by Rita Ciresi
My voice: “Take off the lens cap.”
Very bright lights. The camera took a wild cinematic swing around the room, catching some scary-looking silver medical implements and then the green of someone’s surgical scrubs. Ebb finally focused on the nurse who brought forward a blue papooselike bundle.
“Mom and Dad,” the nurse said. “Meet your baby.”
She lowered the bundle onto my collapsed stomach. I looked down at Danny’s face, red as a pomegranate against the pale blue of the hospital blanket, and smiled an uneasy smile.
I hoped, sometimes—when I watched this video—that my scary appearance could be blamed on the brightness of the birthing-room lights. But I knew deep down inside that the camera had caught the utter truth of what I had looked like after fourteen hours of labor. I looked like one of those crazy ladies who used to be locked up in attics so they wouldn’t kill their husband or their children—stringy-haired, sweaty, my hospital gown spattered with the vomit I had spewed after the doctor shot too much Demerol into my butt (ostensibly to calm me down—but probably more to shut me up).
On the video, I chucked Danny’s red, raw cheek and checked to see that he had five fingers on each hand. Then I checked to see if he had just the right number of toes, and knees, and elbows. Once I was satisfied with the math, I simply gazed down at him in wonder. And in fear. (Thank God the camera hadn’t recorded the thought scrolling through my head: Oh holy shit, what kind of trouble am I in for now?)
Then Ebb’s voice came back on the tape. It sounded loud, as if someone had placed the microphone inside his chest, so you could hear the breath in his lungs and the beating of his heart. “Lisar. Lisar? This is incredible. I’ve never seen you speechless before. Lisar? Say something?”
I tell you: It was the only time in my life when I’ve ever been at a loss for words. Yet it certainly wasn’t the first or last time I ever tried to describe love and ended up talking nonsense. On the videotape, the woman who was me—but not really me—was talking to her child when she blurted out, “Oh, I love you so much, I wish you were twins!” but looking straight at her husband when she added, “But then again—think of the work involved—so maybe not?”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
RITA CIRESI is the author of the story collections Mother Rocket and Sometimes I Dream in Italian and the novels Blue Italian and Pink Slip. She lives with her husband and daughter in Florida.
also by rita ciresi
sometimes i dream in italian
pink slip
blue italian
mother rocket
REMIND ME AGAIN WHY I MARRIED YOU
A Delacorte Book / June 2003
Published by Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2003 by Rita Ciresi
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.
Delacorte Press is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data
Ciresi, Rita.
Remind me again why I married you / Rita Ciresi.
p. cm.
1. Married women—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3553.I7 R46 2003
813’.54—dc21 2002035097
Visit our website at www.bantamdell.com
eISBN: 978-0-440-33407-1
v3.0