't have to," I said, accepting it gratefully then laughed. "Actually, we usually have Stoli every year around this time, but I can't drink so Mark's put it off. He's awfully sad about it, it's some weird tradition he and some of his old friends use to do."
Collins grinned widely. "Oh really?" He stuffed his hands in his pocket and looked around the apartment. We lived comfortably, but he must have been less than impressed compared to how he and his avant-garde resided. I filled a bucket with ice and stuck the neck of the bottle deep between the crushed cubes. He was still looking around when I said,
"That was quite an astute observation. How did you know I was Russian?"
"You just told me." Ah, the slick one. I liked this man. "I guessed. You've got a lot of Russian paintings so I took a stab in the dark and hoped you'd get my joke—if not, well then I would have had to find another way of impressing Mark's lady." He approached a painting of a harbor that Jeremy was quite fond of. "Aivazovsky, right? The blending of colors is gorgeous. And you have Shishkin—an awesome, realistic grasp of setting. You and I share a thing for landscape paintings."
I flushed. He knew how to charm someone, there was no doubt about that. Where was Mark hiding this guy? "I love to travel. Our work, Mark and mine's, involves us going to different places and I try to locate every nook and cranny overlooked by most tourists. Mark loves taking photographs." I pointed to a couple of his works framed on the wall behind Collins. He looked over his shoulder and stared at them thoughtfully.
"What does your work involve?" he asked, still gazing at Mark's portrait of some of my distant relatives in our brief stay in Vladivostok. They were in pretty extravagant clothing from a parade they were in while we were there.
"Documentaries. We take part of a different culture each show, or sequences of shows, sometimes having to live with—"
"Wait a minute, you're Lana Novak," he said grinning. Oh God, I hope he wasn't a big fan. I swear every time I saw someone who watched the show grin like that they turned out to be wisecrackers. Unfortunately, the wisecrackers I ran into weren't very wise at all. I almost smacked a guy for fervently supporting Buddha also known as (according to this jockey) Confucius, his archaic name. Obviously this guy did not watch my shows and evidently missed my segment of knowing as much about one belief before preaching it. It took all my willpower and Mark binding my arms behind me from kicking the jockey in the shins and calling him a moron.
"Lana Novak is your stage name?" asked Collins.
"You can call it that. Lana is a childhood nickname and Novak is my maiden name. Didn't make sense to change it, you know."
"Tell me, are you as much of a smart aleck in real life?"
"Worse," said Mark entering the room. "I'm thinking of buying a censor to safeguard our kids."
"Be honest, Collins, did some bully punch him in the face ridiculously hard or was he born that way?" I asked. Collins laughed and Mark gave me a look. He still hasn't forgiven me for putting itching powder in his pants at Madrid, although I told him it wasn't a total loss. He invented a dance they now called "Rumba de Nerd." Since then he's tried to retaliate with droll remarks which has yet to match my own.
"I'm sorry I took so long," he said, changing subjects. "It took me a while to find something that might fit you." He threw Collins a long-sleeved flannel shirt, a woolen sweater, and a grey parka. Collins slipped into the shirt and sweater, but left the parka.
"Can I get you anything, Collins?" I asked, feeling slightly embarrassed that I hadn't asked him anything earlier.
"No thanks," he said politely.
"Then sit, please," said Mark. He patted on the ottoman chair and Collins took it appreciatively. Mark and I sat on the sofa across him, although I had a little more trouble than usual. Standing for so long caused my ankles to swell a bit and there were sudden pains shooting at random parts of my body. Oh how I hated when even the mundane of things became difficult.
"So you guys getting along?" asked Mark a bit anxiously.
"She's great, man, you've got it made," said Collins laughing. "You never told me you were married to Lana Novak. That's crazy!" I couldn't help but join in on the laughter. The sudden change in Collins' tone and speech was great to see. He and Mark must have had some history together.
"I had no idea where you were," said Mark after they've gained some composure. He turned to me. "You might remember him as Professor Collins." Aha! He was a professor! I nodded in turn. Mark asked, "How is everyone? I haven't heard from anybody in ages."
"Good, good," said Collins. He cleared his throat. "Joanne and Maureen relocated to California. They thought Hollywood would be more suited to Maureen's…talents. Joanne founded a firm there and Maureen is doing some of independent films." The names were beginning to sound familiar. Joanne and Maureen were lesbians, Maureen once being Mark's plaything while she fooled around with Joanne. They remained friends for a while then fell apart shortly after someone's death. I couldn't remember whose.
"That's great," said Mark.
"In fact, Maureen's train should be arriving in half an hour. She was going to take the subway here. I thought we'd pick her up together. What do you say?"
