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Jane Molina is worried about her daughter.
She always is, really, because of course she is. Rationally, she knows her daughter is doing well—she even called home yesterday, raving on about the new friends she made at CalTech and how amazing her professors are–but she can’t help but worry. She’s used to fussing over Raissa, used to the familiar motions of brushing her hair or nagging about how her room had gotten messy again after Jo's many visits. It's like second nature to her. Right now, there’s no one to pester.
She’s still getting used to not having a child in the house. The house is quiet, almost eerily so. Sometimes she lets herself into Raissa’s bedroom and the place seems frozen in time. Her books are still neatly arranged, the medals and certificates have gathered some dust here and there, and the model rockets that her daughter had once raised up to show off to her are displayed in the same way. She remembers how brightly Raissa's proud grin gleamed at her then, the first time she finished assembling a model by herself. She can almost imagine her daughter’s protests after seeing them out of place. The silence that greets her back is deafening.
At dinner, Jane still prepares a third plate. Manny refuses to make mention of it, which she is thankful for, and he seems more than happy to gulp down the portion set aside for Raissa. He’s courteous enough to do the dishes afterward.
“Mahal mo talaga ako, no? More for me! You know I’ve always loved your cooking, dear.” He had once playfully remarked. Her mouth opened to retort, but she had no words for him this time. The old couple have known each other for long enough. Both are acutely aware of what the other is feeling. They both miss their little girl terribly.
Ah, but she should really kill the habit, she thinks.
At their age, her husband should be more mindful of his weight. She’d much prefer it if Raissa had both parents to return to upon coming home.
It doesn’t matter, she supposes, how old or how capable your children are; you never stop being a mother. You’re a mother for all your life, and quite frankly, she doesn’t mind that. She loves her darling daughter, the greatest gift in the world.
Her little miracle.
She still remembers bits and pieces of Raissa’s birth. It seemed like everything that could’ve gone wrong just did. She’d been in the labor room for what felt like an eternity, splayed out on the delivery bed, and jaw tense with anticipation. Her contractions were weak and felt erratic almost—the intervals in between rapidly shifting—likely an indicator of prolonged labor, and she had spent a better part of the night shifting her weight around awkwardly while squeezing her husband’s hand tighter than she’d like to admit. She remembers Manny pressing gentle kisses to her forehead and to the back of her hand, and how he’d rub soothing circles along her shoulder. Those were the only comforts she was afforded at the time.
She remembers vividly the parts where she was lucid.
She’d almost passed out a few times, her vision hazy after having taken doses of Pitocin to help induce labor. Still, she insisted on having a natural delivery, even after Cesarian-section was raised as an option. If the baby was to be anything like her, she knew they would be stubborn. She was so close now, she could feel it. She had faith in her child, she just knew in her heart that they’d be a fighter.
And fight little Raissa did. Her Raissa had been fighting from the minute she was born.
It had been an emergency delivery, and she recalls being closely monitored by doctors and nurses alike for the entire duration of the night. She remembers the irritating beeping of the monitors, how jarring it felt against her eardrums. They’d shifted her body over to her left side, and suddenly-
Her little girl came out feet-first, and the room went quiet, terrifyingly so. Once the doctor had managed to pull Raissa out, they realized quickly that something was off.
The baby wasn’t crying.
Her baby wasn’t breathing.
She remembers how her heart wrenched as she watched the doctors pull Raissa away from her. She remembers screaming, but has no recollection of any sound coming out. She remembers hysterically thrashing against the bed, while Manny, bless his heart, had tried to hold and calm her down. The doctors’ words melded into a blur. The official medical report stated complications due to fetal distress syndrome. Those words on the page felt rather mild, almost insultingly so, after having to watch her baby struggle to breathe through a tube. She still remembers the hum of the ventilators, how they did nothing to soothe her racing mind. The flickering white lights lining the ceiling seemed to taunt her, maddeningly so. If it weren’t for her husband’s attempts to reassure her or lighten the mood, she’s certain she would’ve gone insane. Time seemed to go by agonizingly slow.
It took days before she could even hold Raissa in her arms. She could feel Raissa’s weight against her, but it was almost as if they both were weightless. The immediate relief settled in as she pressed Raissa closer, watching as her nostrils slightly flared open with every tiny breath drawn. She could not help but look upon her daughter in awe.
She remembers seeing Manny in tears from out the corner of her eye. She always knew her lover was a sensitive man—it was one of the things she loved most about him, really—and she knew what it took for him to remain strong for her for these past few days. She remembers the moment he held Raissa for the first time, how Raissa’s little hand stretched out and wrapped along Manny’s pointer finger. He’d cried then too.
She swore to herself, then and there, that her Raissa would grow up to be the happiest girl in the world.
Jane Molina has long resigned herself to the fact that she will never stop worrying. She’s done her part, she thinks. That thought alone is enough to comfort her for the coming days.
She can’t wait for her little girl to come home, running into her arms.