Lucky Number 7

My son was born on Friday August 13^th. 

Although I didn’t consider myself superstitious, watching the date approach on the calendar, as my wife’s pregnancy stretched past her due date, had begun to arouse anxiety. I masked this from my wife, who grew more miserable and uncomfortable by the day, hoping she didn’t share my worry over the unlucky date. On the morning her water broke, I had been home from work, not wanting to leave her side as the imminent labor hung before us like a mysterious storm we had been preparing to weather together. 

“It’s time,” she moaned, face contorted by the increasingly violent spasms of her womb. The contractions were about 4 minutes apart according to the timer on my phone. The nurse who had taken my last call to the birth center seemed bored by my panicked questions, noting that “first babies always take longer.” She told me not to bring in my wife until the contractions were 4 minutes apart and lasting at least 60 seconds. I didn’t know exactly how long the latest contraction lasted, but had no intention of asking my wife if she thought it was a minute. Her agonized expression and sweat beaded brow told me to shut my mouth and grab her bags. We were having a baby.

Friday the 13^th. The birthdate will be Friday the 13^th. 

I shook the thought from my mind as I raced through the house, gathering our hospital go-bag and trying not to forget anything. We had prepped and planned for this moment for months. Why was I losing my head? I took a few deep breaths to settle my nerves before helping my wife out of the house.

“You’re doing great, Mellie,” I told her as I ushered her to the car. “We’ll be there soon. Today is the day sweetheart!”

“I know, Mark. I know,” she huffed. “Do you realize what day it is?” 

“Our son’s birthday,” I said, kissing her on the head. She lowered herself wearily into the passenger seat. We planned to upgrade to an SUV but had decided it could wait until after the birth. Our reliable sedan had served us well for 6 years; a few more months would give us time to find the perfect new “family” car. 

“Yeah. Born on the unluckiest day of the year. Why couldn’t he come on his due date?” 

“We’ve never been superstitious, sweetheart. Let’s not start now.”

Amelia’s face wrinkled into a fresh grimace. Saved by the contraction, I thought, immediately feeling guilty. I had never witnessed anyone (especially not someone I loved) experience such agony and it broke my heart that I could do nothing to help. I hoped the topic would pass by the time the wave of pain ebbed. 

“Mark,” she said finally. Her voice was quiet. I couldn’t tell if it was due to nerves or exhaustion or something else. “Do you think he will be OK? That Porter will be OK? He’s coming so late and I’m old and it’s just—this damn date. Why this damn date?”

“Whoa, now. Mellie. You are not old and a date is just a date. We don’t even celebrate our wedding anniversary, because we know dates don’t matter. This baby is going to be healthy and happy and loved. We’ve done everything right, Mel. You’ve done everything you’re supposed to. No lunchmeat, no coffee, prenatal yoga—you’re going to be an amazing mom.”

I reached my hand out, glancing over at her in the seat next to me. Her auburn hair was swept into a messy bun and her green eyes caught the morning sun. I squeezed her leg gently, feeling my own sense of comfort by her warmth. Her very presence beside me. I truly believed that Amelia would make an amazing mother, just as she had been amazing at most anything she set her mind to do (except for Pickleball, but that was a short-lived hobby). She caught my hand and held it in her own.

We continued to drive in contemplative silence; both of us wrapped in our own tangle of fears and excitement and impatience. Until Amelia finally spoke. 

“We might not celebrate our wedding date. But we do have a lucky number.” She paused and looked at me. Another contraction had just passed. 

“Well, yeah. That’s true,” I smiled. “Lucky number 7.” I stroked her shoulder and caught her eyes again. Her expression seemed slightly less pained, her nerves settled ever so slightly. My thoughts moved to the first time I had seen those brilliant green eyes, many years before, in a time and place which felt too distant to be our life, yet I could recall as vividly as the day it happened. How can that be? How is memory able to bend time in such a way that moments can feel both far and close all at once?

My schedule had been hectic since taking on a new position at a law firm. Although I had graduated, I hadn’t been hired anywhere until the firm I interned with the previous summer offered me a role as a paralegal. It seemed like a great opportunity to demonstrate my work ethic and gain valuable, on-the-ground experience. Plus, I needed income. Pronto. 

