GRINGA (102 page)

             
‘You kidding me!’

             
‘Elaine is pissed,’ he says chuckling. ‘Says
Paris
married a loser.’

             
I think about Liam. Poor baby.

             
‘Call him, Payton.’

             
‘No, Depp.’  

3 AM. I awake with abdominal cramps. Could this be labour? I time them. Mild but regular. I’m only eight months pregnant but with twins, I’ve been told to expect early labour even though I’m scheduled for an elective caesarean section a month from now.

             
Outside, it’s pouring with rain. Been raining for 3 days. I slide out of bed and wobble to the intercom separating our two houses. 

             
I press the intercom. ‘Yo! I’m in labour. Babies are knocking.’

             
‘
Santa Maria
!’ Isabella shouts almost immediately. ‘We’ll be right there, gringa.’

             
I sit on a chair, touch my stomach and smile. My babies are ready to face the world. I’m going to be a mom. Excitement surges through me and I want to announce to the world I’m in labour.

             
I think about Deep. He’s sleeping at his apartment tonight. I pick up the phone and dial his cell phone, expecting him to answer on the first ring.

             
He doesn’t answer. I dial him four times before he answers. ‘Huuuhh?’

             
‘Hey, get your ass over here.’ 

             
‘Why?’ he asks in a sleepy voice.

             
‘Cos I’m in labour.’

             
‘Wha …?’

             
‘I’m having my babies. Soon. Today. Now.’

             
Silence.

             
‘Blake?’

             
‘How do you know, it’s not Braxton Hicks?’

             
‘Wha …?’

             
‘Braxton Hicks. False labour. I googled …’

             
‘No … don’t think so. Has to be labour. It’s like, consistent pains and it’s getting friggin stronger.’

             
‘Maybe it’s …’

             
‘Depp, get over here! I need you, okay?’

             
Silence.

             
‘Blake? You there?’

             
‘You
need
me? You’ve never said that before, Payton.’

             
‘I … I … aw come on, Depp.’

             
‘Say it again.’

             
‘Depp!’

             
‘Say it again.’

             
I smile. ‘I … need … you … Blake. Happy?’

             
I can just picture his smug grin. ‘Yes ma’am. Be right over.’

I’m still cradling the phone when
Troy
and Isabella burst into my room. Isabella calmly gathers my bags and says, ‘You have to breathe, gringa. It’s good for the babies.’

             
Troy
stands rigid in a corner like a wax figure at Madame Tussaurds; his eyes popping out of his skull when I moan in pain.

             
I’m too nervous about the upcoming caesarean section to focus or breathe. I loathe needles and I know I’m going to have a million stuck into me when I have the spinal epidural.

             
‘
Troy
, go start the car and bring it out front,’ Isabella orders.

             
Troy
remains where he is and stares at me.

             
‘
Troy
!’ Isabella shoves him all the way out of the room and shuts the door.

             
Depp arrives furiously puffing on a cigarette. ‘You messing …?

             
Isabella frowns. ‘Blake, you have to quit smoking.’

             
‘I can’t,’ he says. ‘Been doing it …’

             
‘You want to be a father-figure in the babies’ lives; you have to do it, Blake,’ she says in a kind voice.

             
His head jerks to look at me, cigarette hovering at his lips, eyebrows raised. 

             
I’m just as surprised at her words and my response is a shy shrug. 

             
He immediately stubs out his cigarette, walks over to me and takes my hand in his, a pleased grin on his face.

             
I tense up as a contraction comes on.

             
‘Breathe baby,’ he whispers. ‘We can do this.’ The endearment slipped out.

             
When the contraction passes, Depp and I look at each other and exchange smiles. Mine is bashful, his is sheepish. 

             
Troy
enters the room and catches our tête-à-tête He and Isabella exchange knowing glances.

             
Together they bundle me into the car and whisk me away to the hospital, while the rain pours steadily.  

