Chapter Thirty-nine
Regan
As another contraction hits, which thankfully isn’t as bad as before thanks to the epidural, the nurse injects something into my IV line.
“This is magnesium sulfate,” she says. “It helps prevent seizures during labor.”
Lucas and I share another concerned stare.
Nurses are constantly checking on me, watching my blood pressure, asking about my vision, headaches, nausea, pain, and swelling.
And they’re obsessed with the fetal monitor. Probably because if the baby’s heart rate shows any sudden changes, I’ll be whisked away for an emergency C-section.
This is not at all how I planned for this to go. Months ago, when I’d think about M&M’s arrival, it was much more serene. Me laboring to my favorite playlist. Lucas offering his luminous smile and encouraging words with every one of my contractions. Mitchell coming into the world and being placed into my arms, everything and everyone else falling away as we share our first moments together.
But now… there’s barely a moment when we’re alone. A few minutes here and there.
Earlier today, more friends and family stopped by. I got tired of everyone telling me it was going to be okay. Like they thought maybe it wasn’t. I didn’t need that negative energy. So we kicked them out and it’s just been the two of us all afternoon. Well, the two of us and the slew of nurses scurrying about.
Once Seizure Nurse leaves the room, Lucas sits down again in the chair by the bed.
“Tell me something to keep my mind off all this,” I say.
“Okay, let’s see… well, you know Dallas and Marti got engaged recently. So guess what? They picked a date. The wedding will be this spring and it’ll be a destination wedding.”
“They don’t want to get married here?”
“Dallas’s first wedding was at the winery. He’s not about to have a second one there. I think he just wanted something completely different so there would be no bad memories of his late wife.”
“Right. That makes sense. Where is it going to be?”
“Antigua.”
“That sounds fun. You’ll have a great time I’m sure.”
“You know you’re invited, don’t you?”
I raise a brow. “Me? Why?”
“Regan, my family considers you family. M&M is their grandson, their nephew, a cousin. And they aren’t about to leave you out of anything just because we aren’t… you know.”
Lucas looks away, out the window, like he’s upset. I think this whole labor and delivery thing is freaking him out way more than he’s letting on.
“You think the baby will be ready for an international trip in the spring? Lucas, I don’t know. I’ll bet the flight will be long and uncomfortable for an infant.”
“Don’t worry about that. We’ll be flying down on a private jet.”
I’m not sure why I’m surprised by that, other than I keep forgetting how flipping rich the Montanas are.
“I’ve never been out of the country. I’ve barely been out of New York. The extent of my world travels consists of Connecticut, Maine, and Florida.”
“We’ll get you a passport.” He touches my stomach, careful not to dislodge the fetal monitor. “Him too.”
The door opens and Dr. Russo walks in. She puts on a pair of gloves. “Time to check your cervix.”
I assume the proper position, having done this more times than I’d like to think about today. At least it’s not uncomfortable. I send some silent gratitude to the anesthesiologist and the epidural as Dr. Russo finishes her exam.
She removes her hand with a smile. “You’re at nine centimeters. It won’t be long now.” She repositions the fetal monitor and checks the displays again. “I’m pleased with the progression of your labor. The next time I see you, it’ll be to welcome this little guy into the world.”
I smile, happy to be so near the finish line. I know delivery is the ‘cure’ for preeclampsia. My blood pressure should start dropping almost immediately and could even be back to normal in days. I’ll no longer be at risk for seizures, and M&M will be out of the woods. Well, barring any complications due to him coming early.
I can’t even think about that. I try to remain positive. I think of one of my favorite childhood movies when Tom Hanks declared, ‘Looks like we just had our glitch for this mission.’
My blood pressure. The preeclampsia. This is our glitch. Everything else is going to be fine. M&M will be tiny, and he may have to stay in the hospital for a bit, but he’ll be perfect. I can feel it.
Another nurse comes in. This one I know. Mackenzie gives me a comforting smile reminiscent of our high school days. She asks the same old questions. Analyzes the machines. And glares at Lucas like he’s a leper.
I get it. There’s still gossip being tossed around. People don’t believe we did this on purpose with zero intentions of being together. They think it was an accident and that he should man up and marry me. They’re all crazy if they think it’ll happen.
My heart seems to get squeezed along with my uterus. Because that picture of how Mitchell’s birth would be—over the past weeks and months it’s morphed from me bonding with the baby to the three of us becoming a family. Not the traditional family, because no way would that ever happen, but something else, something that’s just as special. Maybe something that’s even more than special.
I close my eyes, hoping once this is over my hormones will go back to normal and I’ll get over these deep, unforgiving, unrelenting feelings I’ve developed for Lucas.
“You okay?” Lucas asks. “Another contraction?”
“Yes, but it doesn’t hurt. It’s just pressure.”
He holds up his phone. “Another text from Ryder. He’s really concerned.”
I shake my head. “Tell him to chill. Jeez, he’s worrying so much that I don’t even need to.”
“You guys have gotten close.”
I nod, happy to affirm. “We have. Oh my gosh, I totally forgot. I finally found out what his big ‘business’ plan is.” I air-quote the word business because it’s just so ridiculous.