Mark looked at me earnestly. I laughed. "You don't need my permission, go ahead. I'll try to fix up something to eat. I expect our guests will be famished." Mark smiled, took my hand, and kissed my fingertips. "I love you." My heart melted. And this is why I loved him.
The subway was only a few minutes away by car. Mark said he'd make some coffee for the wait and that I should read Jeremy his bedtime story while the men invaded the kitchen. He promised they'd be gone by the time I came out to fix a late dinner. I agreed and softly knocked on Jeremy's door.
I slowly turned the knob and the door creaked quietly. My son was sitting against his headboard, the covers pulled to his waist. He had his arms crossed and a pout on his face. Uh-oh. I walked inside and stubbed my toe on a book. Damn you, Harry Potter. I looked around and every book on his shelf was scattered on the ground. He was trying to tell me something, I just knew it.
"Jeremy, honey—is there a problem? You usually take better care of your things," I said trying to sidestep every object on the carpet. It wasn't easy because I couldn't see below me. "Would you like me to read you a fairytale? Or how about your favorite book, Treasure Island?"
He shook his head vigorously. "I read it already."
"You did?"
"I read all those books," he said sharply, pointing his index finger in a circular motion around the biggest pile of books on the floor. I smiled. Oh the cleverness my child possessed. I took the hint.
"I'm sorry I took so long," I said laying a hand on his arm. He swiped it away. "But since you've read all your books, there's no sense of me reading any of them to you. Although I could tell you this fairytale of an evil magician who hated the king and planned to kidnap his daughter… nah, you're probably all pooped out."
"I'm not," he said quickly. I looked at him and he slouched down, abashed. He pulled the covers over his shoulders and looked at me pleadingly. He had the same eyes as his father's. I began to tell the tale of Cannetella, something I had heard when I was in Italy. It took less than ten minutes before my son's eyelids began to droop and the soft humming of his faint snores resonated in the silence. As carefully as I can, I tried to hopscotch out of the room and closed the door. Everything was quiet in the hallway so I presumed the men had gone to the subway station. I noticed something dark lying on the floor near my bedroom door and backtracked to get a better look. Collins' beanie.
I bent my knees to pick it up but thought twice about it. An unbelievable pain pierced my side and I grabbed the doorknob for support. I suddenly became short of breath. For a moment I tried to remember the breathing exercises they drilled you so much about in Lamaze. Oh fuck it; they never help. Why do I bother? They should know that women only think of two things when going into labor: use a fucking crowbar and pry this kid out of me and give me that fucking crowbar so I can hit the man who did this to me.
I held my stomach from the bottom and bent over a little. The contraction wasn't fading and it didn't feel like it was going to fade. Actually, it didn't feel like any contraction I'd ever felt. I closed my eyes tight, telling myself that the pain will be over soon. I started to pant. I opened my eyes and to my horror, the carpet was stained with blood.
"God no," I whispered. Damn, I'm early. Bleeding, that must be bad though. My head started to spin and somehow I reached the living room. There was a sudden knock and slightly arched over, I made my way to the front door and opened it.
The words came out muffled. "Mark, there's something wrong, I need to get to the hospital."
"Oh my God, you're pregnant! You need help!" No shit, Sherlock! I then realized that a woman voiced that exclamation. A voice I didn't recognize. I looked up and saw a woman with short dark hair. That was about all I could make out. She started getting blurry. "Okay, okay," she said, "I'm gonna help you. I'll get you to a cab."
She grabbed my arm and I screamed. She jumped back. I didn't necessarily scream because of her. Another dose of pain hit me. It felt as if something was slicing me up inside.
"Mom!" I heard Elijah's voice and felt him helping me steady myself. "Mom, where's dad?"
"Elijah, I need you to do me a favor," I said between breaths. "Call the hospital and tell them I'll be coming in. You know—"
"I know where it is," he said.
"Stay with your brother until your dad gets home. Tell him where I am. This nice lady is going to take me to the hospital." I looked at her for confirmation. She nodded her head and took my arm. Elijah embraced me as best as he could. I kissed him. "I'll be fine." He nodded and grabbed a coat from the closet. He wrapped it around me and after thanking him, I turned to the woman stranger. "Let's go." It was a slow journey, but we somehow managed to ride the elevator five flights down and out of the apartment building.
"Could you be a little careful? You're trailing blood and you might stain my new Manolo Blahnik boots. Bought them this morning." Great. I got the nut job. Luckily the pain was so excruciating, it delayed my reflexive reaction of opening up a can of whoop ass. You heard me.
She hailed a taxi and fortunately one pulled up moments later. She opened the door and helped me in (I subconsciously tried to lean closer to her, attempting to leak a few blood drops on her precious boots).
"Is she pregnant? She's bleeding all over my taxi, I can't take her!" the jackass of a taxi driver said.
