But there was nothing there to run through with a sword and he came back up a little disappointed. That was when the sight of him stark-naked, with this relic hanging from his hip sent me into uncontrolled laughter, and I kept laughing in spite of his begging me to stop, until finally he crawled into bed without a word and, covering me with himself, made me stop laughing for the rest of the night.
In April, I knew for sure I was going to have a baby. Luca acted very silly about the whole thing, kissing and patting me every time I walked by him, even if it was fifty times a day, and smiling at me all the time and looking swelled up with pride, as if he’d done something that every other healthy man in the world couldn’t do, and tweaking my nose and pinching my cheek, and in general, making a terrible nuisance of himself. As for me, I still wasn’t over the shock of being pregnant. Not that I was dumb to the ways of nature. I knew that if you did certain things long enough and with as much enthusiasm as Luca and I did them, that sooner or later, you were bound to have a baby. It was just that I had never thought of myself as anyone’s mother before. Hell, I had only begun thinking of myself as female a scant few years before. But just the same, I loved being pregnant.
During that time, I was reminded of a dress that Jewel had had when I was just a little girl. It was made of velvet and it was her favorite dress that she wore only on special occasions, usually when the railroad men were visiting. I loved that dress. It stirred my senses so. I loved to look at Jewel in that dress because she looked so beautiful, not like someone’s mother but like a fairy princess. But the thing I loved most about the dress was the feel of it. I would sit beside her by the hour and just glide my hand along her arm to feel that soft, deep velvet, until she would say in exasperation, “Stop it, Darcy. You’re gonna make a bald spot.”
My days carrying the baby were like that dress, deep, soft velvet days, when I felt peaceful and peaceable. Time passed serenely, and I learned not to be frustrated at the growing clumsiness of my body, but instead to let myself slow down to that dreamlike pace.
We were lazy in those days, Luca and I. Me, because of the baby. And him, because of me. I’d lie in the hammock and he would sit by my feet and fan me when it got very hot in late August. And he’d watch me. So intently. Like the changes in my body were a show staged just for him. He thought the whole business was very mystical, and he seemed determined to let no aspect of the process pass him by. Having grown large and silent with contentment, I felt like the Sphinx, and that was how Luca seemed to see me too. Full of awe, he’d look at me like I was a natural wonder and say things like, “You have life in you. You are holding the secret to life right inside you.”
In my last months, his reverence got on my nerves so that one day I snapped, “I’m not the Virgin Mary and it’s no different than cats and dogs! Now leave me alone.”
But it was different than cats and dogs, and I didn’t ever want him to leave me alone.
Luca was so anxious to meet his child that when he heard the first cry, he rushed in and scooped the baby up in his arms before the midwife had even had a chance to clean her up. She was beautiful to him even all bloody like that.
I’d figured all along it would be a girl and I thought for sure that Luca would be very disappointed. But he wouldn’t have had it any other way. He was so glad of his daughter that I thought he would burst. The way he doted on her, he did everything but nurse her, and I think he secretly cursed nature that he couldn’t do that. He loved to watch me nurse and I loved to have him watch me.
When I asked Luca what he wanted to name her, he said he would let me decide, and with unusual largesse, I said I wanted to name her Renata, after his mother, which was quite a sacrifice, since I thought it was an ugly name and not even American. He was so touched at that, he almost cried, and I was glad I offered. Secretly, I made up my mind that she’d be Renata on paper only. I’d call her Rennie, and no one need ever know the origin of the nickname.
There’s nothing quite so vain or quite so much fun as searching your child for parts of yourself. At six months old, we could see that Rennie was her father’s daughter. It was all there, the dimples, the long dark lashes over warm blue eyes, the thick, dark hair. I was glad of it too,