“He’s kept it close to his chest,” Lucas says. “He wouldn’t even spill when we got pretty drunk watching the basketball game last week. So, what is it?”
I shake my head, still finding it unbelievable. “He wants to open a pot shop.”
His mouth falls open. “A cannabis dispensary?”
“Yup. Crazy, right? And here’s the nuttiest part, he wants to turn my shop into his marijuana business.”
He seems to go inside himself, deep in thought. “Actually, no. It’s not crazy. I know you love your shop and all, but realistically it’s not sustainable in the long term. Not in this consumer climate. I think transforming it into a dispensary is a brilliant idea.”
My head snaps to the side. “What?”
“I’ve often thought it would be a good investment to get in on a dispensary. Even talked to my brothers about it a few years ago when recreational cannabis became legal here. But then Dallas lost Phoebe and DJ and I guess we just never picked up the conversation.”
My eyes are bulging in surprise. “But… but you own a winery. Isn’t that like a conflict of interest or something? Wouldn’t owning a pot store take away from your wine profits?”
He laughs. “On the contrary. A lot of people who get high love to enjoy a glass of wine as well. And they’re much less likely to care about the cost.” He cocks his head. “Is he looking for investors?”
I point at him. “You’re as crazy as he is. Both of you have lost your minds.”
“Says the Boho Gypsy girl who has twenty-five kinds of incense.”
My planned retort to him is cut off by a strange feeling down in my nether regions. “Lucas, I’m feeling a lot of pressure down there. It’s almost like I have to push.”
He presses the button to call the nurse. Within minutes, Dr. Russo has confirmed I’m nearly crowning.
“Here we go,” she says. “Take the cues from your body, Regan. When you feel the pressure, go ahead and give a big push.”
I look at Lucas. He nods. “You’ve got this.”
He grabs my hand, and for a second, my mind swirls with the dream of the perfect family and the perfect birth. The perfect exit from the hospital, car seat in Lucas’s large hands as we go back to his perfect penthouse.
I steel myself and settle for one out of four. The one that is the most important. My perfect son. Right now, nothing else matters.
The pressure is building.
Dr. Russo puts a hand on my lower belly. “The baby is positioned very well. And because he’s small, it might not take very many pushes to get him out.”
I nod, trying not to take notice of the team of specialists who just arrived in my room and are standing in the corner. Dr. Russo told me they’d be here. A neonatologist. A special care nurse. A respiratory therapist. All standing at the ready to assess and possibly resuscitate the baby if needed.
I push a few times with every contraction. It doesn’t hurt, but I can feel him coming out, like my body is a large tube of toothpaste and I’m squeezing it.
Suddenly, the pressure is gone.
“He’s here,” Dr. Russo says.
I stiffen and rise on my elbows, my heart pounding so hard I fear it will come right out of my chest. “He’s not crying.”
Lucas’s hand crushes mine as we both stare over at the doctor. “Give him a second.”
Then I hear it. It’s not anything like I expected. It’s not like what you hear on TV, the high shrill of a baby getting his first lungful of air then expelling it with a forceful wail. This is more like the soft cry of a baby bird.
“There he goes,” Dr. Russo says.
“Because he’s early, his breathing and muscle development are still maturing, so his cry will be quieter than a full-term baby,” the NICU nurse explains.
“But he’s okay?” I ask.
Nobody answers me for what seems like a decade but is probably only a few seconds. I grab onto Lucas’s hand for dear life.
“He appears healthy,” one of the doctors says. “We’ll do a full workup back in the NICU.”
Dr. Russo is still holding him. She looks up at Lucas. “Would you like to cut the cord, Dad?”
Lucas beams. We were told it might not be possible. This is a good sign. He’s going to be okay.
Lucas cuts it, then we watch as he’s immediately handed off to the NICU team and put into a clear plastic incubator as three people hover over him doing all kinds of things.
Mackenzie puts an ID band on my wrist, then Lucas’s. “This matches the baby’s and lets everyone know he’s yours.”
Mine. Ours . I swallow hard. We have a son who belongs to us.
They wheel him over to me.
I try to sit up, but Dr. Russo is still down there waiting for the afterbirth. “Can I hold him?”
“Soon,” a doctor says. He opens the side of the incubator. “You can touch his hand right now, but we need to get him to the NICU for assessment.”
I reach in and touch his tiny hand, almost the only part of him that isn’t currently under a hat or blankets. I can’t quite believe he’s real. “He’s not crying anymore,” I say in distress.
“He’s tired,” one of them says. “Being born so tiny is exhausting. You’ll be brought to the NICU to see him as soon as you’re able.”
They start to move away. “Wait!” I call out and touch his hand again. “I love you.” The words come out along with a hundred tears.
“I love you, too,” I hear Lucas say behind me, emotion etched in his words. When I turn to look at him through my tear-blurred vision, I could swear he’s not only looking at Mitchell, but at me.
“Lucas,” I say, finally letting myself succumb to every fear I never let myself have, and I bury my head into his chest as our son gets whisked away.