to a tiny, intrepid diver.
But the moment she was born, the oxygen supply was cut off and she entered the new element of air. There was a moment of silence, a precipitous second, as if she stood on the edge of life, deciding. In the old days, they used to slap the baby to hear the reassuring yell of lungs filled with air. Nowadays, they look closely to see the minute rise of a baby-soft chest and listen to the whispering—in and out—to know that life in the new medium of air has begun.
And then I cried and you cheered—actually cheered!—and the baby equipment trolley was wheeled out, no need for that now. A normal delivery. A healthy infant. To join all the billions of others on the planet who breathe, in and out, without thinking about it.
The next day your sister sent me a bouquet of roses with gypsophila, known as “baby’s breath,” sprays of pretty white flowers. But a newborn baby’s breath is finer than a single parachute from a blown dandelion clock.
You told me once that when you lose consciousness, the last of the senses to go is hearing. In the darkness I thought I heard Jenny take a dandelion-clock breath.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ROSAMUND LUPTON has worked for many years as a scriptwriter. She lives with her husband and two sons in London. This is her first novel.
