The fluorescent lights in Delivery Room Three hummed like an old refrigerator, vibrating right through the thin soles of my slippers.
Arthur squeezed my fingers, his thumb dragging across the silver wedding band I had moved to my right pinky when my hands began to swell in the second trimester.
“First batch is almost ready,” I said, trying to find a rhythm in the breathing exercises.
“You always did know how to time an oven,” Arthur said.
His voice was low and raspy, the sound of gravel turning in a bucket. He checked his silver watch, the heavy one with the scratched clasp his father had given him for graduation.
Dr. George Vance adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses, his surgical mask puffing out with every breath.
At exactly twelve minutes past two, the first baby arrived into the sterile warmth of the room, a boy with a loud, wet cry that filled the corners of the ceiling.
Arthur smiled, his eyes bright in the harsh light, and pressed his forehead against my temple.
“He has your nose, Diane,” he whispered.
“We have four more to go,” I said.
By three in the morning, the air in the room felt heavy and sweet, like a kitchen after a long day of baking.
The nurse, a quiet woman named Sarah, lined up the bassinet carts along the tiled wall.
The second baby was a girl, followed quickly by two more boys and another girl, each one smaller than the last.
Arthur stood near the warming table, his hand reaching into his pocket to twist his leather key fob.
Dr. Vance frowned slightly as he wiped the third baby, looking closely at the dark curls on the infant’s scalp and the deep, warm shade of the boy’s skin.
“The pigmentation is quite pronounced,” Dr. Vance said, polishing his glasses with the edge of his blue scrub top before putting them back on.
Arthur stepped back from the table, his face turning the color of unbaked flour.
“What is that?” Arthur asked, his voice dropping an octave.
Arthur did not answer, his eyes darting from the babies to my face, then back to the bassinets.
By eight o’clock, the morning sun was cutting through the plastic blinds, casting yellow stripes across the worn linoleum.
My sister Clara was already there, her fingernails tapping a rapid, nervous beat against her collarbone as she propped three pillows behind my back.
I held two of the babies, their tiny chests rising and falling against my gown, while Clara adjusted the flannel blankets.
Arthur stood at the foot of the bed, his arms crossed over his chest, staring at the five small bundles in silence.
“They need a lot of formula, Arthur,” Clara said, her voice fast and light to fill the quiet. “A gallon of milk is three dollars and twenty cents now, so imagine what five of these will cost.”
Arthur did not look at her, his gaze fixed on the dark skin of the baby boy in my left arm.
“They look like my mother’s side of the family,” I said, touching the baby’s soft cheek. “We have that deep Mediterranean skin down the line.”
“I have never seen anyone in your family look like this,” Arthur said.
At ten o’clock, Clara went down to the cafeteria to find some orange juice, leaving the room quiet except for the rattling window air conditioner.
Arthur walked over to the bedside table and unclasped his silver watch, laying it down next to the plastic pitcher of water.
“We need to talk about this,” he said, his raspy voice rising enough to make the baby in the first bassinet stir.
“They are sleeping, Arthur,” I said.
“I am not blind, Diane,” he said, stepping closer to the bed, his eyes dark. “This does not look like my family, Diane.”
