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"Mr. Corso, are you awake?"
"I am now," said Allen, pressing the button to raise the bed. "But you have to forgive me. I'm not used to strangers walking in on me while I sleep."
"Don't be grumpy, Mr. Corso. Your wife is on her way from the Southside Hospital. Now that the bandages are off your eyes, I know you'll want to see the package from her. Oh, now you're interested."
Although he wasn't injured, you could say it was the fender bender that finally put Allen Corso in the hospital. Why couldn't I just remember that the red light is on top of the signal box and the green light is on the bottom? Why doesn't the department of motor vehicles test for my condition? Why can't I just admit that it was irresponsible for a man with my deficiency to drive? I can usually identify the different lights by their intensity. What kind of a father is that going to make me for my child if a hazy day defeats me?
Now he had the dubious distinction of being the first human trial for experimental cone transplants to make his eyes see the colors everyone else did. Awakening as he had to a white room with the operation over, the potential for disappointment was at its peak.
The nurse gone, Allen held the present in his lap for a time, unopened. He swallowed hard. He had given his wife a little bracelet for when the baby came. For her part, she promised him a special gift if his operation was a success; a different special gift if it was not.
Now his sweaty, shaking hands tore at the wrapping, strips of silver angel paper that he remembered put aside to save for her recycling. He never really understood why presents needed to be encased in an extra layer with such a short life span. Suddenly he appreciated the time his wife spent choosing the wrapper and felt a tender rush of recognition in the meticulous way she folded and taped. Out came a beautiful box with his initials on it.
Inside the box was a sturdy piece of paper. It read, "Dearest Allen, the doctor confirms we have a healthy baby, Love, Erica."
Curiously, the rest of the box was empty. He didn't blame her. After all his procrastination, what did he really deserve?
But the strangest part was that she didn't say what kind of baby they had. They didn't want to know in advance, and he would be happy either way, but he couldn't imagine anyone leaving that fact out once they knew it. It's always a baby something. He flipped the paper over. The other side was blank. Well, healthy was the important part.
Then Allen remembered the color chart that Dr. Plattberg had put beside the bed to await the outcome of his operation. Matching her note to the red gradients on the chart, his smile filled the room.
Clever Erica. Their baby was a girl.
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