The day of my birth was also the day my grandfather died. Unbeknownst to my parents, as my mother overcame her final contraction and pushed me into the world, my grandfather was exiting. Years of smoking Marlboros, stressful occupations, and high cholesterol had taken their toll on him, producing a cardiac output of about 3%. That’s 3% of a total 100%.
The doctors have no idea how he lived as long as he did.
***
My mom and dad didn’t have any more kids after me. They couldn’t. Both were in great shape, had no family history of infertility, and had gone through genetic counseling prior to getting married to make sure there wouldn’t be any problems.
The OB/GYN said there was no clear issue.
She asked if they’d considered adoption.
***
My mom’s favorite story is that of her pregnancy discovery. She was at a gas station filling up the tank when a total stranger walked up to her and said, “Estás embarazada.” She’d lived long enough in Central American countries to translate, so she shook her head with a sad smile. The stranger just winked at her and left. Mom doesn’t remember the rest of the day. She doesn’t recall driving home or seeing my father or going to bed that night. She couldn’t tell you what the stranger looked like, if they were man or woman, young or old, black or white. Every single detail fell away. Three months later she went to the hospital for her yearly physical, and the obstetrician confirmed the stranger’s message. When my mom told the doctor about their exchange, he said that my mother had probably been about a week along at the time.
Pregnancy was good to my mom. Her hair got thicker, longer. Any skin issues disappeared and her complexion became even as ochre, giving her that motherly glow. And while that was normal enough, other elements pushed the boundary of the expected. She grew an inch, which her doctor said happens to less than 1% of women. She never experienced a bout of morning sickness, but had an overwhelming craving for cabbage. Boiled cabbage, steamed cabbage, raw cabbage, breakfast, noon, and night. She was half afraid that a piece of vegetation would be passing through her birth canal in lieu of a human child.
The women in my family never talk to their physicians about the sex of their babies. They claim to always know anyways, so there’s no point in asking. My mother told everyone that she was having a boy, and my grandfathers, both Jesses, were overjoyed to have their first grandson. They were even happier when they learned that I would be named after them. My mother’s father regularly joked, “Three’s a crowd” when it came to the eponym.
He was right.
My mother’s delivery was easy. She was in labor for about half an hour and had opted out of an epidural because she wasn’t experiencing any pain. As a United States Army veteran, she figured the horrors of war were relatively comparative to childbirth, and if she could survive the former, she would survive the latter. They’d spent 10 years trying for a child with no luck, so my creation was itself a miracle. The fact that I was born the exact same day as my father’s father was just icing on the cake. The night was quiet, the moon absent from the sky, but filled with an ocean of stars. According to the almanac entry for that day, Mars was visible, and if you looked hard enough, Venus too. Everything was aligning.
***
My parents had twelve siblings between them, so I grew up with a slew of makeshift brothers and sisters in my cousins. The families were close, both emotionally and geographically, so I never wanted for playmates or attention.
Despite the normalcy I experienced, we were still…particular. Religion was important to us, but certain superstitions you just didn’t mess with. Obviously many people believe in the classic ones too, but Walters took it to another level.
When my aunt broke a mirror she voluntarily admitted herself into a psychiatric ward for her own safety. A black cat crossed one of my cousins and he was hysterical for a week. Meals came to a halt when salt was spilled, and no one ate until every single grain had been accounted for. Such was our way.
My father was the seventh son born to my grandparents, and his father the seventh to his. There have always been whispers of “gifts”. This wasn’t polite conversation meant for cookouts or Sunday dinners. No, these discussions were had, briefly, when all of the children had bathed, brushed their teeth, and been put to bed. After a few bottles of whiskey had been opened, and tongues hummed with liquor. The groups were small, never more than four people. The dialogue was part verbal, part telepathic.
“You know Mama June used to…”
“Mhm. Without fail.”
“I had a dream that…”
“I know. I was there.”