"You're going to turn down a pregnant woman in her dire condition? What kind of person are you?" exclaimed the woman.
"New York City taxi driver, ma'am," he replied smartly. She shot him a dark look but he refused to submit. I grabbed his shirt collar and looked him straight in the eye. I said sinisterly,
"Do you know who I am?"
He looked at me nervously and slowly replied, "No… maybe…"
"I am your worse nightmare and if you don't take me to the hospital, I'll go reality on your ass."
He stared at me confused and before I could slap him, he said, "You're Lana Novak! Holy smokes, I have Lana Novak bleeding in my car. My wife and I watch your show every week! You look thinner on television."
The woman scooted beside me and shut the car door. "Hospital. Step on it."
"Of course," he said, "Hey, do you mind if I get an autograph later?"
I looked at him fiercely. Not that I wasn't grateful for my fans but why do the ones I run into turn out to be complete imbeciles? And yet there was only one way to respond to fans like these. "Fuck you."
He turned away upset and the woman told him which hospital to go to.
"No, no," I protested, "Other way, that's not my hospital—" Another stab of pain and I groaned. I muttered the hospital I wanted and I had better get there or I'd kill them both.
"Does it really matter which hospital you go to? A hospital's a hospital, they do the same thing," said the woman.
"My records, my room, my doctor they're at the other hospital and I want to go there, damnit! Turn the fucking cab around!" I shook the driver's seat out of frustration. It also helped the pain to subside.
"We're already moving that direction and if we turn around now, it'll take twice as long so you might as well relax," said the woman.
I glared at her. I had to scream in my head to keep from losing control. It was no use. We were losing time and I was losing patience. I couldn't handle the pain anymore. I whimpered softly and pressed my forehead on the back of the driver's seat. I wished Mark was here.
"So you're in show business? You know, I have a few film projects under my belt…" Please tell me this woman wasn't trying to make small talk. Did she honestly think I was going to respond to her seriously? I wanted to wring my fingers around her neck. My temper rose, but I felt if I screamed, I'd explode. I wanted my baby to live. I anticipated moments like these and if I had to die for my baby to survive, so be it. So for him, I held my anger.
"I need to call my husband," I gasped. It became harder to inhale.
"Okay, okay," said the woman. "What's his number?"
Everything went dark.
"Can you wake her up? Is it possible?" a voice said.
"Ma'am? Ma'am? Wake up."
"We'll have to perform a cesarean to save the child—"
"Doctor, I think she's awake."
It took me a while to place those voices with faces. I was being lifted onto a bed and a man who I presumed to be the doctor looked at me closely.
"You're in good hands, Mrs…?"
"Cohen," I exhaled laying my head down.
"Mrs. Cohen, I'm Dr. Stephens and this is Dr. Brandon. He'll be injecting you with epidural, so roll a bit on your side—"
I closed my eyes. I hated needles. Everything was so rushed with nurses and doctors prodding and poking me, mumbling medical mumbo-jumbo I wasn't familiar with. I didn't realize that minutes had passed. "My husband—" I managed to say, but felt myself drifting into a sleep.
"We'll take care of him when he gets here, in the meantime your sister Maureen is here..." And I was gone.
I was sure I had died in that delivery room. I wouldn't have mind all that much as long as my baby was alright and that woman in the cab died of a heart attack. That would have been nice. But she didn't die. And I didn't die. Was my baby alright?
At least my sister was here. There was only one problem with that. My sister was named Adam. I never had a sister… was the name Maureen even Jewish? Oh dear God… Maureen… I remembered. Long, long ago when Mark told me he had buried the past and let her go.
Lesbians, cowbells, mooing, diet Pepsi. Or was it Cherry Coke? Anyway, that was all I associated with that woman. Mark was the most sincere man I had ever met and to crush someone's spirit the way she did was unforgivable. And to think I was considering in thanking that bitch in her thousand-dollar boots despite her arrogance, her insolence. I decided to open my eyes but then heard voices.
"Really, Mark, I can't believe you married someone like that," a voice that sounded like Maureen said.
"You know, we're both in the room, you could be more considerate," said Mark. Oh honey, couldn't you be more assertive and mean? Bitch slap her, really, I wouldn't mind.
"She doesn't deserve you," said Maureen softly. "You're too good for her."
"Really? I've always thought it the other way around."
"She's loud and cheeky," she pointed out.
"Funny how I like that in my women," he said plainly. "Look, Maureen, Eliana and I have had 13 beautiful years together and there's nothing on this Earth that's going to make me fall out of love with her."
"Oh, come on, Pookie, she's worse than me!" Pookie? What the fuck? Wasn't that the name Garfield gave his teddy bear? Who the hell would give a pet name after a pet's pet bear? Wait…
I heard footsteps and I knew Mark had stood up and approached Maureen. I wanted to peek, but knew I had to keep my cover or be nagged on for eavesdropping. "Eliana is nothing like you Maureen. You may be loud and cheeky; she's honest and bold, sophisticated..."
