I GAVE BIRTH ON A PLANE AT 35,000 FEET, AND A STRANGER HELPED DELIVER MY BABY — BUT AS WE PREPARED TO LAND, THE CAPTAIN ANNOUNCED, “THERE’S SOMETHING IMPORTANT THE MOTHER NEEDS TO KNOW BEFORE WE OPEN THE DOORS.”

“Dad?”

“Say that name again.” His voice had changed completely. It was very quiet.

“Joaquin Salas. He’s from Larkmont. He was a paramedic thirty-one years ago. Dad, he told me I had my mother’s eyes.”

I heard my father take a breath. It sounded like it hurt.

“Callie,” he said. “I need to tell you about the night you were born.”

CHAPTER 4: THE NIGHT OF THE SNOW
My father flew in three days later, over his cardiologist’s objections, with a nurse, a wheelchair, and a battered old leather briefcase on his lap.

He held his granddaughter through the incubator portholes for a long time without saying anything. Then he asked Noah to take a walk. And he told me.

“It was March third,” he said. “Worst snowstorm Larkmont had seen in twenty years. Your mother was thirty-five weeks. Everything had been fine. Then, that night, she started bleeding.”

I held his hand.