Erased From the Birth Certificate

Eight months pregnant, in premature labor, I called my husband Eric Joyce over and over as they wheeled me toward the delivery room.

The line connected. Behind it, the noise of a karaoke lounge.

It was Maria Walker, the new girl at his company, who answered.

"Hey, hon, Eric's had a few too many. I've got him, don't worry."

Before I could get a word out, I heard Eric's voice from somewhere beside her, clearly not realizing the call had already gone through.

"Send my wife a message. Tell her the project's running late tonight. Don't let her wait up."

Maria covered the phone and laughed. "Eric, you never even saved my number. How am I supposed to send anything for you?"

"Use my phone. You know the passcode."

The delivery room lights came on.

The nurse pressed me to sign. Biting my lip, I wrote my mother's name in the blank marked next of kin on the consent form.

The night my son was born, Eric texted: Project's finally wrapped up. I'll come back and be with you tomorrow.

I stared at that line for a long time.

At four in the morning, I texted him back.

"Eric. Don't come."

...

"Stop watching that phone. If he'd really wanted to come last night, he'd already be here."

My mother sat at the edge of the hospital bed, her eyes rubbed raw from the long night.

She held a cup of warm water, dabbing a cotton swab over my cracked lips, little by little.

The anesthesia had only just worn off. The incision across my belly throbbed in waves.

I looked up at the fluorescent light on the ceiling, my vision still soft and blurred.

A nurse wheeled in a dressing cart and glanced at the nameplate above my bed.

"You're awake. How are you feeling?"

I opened my mouth a little.

"Where's my baby?"

The nurse wrapped the cuff around my arm to take my blood pressure, lowering her voice.

"The baby came early. The weight was too low, so he went straight to the neonatal ICU after delivery."

"He's still in the incubator under observation. In your condition, you can't go hold him just yet."

My mother turned her back and wiped at a tear before I could see.

When she turned around, her voice was still shaking.

"You hemorrhaged last night. When the doctor handed me the critical-condition notice, my hand wouldn't even hold steady enough to sign."

"I called him a dozen times. Every single one went dead."

I didn't answer. I just rolled my eyes slowly toward the phone by my pillow.

The screen was lit. A few unread messages waited in the chat.

All of them from Eric.

"Still mad? Last night really was a work thing."

"The client added a last-minute dinner. I couldn't say no, the whole team is counting on this account."

"Maria said you called. Don't read into it, she's just a kid fresh out of school, she saw I'd had too much and answered for me to be nice."

"You're pregnant. Stop being so suspicious all the time. It's bad for the baby."

I fixed on that last line, and my chest went tight.

Yesterday afternoon, at the checkup, the doctor said the baby's heartbeat was abnormal and recommended I be admitted at once.

I called him. He said he was in a meeting.

That evening the pain doubled me over, and my water broke on the living room floor.

My mother held me up while we waited for the ambulance, and with shaking hands I dialed his number.

It was Maria who picked up.

Her light, breezy voice mixed in with the music from the lounge.

And then his easy, matter-of-fact line. Use my phone. You know the passcode.

The nurse came to the bedside with a few documents.

"Mila Fox, this is the baby's admission form and the visitor wristband. Family needs to check the information and sign."

My mother reached for them, but the nurse pointed at one line.

"Here, the father's information field is blank. No contact number either."

"If anything sudden happens with the baby later, we need to reach both parents' families right away."