Mendocino and Other Stories by Ann Packer

“He wants us to practice our breathing again.”
    “You've practiced a million times,” I say.
    “I know,” she says, laughing. “Wish me luck.”
    IT'S A GIRL . I got the call at work late this afternoon. She was in labor for seventeen hours. Seventeen! Visiting hours go until 8:30, so I finished what I was doing before racing to the hospital.
    I am hurrying down the corridor, looking for Sam's room, when ahead of me I see a pair of swinging doors and a large sign that says nursery. There is nothing to stop me, no sign saying staff only or even parents only. I push through the doors and into a darkened hallway.
    No one else is here. A huge glass wall separates me from the babies, reminding me of those one-way mirrors psychologists use to study people.
    The nursery is brightly lit, and there are, unbelievably, row upon row of babies. They are in cribs about two feet apart, their tiny red heads all pointed in the same direction. The cribs are numbered, 01 through 56. Only seven cribs are empty. What happens when there are more babies than cribs? The whole thing suddenly seems comical to me—ludicrous, even. I imagine baby after baby being born and brought to this room, an assembly-line gone mad. Babies making way for more babies, hospital cribs filling and emptying, filling and emptying, all over New York, all over the world.
    All this time, going through Sam's pregnancy with her, it has seemed to me magical somehow. But it's just what happens: women have babies.
    I push back through the swinging doors. The hospital corridor is brightly lit: clinical and matter-of-fact. I find Sam's room, knock on the open door, and go in.
    “Virginia,” Sam says. She is lying in bed, looking very pale andtired and happy. Josh is sitting on the edge of the bed, all wrinkled and unshaven. He is, I realize, still in yesterday's clothes. There is a look of bliss on his face. Or maybe it's exhaustion.
    I lean down to kiss Sam. Her face feels damp and warm. “Virginia,” she says, “you would have been proud. I made it all the way through without any drugs.”
    “Great,” I say. That was one of the things we always talked about: would she be able to stand the pain? It was as if I were pregnant, too, I was so interested.
    “I could have killed her,” Josh says. “I was hoping they'd give me a little something.”
    “He was wonderful,” Sam says, smiling at him.
    “You were wonderful,” Josh says, touching her shoulder.
    There is a moment of silence. There are things I should be saying, but what are they?
    “So, Virginia,” Sam says, “what do you think of Isabel?”
    Josh laughs. “Can you believe we changed our minds again?”
    For the longest time it was going to be James or Sarah, there was no wavering, no doubt. But the past few weeks, Sam was coming in to work with new possibilities every day. Amelia, Susan, Laura. Henry, Timothy, Jacob.
    “I like Isabel,” I say. In a few days they'll take her home, and a new baby will appear in whatever crib she's in now. Maybe it'll even be Jennifer's baby, although I don't even know at which hospital Jennifer is going to deliver.
    “Oh, look,” Sam says. “Your timing was perfect.”
    I turn around and there, standing in the doorway, is a nurse, a little bundle in her arms.
    Sam is radiant. “Her first real feeding,” she says.
    The nurse comes over to the bed. “Are you ready to see Mom?” she says to the bundle. “Are you ready to say hello to Mom?”
    I look at Sam, but she doesn't seem at all amused by the nurse'slittle show. She holds her arms out, and the nurse gently gives her the bundle. Sam looks up at Josh and smiles. She turns to me. “See?” she says.
    I lean in close, and there, in the midst of an elaborate system of soft white wrapping, is a tiny pink face. “She's very cute,” I say. I look up at Josh, but his attention is fixed on the bundle. He touches the little nose, then puts his arm around Sam and buries his face in her hair.
    “I should go,” I