Authors: Nicki Reed
She’s a pink-wrapped football in my arms. Her tiny lips are pursed. She has long eyelashes and smooth, smooth eyebrows. Nothing can make me stop looking at my little girl. I sniff her head. I get it now.
‘What are you going to call her?’
BJ is our first visitor after my not-quite-emergency caesarean. The rest of the interventionists are waiting outside and I don’t know how long we have. Keith and Catherine are there, too. Jasmine and Margie are on their way. I can hear Ruby. She’s been here every day since I was admitted—five days of waiting, of being excited, of maternal instinct on tap, she’s an aunty on the rise.
BJ slides a soft finger down the baby’s nose.
‘I thought you’d like to name her.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes, BJ. You.’
‘I’ll have to have a think.’
BJ turns her head. The bruise has faded to burnt yellow. She exhales. When she looks back at us she is in tears. I cry every time someone I love cries.
I pass the baby to BJ. She soft-juggles her into position and touches her nose to the baby’s, a twist of her hair curls onto the baby’s cheek.
I can see the baby properly in BJ’s arms. When she’s in mine it’s an aerial view, special, but limited. The baby is so little and so pink. I’m romanticising, but even bruised and in black leather, BJ looks the real deal and at least as prepared as I am.
‘Can we call her Celeste?’
‘You don’t need to ask, BJ. Is Celeste a cycling thing?’
‘It is,’ BJ smiles, ‘but it’s beautiful and it’s different.’
‘Like you.’
BJ cups the baby’s lovely little pointed chin. ‘No, like you.’
‘Let’s not argue in front of the baby.’
After months of calling her, the baby, the lump, I correct myself and use the name BJ has given our daughter.
‘In front of Celeste.’