“I know. I’ve never even shown it. We were installing a private collection in that house in Woodside. A bunch of modern pieces. Stuff that’s super delicate, so it’s been days of unpacking the boxes and carefully placing them where this rich woman tells us. Then last week she mentioned that she was looking for a big painting. Something specifically Californian. And Marcus pointed at me and said, ‘You should look at this guy’s work. It’s damn good.’ She said, ‘Oh yeah?’ and I said I have pictures on my phone. I was joking, but she looked and then she wanted to see them and then today she came in. I didn’t want to tell you. I didn’t think anything would happen. But she loved it and she wants Cry of the Rain Crow and The Unmaking too.”
We stare at each other, eyes huge. This would mean more money than Daniel has made in all the years we have been together. Can it be? Is it happening as we have wished and hoped and prayed? The baby gives a kick from inside me. I put Daniel’s hand on my belly and we grin in hope and joy.
*
I am eight months along. She lies inside me, head up, nestled below my heart, and now I am afraid that she may not turn in the appropriate direction, facedown like a diver waiting to arc out of my body, but might instead attempt to exit in this dangerous fashion, feetfirst. The doctor tells me to try speaking to her. She explains that there are invisible bonds between mother and unborn baby that no one understands, a certain chemical language, perhaps, or an emotional one. It’s said to happen. She says, “You might be able to get your baby to move yourself.”
I sit in the quiet of our apartment, on our old faded couch. I reach for my girl with my mind. I explain to her what will happen soon, the right way to turn so that this will be easy for both of us, so that soon I will be holding her. After an hour of sitting in the quiet and speaking to her, I feel her turn, a push and roll inside me, and my good little baby girl has listened, has turned herself upside down. I sit in wonder, my hand on the skin of my belly, which is still moving with the force of her turning. She reminds me of how little we know. How much about ourselves, the animal bodies we inhabit, is unseen and mysterious to us.
*
Later, reading, with my feet in Daniel’s lap, I say, “Oh my god, listen to this. Her cells come into me through the placenta. A few of them. And if my organs are ever damaged in any way, the baby’s stem cells can come in and help damage the repair. Can you imagine? Her cells will be in me all my life. They could be in any of my organs, my liver, my heart.”
He kisses my hair, nods. This makes it all worth it, the pain in my joints, the way my stretched hips make me feel like a jointed doll coming apart. All worth it because we together, he and I, are making something new, something safe, a family.
*
The question of naming rises again. Such a difficult thing to decide, the sounds she will carry with her, the name we will call her, that her lovers will call her, the one that will be spoken at her deathbed when we are long gone. What an awesome responsibility. I can’t believe someone is letting us name a child. Then I remember that someone is actually letting us bring a child into existence. She will be our creation and our responsibility. Who let us do this? It’s madness. I try to focus on the smaller question of her name. I look over the beautiful illustrated list he’s made me, but nothing stands out. I turn to him. “What are we going to call her? She needs a name! We can’t have a baby without a name.”
He looks at me over The New Yorker and makes a face. “Constance. It’s a good old family name.”
“Constance? That’s ridiculous. That’s like something from the Civil War.”
“You wanted old family names. That’s a good old family name from way back in the day. Great-Aunt Constance would be proud.”
“Oh, in that case, if we’re doing old family names, I can go all the way back to the village. How about a nice old Sri Lankan name like Iranganihami?”
“No. I like … Petunia-May.”
“Isurusahani.”
“No one can even say whatever you just said. Prudence.”
“Chathurangani.”
“Ezekiel!”
“She’s not a boy!”
It goes on like this, us laughing, us terrified. And then one morning as the last shreds of a dream are leaving me, I hear her name whispered into my ear as if someone is standing by my bed. I stretch and smile. “I know what to call her,” I tell Daniel. He gathers me closer in his sleep. I lie there, knowing who is coming to us. Her name will be Bodhi for the ancient sacred tree under which the Buddha was said to have found enlightenment. On the island the tapering leaves of these trees rustle and spin even when there is no wind; they are said to be the abode of deities and gentle spirits. It’s a masculine name, and I like this—our girl will have a taproot of steel in her.
He adds to it, Anne. A quiet, settled family name. His mother sends us pictures of various Annes, a line of grandmothers, great-aunts, and cousins. Bodhi Anne then, this is who we are awaiting.