I routinely worked weekends, late nights, early mornings; anything and everything I could to put myself ahead in the eyes of the bosses. Needless to say, after more than nine months of this type of schedule, I felt a quick getaway would be the perfect medicine to cure an impending sense of burnout. Just a two night stay somewhere with no documents to scour or asses to kiss. Yet, with little-to-no budget for even a mini vacation, I needed to find a bonafide bombshell of a deal to make the plan work. My plan was to go over New Year’s Eve, since the firm had announced it would be closed that weekend for the holiday. While I knew the holiday could make hotels more expensive, I clutched onto the idea that perhaps some places might promote themselves with specials for the NYE festivities. 

Luckily, this idea held water. The Montenegro Hotel and Casino was offering a single King suite (suite may be generous, but all I needed was a bed and a shower) for two nights at a fraction of the cost of the other 10 hotels I checked. I booked immediately. I told my parents where I was going. They immediately warned me of the Montenegro’s less than stellar reputation. 

“It can’t be any worse than my apartment,” I told them.

“Well, be careful. I’m worried about you being all alone. Don’t talk to strangers,” my mother warned. Little did she know, I would not only talk to a good deal of strangers, I would soon be rooming with one. 

I arrived at the hotel before the 4pm check-in. If they weren’t able to accommodate me right away, I could happily browse the casino (the money saved on the cheap room became my modest gambling allowance) and to people watch. The holiday celebrations were certain to attract a whole host of hooligans and party-goers. 

To my surprise, the young, rosy-cheeked woman at the hotel front desk told me a single King suite was available for me to check-in early. I slung my small duffel bag over my shoulder and headed for the elevator, eager to see the “luxurious” suite which awaited me. With a swipe of the keycard the lock clicked and I swung open the door to my temporary paradise. The carpets were dated, yet free of debris, and the bed looked freshly made. Two paintings hung on the walls, one of 5 flamingos gathered in a pool of sorts, the other depicting a couple dancing. The woman had her back arched and hand raised in a flourish, the man passionately gripping her waist. There was no view, only a dirty window overlooking the roof. The bathroom had a modest tub/shower combo and a yellowed linoleum sink.

It was perfect.

I threw down my bag and collapsed onto the surprisingly plush King bed. It felt wonderful to have no responsibility except enjoying myself. I could sleep for two days straight, if I fancied it. Or stay up all night enjoying watered down casino drinks at a penny slot instead of doing legal research for some arrogant attorney. I reached for the TV remote and put on ESPN, not to watch but for background noise. A nap sounded like a pretty good idea to begin the trip, since most of the fun wouldn’t start until much later anyway; I wanted to conserve my energy. I had dozed off for some length of time (perhaps 30 minutes or so) when I heard the door lock click. Then someone was entering my room. The light switched from dim to full bright. 

“What the hell?” I heard a voice say from the doorway. “Is there someone in here?”

“Uh—yeah,” I called, rubbing my eyes. “This is room 777. Occupied.”

“No, this must be a mistake,” the voice continued. “I have it right here. 777. This is my suite.” I was suddenly greeted by a beautiful, yet hostile, face peeking around the wall to view the bed. Green eyes, startling in their intensity, viewed me with apparent disgust. “You’ve dirtied my bed.”

“Hey, lady, I dunno who told you this was your room, but you can look at my room key right there on the dresser. 777. It’s written on the back.”

“One of us needs to call down and sort out this mess.” She stood now fully in the room, arms crossed, a small suitcase upright beside her. “Perhaps—you might be a gentleman?”

“I was here first. I mean—it sounds like they got mixed up when they check you in—”

“Fine,” she said with green eyes ablaze. I couldn’t get over them. Even in her frustration, she was very pretty. “May I use your phone?” She strode to the room phone and dialed the front desk. The conversation did not go well.

“They said that it was some oversight! That they overbooked rooms at the special rate. When you checked-in early, it didn’t register properly and still showed that it was open for me to check-in.” Her lips pouted in the most adorable way. But I kept this thought to myself. It was entertaining to watch this young woman in action and I didn’t want to upset her. 

“So—now what?” I asked lamely. 

“They said they are booked solid. I can hang around until later, in the hopes that someone doesn’t check-in. Or—“

“Or?”

“Or—we can share?” Her green eyes caught my own. Teasing. Taunting. Daring me to say no.

“Uh—share? A single bed? Lady, you don’t even know me—“

“Come on. Don’t be such a prude. At least let me stay until later, when I can check the front desk again. Hope for a NO-SHOW.”