"Get real! She told the driver to fuck off after he asked for her autograph!"
"She was going through a hormonal rollercoaster or didn't you notice? She was pregnant! I wonder, Maureen, what's your excuse?"
That must have done it. There was a bit of silence and then Maureen crying softly in the distance. D-r-a-m-a-q-u-e-e-n. Mark sighed and I tried not to cringe as he comforted her.
"Maureen, once upon a time I thought you and I would be together for the rest of our lives. And then things changed. Joanne came into the picture and made you realize that we weren't meant to be together. Angel and Mimi came along, making us realize that every day is worth living to its fullest. And when Angel died, it made that even truer. And we hung on. Then Roger died..." There was a pause and he gulped. "And we then realized we couldn't stay on Avenue B. We had to move on and make our lives better. Eliana made my life so much better."
"And you forgot about us."
"No. I could never. You guys were...are my best friends. But I was able to go on, don't you see? I was able to move on after Roger's death. I was able to depend on myself instead of Collins for an allowance every now and then. I was able to forgive you for…" He stopped. I never knew how much Maureen had meant to Mark. I knew he was obsessed with her, but I never realized how much he truly loved her. For him to be able to move pass that made his commitment to me more special. I started to feel ashamed for not encouraging him to invite his group of friends that gave him meaning in life. I guess I was just being selfish and assumed that he only needed me; that was it. Truth was he had other friends, with relationships as deep as ours, that I should have never deprived him of. Deciding to act, I shifted in my bed and acted as if I had just woken up, a performance worthy of an Oscar and a Golden Globe, I must say.
"Eliana," said Mark and I felt his lips brush over mine. I opened my eyes and smiled when I saw him. He had contacts on and his stubble was uneven.
"You look old," I said, smiling.
"I am old," he replied, kissing me again.
"I better leave you two alone," said Maureen standing. "I'll find Collins and your boys. Hope you're feeling better, Eliana."
"Yeah, I am," I said. I was going to hate myself later. "Maureen, wait." She turned around. "Thanks…for everything. I wouldn't have made it without you." Shut up now, Eliana, I said to myself. She smiled and closed the door behind her.
Mark looked at me strangely. "You didn't have to lie like that."
"I'll lie when I please," I said. "How's my baby?"
"She's fine. Early, but healthy." He sat down on the side of the bed beside me. "They called it placental abruption, the reason for your bleeding. The placenta completely tore away from the uterine lining—"
"Depriving her of nutrients, her food supply," I finished. "Why?"
He put an arm around me. "Well, Mrs. Cohen you're old."
"I'm thirty-seven," I said. You're not old until you're like, fifty.
"And you have high-blood pressure. But that's not a surprise to either one of us, is it?" I shook my head. "Would you like to hear what I named our child?" I looked at him surprised. I didn't think he'd name our girl without me. We didn't really choose a name for a girl; we were pretty sure that it was going to be another boy. Although I wasn't mad; I was just thrilled she was healthy. I nodded.
"Maureen."
My jaw dropped. Okay, now I was mad. "Are you insane? You named our child after the lesbian girlfriend who dumped you?"
"She was my first serious relationship and she meant a lot to me. She's a really good friend of mine—"
"Is Maureen even Jewish?" I demanded. "Hmm? You can't have Elijah, Jeremiah and then Maureen—it doesn't make sense."
He grabbed my hand and squeezed it tight. "I'm over her. This way I can prove that she's completely in the past and I can handle her being in my life."
"Completely in the past? You've reincarnated your ex-girlfriend by stapling her god-awful name to our daughter. That's sick, Mark. You're sick."
"Eliana—"
"I can't look at my own daughter because all I can think about when I think of her name is that hussy with those alligator boots. MARK! What the hell were you thinking?" Did he hate me for denying him his friendships all this time? I didn't mean it, really. Oy vey! The door opened and I hoped it wasn't what's-her-face. Luckily, it was only the nurse.
"Is everything alright here?" she asked.
"Fine, thank you," Mark said smiling. I shot him a look as if to say, "Fine my ass, you Benedict Arnold." The nurse was carrying a tiny baby in her arms, a pink blanket enwrapping her small body.
"Would you like to hold Ariel, Mrs. Cohen?" asked the nurse.
"Who?" I asked. I turned to Mark. "You prick." I turned back to the nurse and she carefully handed me my baby girl. She was soft and small. I smiled involuntarily and started counting her little fingers.
"We're even for the itching powder," Mark said kissing my forehead. I snatched his sweater and pulled him closer. I smirked and kissed him passionately on the lips because this is why I loved him.