I’m in the delivery room surrounded by lights, medical staff and sterile gizmos. I’m terrified and excited at the same time. Isabella’s on my right and Depp’s on my left. They take turns to pat my hand, squeeze it and say, ‘Breathe.’

             
Every time
Troy
hears them say that, he breathes deep and loud, amusing the midwives.

             
They’ve administered the spinal epidural already and they’re performing the caesarean section. I lie back and wait. This should take a while.

             
Almost immediately, I hear a baby’s cry and I start.

             
‘One little girl coming up,’ the doctor sings as he places my daughter on my chest. She’s absolutely beautiful – pink and wrinkled with a bottom lip that threatens to sweep the theatre floor. 

             
‘She sure is mad we disturbed her,’ the midwife says.

             
I’m in awe and speechless. Everything’s happening so fast.

             
‘And here is your son, Mrs Cruz,’ the doctor says and places him next to my daughter on my chest.

             
‘My
son!
But … but …’ I’m supposed to have two daughters. My
son
is dark and heavy and he looks so sweet. 

             
My babies. They’re beautiful – like two wrinkled, pink marshmallows. I’ve never held anything so precious in my life and I’m scared I will break them.

             
Everyone gathers around them and take turns to ‘oooh!’ and ‘aaahh!’

             
‘Diago’s babies,’ I whisper as I gentle cuddle my children. My chest suddenly tightens and my eyes fill with tears. ‘Your daddy, he …he would have loved you guys so much.’

             
Suddenly the room is quiet. I didn’t realise I’m crying until a huge teardrop splashes on my son’s face. Depp reaches over and wipes it away.

             
I look up at my cheerleaders through my tears. ‘Diago …’ I clear my throat and fight for control, ‘he …he should be here. This is not fair.’

             
Isabella bursts into tears. 

             
Troy
leans over and wraps his arms around me and my two children. ‘
I’m
here,’ he whispers in a fierce voice, his face contorted in pain. ‘I’m here, gringa. Always.’ 

             
Depp walks over and puts his arms around Isabella.

             
The midwife enters the room. ‘You have names for …?’ At the sight of us all in tears, she balks. ‘Is something wrong?’

             
‘I have names,’ I croak, my eyes fixed on
Troy
. ‘Selina Catherine and D…Diago Junior.’

             
Troy
’s stares slack-jawed. ‘My mother…?’

             
I nod. ‘And
my
mother.’

             
‘Gringa!’ He buries his face in my hair and weeps. 

             
‘These little ones need to be examined by the paediatrician,’ the midwife says and scoops my precious babies away. ‘You guys need to leave the mother now. She’s gonna need to sleep off her drugs.’

             
Everyone reluctantly leaves and I finally drift off into a drug-induced sleep. 

I wake up to find Depp sitting on a chair next to me, dozing off. His shirt is creased, his hair is sticking in all directions and his eyes are bloodshot. Very unlike him to look so unkempt. You’d think he just gave birth to twins.  

             
‘Hey, blue eyes.’

             
He leans over and gently strokes my cheek. ‘Hey mommy.’

             
Mommy.
I smile and take his hand in mine. ‘How’s Selina and DJ?’

             
‘Lovely. Absolutely beautiful. And loud. Whoa! Definitely Payton’s kids.’

             
I chuckle. ‘You smoked since?’

             
He shakes his head vigorously from side-to-side. ‘Nope. Not at all. Never again. I’m done.’

             
I squeeze his hand.

             
‘But,’ He taps his top pocket, ‘I have three cigars here. Isabella,
Troy
and I – we’re gonna smoke it later on.’

             
‘Cool. Tell me more bout my babies again.’

             
‘They’re in the incubator and they’re awesome, Payton. Tiny, pink feet, transparent toes, huge lungs. Two little cup cakes. Gorgeous!’ He points to a camera lying on a nearby chair. I took tons of photos. They smiled at me, Payton. They really did. They didn’t smile at anyone else, just me. Honest.’