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“Oh, you didn’t have to do that.”
“I wanted to. I do this for all my clients. Open it.”
She gently kisses my baby on her dewy scalp. Though the kiss is innocent and affectionate, there’s a tiny part of me that feels violated.
“Sweetie, tell your pretty mommy to open the present. It’s something for you.”
I pull off the bow and tear off the paper. I gasp. Inside a see-through box is a baby doll that looks so much like Isa that they could have been separated at birth. It’s almost scary. The same gem-like blue eyes, golden hair, rosebud lips, and slightly dimpled chin. She’s even wearing a pink striped onesie that looks just like the one Isa has on.
“It’s a Baby Reborn doll,” says Nurse Marley. “I had one as a child. While Isa is too young for it now, she will love it when she gets a little older, and I want her to remember me by it.”
“I-it’s…she’s beautiful,” I splutter.
She smiles again. “Each one of these dolls is hand-painted—the artisans use real human hair—and no two are alike. They’re collector items.”
“It’s astonishing how much she looks like Isa…right down to her tiny wrinkled fingers and toes. They could be twins.”
“It’s just a coincidence.” Nurse Marley juts her chin. “Open the box and take the doll out.”
“Don’t you think she should stay in the box? Until Isa can appreciate her?”
“No, it’s a gift for you as well. I want you to hold her. The experience will make you feel more comfortable with Isa.”
Fumbling to open the box, I do as she asks. Amazingly, the soft-bodied, perfectly weighted doll feels like a real baby. And what’s even more amazing, when I place her against my chest, she coos and I can feel a heartbeat.
While I get used to holding the doll, Isa begins to act up. Her wails pierce my ears.
“I think she’s hungry again,” I say forlornly.
“Ava, let me see you nurse.”
I feel myself cringe. “I don’t think I’m very good at it.”
“Hon, let me be the judge.”
Hesitantly, I set the Baby Reborn doll aside and loosen my robe so I can unbutton my pajama top. Nurse Marley puts Isa to my swollen right breast. The baby struggles to latch on to my nipple. As her cries grow louder, I feel tears prick the back of my eyes.
“See, I told you. It’s a disaster.”
Nurse Marley studies my breasts. “I see the problem. Your nipples are on the flat side. It’s hard for Isa to latch on to them.”
“What am I going to do?” Tears begin to fall.
“Do you have a breast pump?”
“I think so, but I don’t know where it is.” It’s probably one of the baby gifts I registered for and among the hundreds sent by my husband’s employees and clients piled up in my garage. I cry harder, my shoulders heaving.
“Shh, don’t cry, Ava. It’s not the end of the world.” She tenderly dabs my cheeks with the back of her hand. “Lactation issues are common, and if I had to guess by how small your breasts are, your milk supply is low, so the breast pump doesn’t really matter.” She pauses. “And I assume you’re on antibiotics and painkillers on account of your C-section.”
I tell her I am. Though my doctor assured me they were safe for nursing, I didn’t 100% believe him. Nurse Marley shares my concern.
“Given everything, the best thing to do is to put Isa on formula right away so she gets nutrition.”
My still-watering eyes lob onto hers. “But everything I’ve heard and read says ‘breast is best.’”
She looks at me compassionately. “Hon, not every woman in the world can nurse. I’ve taken care of dozens of babies who’ve required formula for one reason or another, and all of them grew up to be healthy, thriving toddlers.”
“I—I don’t have any formula. Maybe I can call Ned and ask him to stop and pick up some on his way home.” I dread making that call and can’t imagine my husband stopping off at a drugstore and roaming the aisles in search of baby formula after a long day at work.