“Well—uh—yeah. I guess that’s OK.” I shrugged. In reality, I couldn’t believe this young, attractive woman would even consider sharing rooms. She intrigued me immediately. 

“Not even a suite, anyway,” she scoffed. “Those curtains haven’t been replaced since Elvis was the main draw.”

“Their taste in art is impeccable though,” I added. The corners of my mouth mouth drew up in the hint of a smile, hoping she noted the sarcasm. I quickly learned we shared the same dry sense of humor. 

“Absolutely. I believe that one is Flamingo pres de L’eau by Manet.”

We both chuckled and introduced ourselves. I told her my name, Mark Hammond, and she told me hers. 

“Amelia. Amelia Bennett. But my friends call me Mellie.”

Amelia and I ended up sharing that hotel room (platonically that first night, not quite so the second). Our chemistry had been immediate and the conversation flowed naturally, free of affectations or falsehood. We quickly learned we both lived in LA. We were both workaholics. We were both pursuing careers in law. Amelia had been intelligent, confident, funny, and strong-willed. And gorgeous. By the end of the weekend, I was in love. 

Twelve years, a courthouse marriage (no muss, no fuss), a fixer-upper house, and 6 years of infertility later, there we were, on the way to the hospital to have our first son. A boy we decided during the 32^nd week of gestation to name Porter. We were both nervous. And ecstatic. And scared out of our minds. 

As my thoughts danced between mine and Amelia’s unusual meeting and the imminent arrival of our son (flitting between past and present heedlessly as all minds do), it happened. 

Only five minutes from the hospital, our sensible sedan was struck by a sturdy SUV. The teen behind the wheel had run through a stop sign as they fiddled with their phone. I’m not sure what they were doing. Sending a text. Updating a status. Flipping through emails. It no longer matters to me. I know it was an accident and I have come to accept that accidents happen. It has taken many years and much agonizing grief to come to this realization. But I consider what occurred that day to be only one thing: a tragic accident. 

I do not believe it happened because of the date. Friday the 13^th is no less or no more lucky than any other square on the calendar. While some choose to see omens and superstitions, I now choose to see life as a constant ebb and flow of good and bad. The tide may wash in great treasure, or it may rip the very soul from your chest. It does no good to fight it. You must simply ride it out and stay afloat as best you can.

When we arrived at the hospital via ambulance, the doctor quickly assessed Amelia and Porter and realized her placenta had been torn. The car accident had been fairly low impact, but in her discomfort Amelia had not been wearing a seat belt. They raced her to surgery to perform a C-Section. 

We need to stop the bleeding.

She has lost a lot of blood. 

Should we save your wife or the baby?

Questions floated around my head like an angry whirlpool, sucking me into darkness. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t breath. I looked at the doctor helplessly. How could I choose? My wife, the love of my life, or our unborn child, as yet a stranger to me?

“Both,” I said weakly. The doctor looked at me solemnly and said they would do the best they could. 

Porter was born on Friday August 13^th. He proved to be healthy and resilient. When he was placed into my arms by a doe-eyed nurse, murmuring condolences as she handed me my dead wife’s child, I felt numb. I had awoken that morning as a couple. Part of a pair. Sharing my life with someone I loved so deeply it hurt. Now, I felt empty. Broken. Staring into the face of a tiny stranger. Without Amelia. 

Then, the small face tuned towards me, skin red and wrinkled, a knit cap sung atop his head. And I saw, for one brief moment as the tiny eyes blinked open, they were hers. Amelia’s eyes. Not the same brilliant green, nor lined by the same dark lashes, but hers nonetheless. And I realized that I had once before met a stranger and been beguiled by their stare.

My throat constricted and I felt tears well in my own eyes. Yet, this little human was no stranger, I told myself. He was us. Amelia and I. A culmination of our union, and so much more. A new life breathed into the world. I felt his warmth, as I had so often felt Amelia’s, and it gave me a respite from the grief threatening to suffocate me. Life would be hard. Bitter. Dark. Oh, yes, the next few weeks, months, and years would prove a far greater challenge than I could have ever dreamed. Yet, Porter and I would make it. We would come through the hardship with a love perhaps even greater than mine and Amelia’s (though, the love between parent and child is a different love than spouses share; too different to compare). 

I have met two strangers, under two varying degrees of improbability. Both have forever changed my life. Would I say I believe in fate? Perhaps. 

But I no longer subscribe to superstitions.