She looks just like him, I think as they take her away to wash and swaddle her. She has his chocolaty hair, his wide puppy-dog eyes, and his thickly lashed lids. I look for him in my confused postpartum daze, but all I see is Mom, all chubby limbs and mousy hair. I start crying. Where is he?
And then I remember. Drake is dead. I see it all again: the melancholy way he spoke at our last meeting, that night where I had to pick him up because he was too drunk to drive, his jerky new friends, the way he didn't look me in the eyes when he said he was excited about the baby, that shitty night illuminated by red and blue siren lights when he left the world via jumping off a bridge. By the time the nurse is back with the baby, I'm crying.
"Do you need more meds for the pain?" she asks, a tired look on her face.
I nod, even though I don't need any, and gesture for her to place my sleeping baby in my arms. She adds some stuff to my IV drip, and I look at my daughter again. They said I'm too young to be a good parent, that it'll be hard without a father in the picture. I sigh.
"What will you name it?" the nurse asks.
I think about my friend's advice to get an abortion, my mother's anger about the whole thing, the snickers behind my back at school. I went to church through all of that. I have faith. "I have faith," I say quietly.
"Hhmm?" mumbles the nurse absentmindedly.
"Faith," I say. "Her name is Faith."
