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By Root 1657 0

thought of the pond upstate yielding to an early spring thaw, its deep quilt of ice melting, snapping and crackling in barrages of succinct commentary about what it was like to be water once warm and supple, and then frozen, frosted, hardened to the point where any animal or any boy on his snowmobile could cross it without fear of drowning, then to be liquefied again by the warm equinox. And she thought how crazy it had been for her even to consider forgoing this melting moment of her own, this melting away from self toward selves. Marcos was saying something to her, that he loved her, that she was doing great. And the doctor was speaking, too, but she didn’t really want to listen. She wanted to think of how the peepers would soon be multiplying along the shallow shore of the pond, and how during the night a clumsy skunk, hobbly and hankhaired, might drop by for a sip of water. Bluebird, phoebe, tree swallow—they all will be nesting soon, and the grass will be spongy, marvelously cold under bare feet. Windows will need washing, and the peeling paint she’d thought to scrape the year before will lie like white potato chips along the walls, even as cracks and pennynail rust stains present themselves. She recalled again that moment when she’d seen herself reflected in the pool of water on the kitchen floor and started and pushed and clenched her fists as the birthing began, and she forgave everyone who’d ever done her the least harm, because none of it amounted to anything compared to this good, living present.

And the room continued to make itself known to Ariel, its heavy lights, its voices of urgent encouragement. She never felt so much like a universe, a spring overflow pond herself. Everything was so utterly stretched beyond the boundaries of probability, and the pain was beautifully everywhere running through her.

So this was what it was like to give birth. No, what it was to give birth. One breathing in, slowly, slowly. Two out, slowly, slowly. The nurse said the child was crowning. She never felt so euphoric in her life, looped on all this air, buzzed by breathing in and out. She wanted to remember everything and told Marcos she wanted never to forget this day and he said she wouldn’t as he held her hand and told her the baby was a girl, a beautiful little girl, and before Ariel could think of another thing Miranda was gently laid on her mother’s chest and Ariel took the first look at her daughter who seemed to look at her right back.

La Cienaga was moving, but the traffic was slow for such an early hour. Going to be a hot one. The hazy sky above the palm trees was already florid, though the sun had only just risen. They said the Santa Anas would be blowing again today. Yeahboy, a scorcher was in the cards, and wind to drive the heat right through your mind, but it wouldn’t matter. The eucalyptus scent in the air this morning was perfume from some fine heaven, balm for the soul. And besides, she’d be in air conditioning until long after that same red sun had flown away over the wide Pacific.

Had no idea what was on the docket. The acting agent had left a message like always, nobody ever quite connecting person to person. Messages on machines got the job done, so why personalize when the system worked fine. She had a location address and contact name and all was well with the world. This was not going to be Jane Austen on the silver screen or a sitcom or anything more than a commercial shoot, so no need for major apprehension. The agency had asked if she had any cuts or bruises on her hands, so she surmised it might have something to do with soap. Detergents, or else moisturizer. Possibly just a matter of holding up some product. Paid the mortgage between real gigs, and it was a mortgage now, on an apartment in Santa Monica, not some frittering West Hollywood rental. Covered private coaching, too, which she worked at with dedication.

Every so often she wondered if she and Marcos mightn’t have made a go of it if she’d simply met him over the counter of that restaurant as forthright Mary Carpenter from Gallup,