She’d never been so aware of her body as she was now, lying in the
darkened room and listening to the muted sounds of hospital activity
that never slowed or stopped beyond the muffling seal of the closed
door. Bette had stayed past visiting hours until Tina had asked her to
leave, pleading exhaustion rather than tell her the truth: she wanted
to be alone with her thoughts and body forever changed.

She’d slept off the last dose of Vicodin. Her incision burned, itched,
periodically seared across her abdomen in a bright heat. She could
envision it, red and angry, wondered what kind of scar it would
leaveone she would hide beneath a one-piece suit or display proudly in
a bikini, a badge of motherhood that set her apart from her friends,
most of whom were lesbians without children.

There was no doubt that pregnancy and birth had marked her. She’d felt
the power of wonder in her daughter’s first movements, small bubbles
along the lining of her uterus, to become stronger over time with kicks
and turns, the pushing out of her uterine wall that stretched with a
kind of resilience that Tina could hardly comprehend, the swelling of
her breasts, the transformation of her body, and always, the awareness
that she carried life within her, a life she had created out of her own
flesh and blood and need.

She’d also felt heavy and awkward and ugly, sleeping alone for the
first time in seven years, feeling unwanted and unloved until Helena
came to her, eyes round with wonder, hands that touched her in ways
that made her feel worshipped and adored, sexy and beautiful, sacred
and powerful.

Reflected in Helena’s eyes, glowing in the warmth of her hands and the
strength of her fingers touching her everywhere, Tina also felt
different, as if she were becoming someone else, a person she didn’t
know.

“Having a child changes you.” Helena had said it one night as they lay
together flushed and sweaty after sexTina on her back feeling like a
beached whale, her skin a golden glow against the creamy whiteness of
Helena’s hand resting softly on her pregnant belly, one long leg draped
carefully across Tina’s thigh, knee pressed softly into the lingering
dampness between her legs.

“Having a child changes you,” she’d said. “It makes you go soft in the
deepest parts of youthe places you’d fought so hard to defend, the
strengths you swore never to relinquish.”