I still felt the shock of a survivor who walks from a crash mostly unharmed. I was still astounded by every night of good sleep, and since I’d met Tony that had been every one.
I took in the cool air from the ventilator and closed my eyes. In our couples birthing class Mary had told us that during labor we’d find an image to focus on as the pain grew in intensity. The music of the birth mix Tony and I had made for Josephine’s arrival played against the beeping of the ventilator and its hissing air. Van Morrison sang “Into the Mystic.” Tony hummed along.
My picture came into focus:
First, a parking lot—yards of smooth, coal-black asphalt. But this pavement is cracked in one spot, and the thin stalk of a plant with a single leaf at its top has slipped up through the blacktop. This thin stalk is spare and thriving. It has been ravaged by insects or weather, but it is plucky. Its leaf has stubbornly held on. As each contraction came, wind rushed into my picture, pummeling my rebellious little sprout. And with each contraction, the leaf held on, fluttering tenaciously.
My vine and I hung on together through three hours of active labor.
We made it to transition, the period of labor where contractions are strongest and come without a break between them.
I gritted my teeth. “I can do this. I can do this,” I said to myself. The time gone by since I’d lost Cara had trained me. I had endured years of utmost agony. The pain of labor was nothing beside those years. If I could survive those, couldn’t I birth my Josephine? I grunted and cried out and bit down on my husband’s kind hand as the pain took me.
I closed my eyes and slipped back into my parking lot. There it was. I looked for my weed. But it was nowhere to be seen. There, instead, a woman stood, with her back to me. I recognized her.
Cara turned to greet me. She held her hands on her hips and smiled with half of her mouth. She was radiant.
She was with me.
I walked to her and fell at her feet. She pulled me up and brushed off the bits of rock that clung to my bare knees. We stood face-to-face holding hands, my baby tucked safely in my womb between us. Cara drew her hands down to my belly and held on to Josephine. I gave in to her embrace and she rocked us both. As the wind blew, her hair whipped her face but she didn’t pay it any mind. Her arms were strong and I felt their safety as my body opened.
“I need to push,” I heard myself cry out. Tony looked at the midwife and at Mary who nodded that yes, it was time. The hands on a wall clock ticked loudly. It was just after four in the morning and Josephine was nearly here. I pushed as hard as I could and in the middle of my push I was swept into a contraction. I retreated to my sister.
I was no longer in the parking lot with her but she was there with me in the birthing room. She stood beside me, coaching me just as I imagine she would have had she lived. “Push,” I heard her say, “push.” And I did. I pushed with all of my might.
I locked eyes with Cara as the pain became too much to bear. I was lost in her gaze. For the first time since she’d died I allowed the feeling of her care to pour over me. It wasn’t only about loss anymore; it was about our great love. I took a long deep breath and braced myself for another contraction. It battered me. I was a little rowboat carrying precious cargo, banging against the dock I was tied to. Cara cut the rope.
Josephine crowned.
The midwife wheeled over a giant heating lamp for the baby and a light to shine down on her so she would easily be seen.
“Put your hand down and touch your baby’s head. She’s on her way.” Mary guided my hand to Josephine.
“She feels like a tomato.” I stroked her impossibly squishy head and tried not to panic. “Is that normal?” I asked anyone in the room.
“Yes, sweetie.” Mary laughed. “Her head is pliable so she can make her way.”
I touched Josephine gently with the tips of my fingers as I pushed. With each push she moved forward and then retreated back inside. I was exhausted, but the sensation of my daughter’s flesh propelled me. I closed my eyes and braced myself on the rails of the hospital bed. Cara was with me still. She stood at one of my shoulders and Tony at the other. Her expression, the one she always had when she was witness to beauty, eyes wide, filled with grace and the anticipation of a gift. She had this same expression whenever she looked into the sky at the shapes of passing clouds, like she owned them as much as God or the atmosphere could, just by noticing they were there.
Cara smiled at me, as if in thanks. It was her gratitude to me for having given myself this great opportunity for new life. Hers was over and mine was beginning again. I had her permission to live. I pushed again as hard as I could. I pushed until I heard the song of my tiny girl’s cry.
Josephine was born at 5:22 a.m. into her father’s loving hands. He set her on my chest to nurse. We gazed at each other, mother and daughter, taking the great responsibility of the other in. My baby’s name suited her.
She blinked at me with simple love.
She looked identical to no one. She looked exactly like herself.
About the Author
CHRISTA PARRAVANI is a writer and photographer. Her photographs have been exhibited internationally. She has taught photography at Dartmouth College, Columbia University, and UMass, Amherst. She earned her MFA in visual art from Columbia University and her MFA in creative writing from Rutgers-Newark. She lives in Brooklyn with her husband, the writer Anthony Swofford, and their daughter, Josephine Clementine.
HER. Copyright © 2013 by Christa Parravani. All rights reserved. For information, address Henry Holt and Co., 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
www.henryholt.com
Jacket design by Rick Pracher
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Parravani, Christa.
Her: a memoir / Christa Parravani.—1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-8050-9653-8
1. Parravani, Christa. 2. Parravani, Cara. 3. Sisters—United States—Biography. 4. Twins—United States—Biography. I. Title.
CT275.P3846A3 2013
306.875092—dc23
[B] 2012029499
e-ISBN 9780805096545
First Edition: March 2013
Her Page 27