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A Pain Like That

The girl leans her head back into the pillow, tries breathing the way she’s probably seen pregnant women breathe on TV. Her boyfriend slouches in a plastic chair beside the hospital bed. He has a lip ring at the side of his mouth that he touches at intervals with his tongue, bulging out his lip. His spine curves below his chest, giving him a cool, cobra-like posture. The nurse, Maggie, makes a note on the chart, time of admission: 1:07 am. The boy reminds her of her son. The lip ring and his posture, too, although her son, David, had a sharper bend in his back. Maggie remembers him slouched against the kitchen counter like that, like a broken kite, lifting a bottle of her wine to see how much was left. “There’s nothing we could have done,” her husband has said, putting his hands to the sides of his head. “We are unfortunate,” he says. “Unfortunate.” Maggie can see that the boy and the girl are unfortunate people. It makes her feel close to them. It makes her loathe them. “How are we feeling in here?” she asks. She scans for the name on the chart. “Cindy, how are we feeling?”