Chapter 16 Dominic Royal #2
The doctor nodded, fast but sure. “She’s stable right now. The baby is still tolerating things, but we’re not going to wait until that changes.”
Carmen’s fingers got tight around d my wrist. “I’m scared,” she whispered, and her voice broke on the last word. Outside of this pregnancy this was the most vulnerable I ever saw my wife.
I looked back down at her and brushed a lil piece of hair off her forehead with my free hand.
“Look at me.” I told her, and she did. “You hear me?” I said quietly.
“You not doing this by yourself. I’m right here.
” I assured her. She nodded, but she was crying too hard to really answer me.
I leaned closer until my forehead touched hers for a second.
“You and my baby gonna be good,” I told her, and I put enough certainty into it that I almost believed it myself.
“I don’t give a fuck what they gotta do. Y’all coming out of this good.”
A nurse touched my arm lightly then. “Sir, if you’re going in with her, I need you to come now.
” Another one was already handing me one of those blue disposable gowns and pointing me toward the sink.
The whole room seemed to get even busier all at once as the wheels unlocked under the bed.
A machine was being unplugged and plugged into something portable.
Somebody was repeating medication names while the anesthesiologists explained the anesthesia consent forms. I looked back at Carmen one more time before I moved.
She looked terrified, but when our eyes met, she smiled anyway and to me she was even more beautiful in that brave way she had that made me love her harder every time I saw it.
I scrubbed my hands at the sink so hard my skin was red by the time I was done.
The nurse talked me through how to put the suit on, the mask, the cap, all of it, but I barely heard her.
My ears were filled with the sound of my own heartbeat and the distant sound of Carmen being rolled down the hall.
By the time they led me into the operating room, it felt like the whole world had narrowed down to white lights and the sound of machines.
Carmen was already on the table behind the drape when I came in with her arms out, IV in place, and hair still tucked under the cap.
Her face was somehow even paler under the lights.
The anesthesiologist stood near her shoulder talking softly to her, but when she saw me the tears hit all over again.
I went straight to her side and took her hand.
“I’m here,” I said for what felt like the hundredth time that night.
She clutched my hand like she was hanging onto the edge of something, like this was life or death and it really was because labor was the closest a woman could risk of death bringing a child into the world.
“I know,” she whispered. “I know.” Her voice trembled, but she kept trying to smile at me anyway. “They told me…” She paused to breathe. “They told me it’s a girl.”
For a half a minute I just stared at her. A girl? It hit me so hard my chest hurt.
“We having a girl?” I asked, and even with all the fear in the room, something warm attacked my heart.
Carmen nodded. “A little girl,” she repeated.
I bent down and kissed her forehead so hard it was probably more pressure than just a kiss. “Damn,” I whispered, and I could feel the smile trying to creep up despite everything. “My baby girl.”
Carmen gave this little laugh-sob mix. “You really happy right now?” she asked.
I looked down at her, then at the drape, then at the doctors already moving behind it. “I’m happy we know,” I said. “I’m gone be happier when I hear her cry.”
I stayed at Carmen’s head, still being whatever kind of support she needed me to be.
I kept talking to her, even when I wasn’t fully hearing myself.
Telling her she was doing good. Telling her to keep breathing.
Telling her our daughter was almost here.
Every now and then one of the doctors would say something low to the other, and every time they did, I watched their faces hard even though I couldn’t see what they were doing.
Carmen kept looking at me like I was the only thing in the room that made sense, and I kept holding onto that because if I let myself look anywhere else too long, the fear might’ve gotten bigger than I could hold.
Then that changed quick. It was subtle at first like a different tone in somebody’s voice. Then the sound of one of the nurses saying, “Almost there.”
Carmen gripped my hand so hard it hurt, but I didn’t care. I leaned down near her ear. “You hear that?” I whispered. “My girl almost here.”
Carmen pursed her lips and tears slid down the sides of her face. “Jesus I’m scared, I never been this scared in my life.” she whispered again.
I kissed her forehead. “I know but stay with me.”
No sooner than the words left my mouth, we heard that first cry.
The whole room stopped for me right there.
It felt like everything inside me broke open at once.
My daughter’s cry cut through all this fear and the noises from the machines and went straight through my chest like a bullet made out of something holy.
Carmen let out this sound I had never heard from her before, half sob, half laugh, and her hand clutched mine so hard I thought she might never let go.
“Oh my God,” she cried. “Oh my God.” I couldn’t even answer her right away. I just stood there staring over the drape as much as I could, hearing my baby girl cry loud enough for the whole world to know she was here.
One of the nurses brought her around for just a second before they took her to the warmer.
She was small and pink, wet and furious like she wanted to be put back.
She had tiny little face all scrunched up and for her to be born early, she had a lot of dark hair plastered down on her tiny head as her little fists already clenched.
When I laid eyes on her, something in me changed. “That’s my baby,” I said, and my voice sounded rougher than usual.
Carmen was crying too hard to say anything for a second, but when the nurse leaned our daughter close enough for her to see, Carmen’s whole face changed. All the fear drifted into something softer. “She’s beautiful,” Carmen whispered. “Oh my God, she’s beautiful.”
I kept one hand on Carmen and watched them carry my daughter over to the warmer.
The nurses moved quick but gentle around her, wiping her down, checking her over, wrapping her up.
I wanted to be over there and here at the same time.
I wanted to stay by Carmen because she was still open on a table and pale under those lights.
I wanted to be by my daughter because she had just got here and every piece of me already belonged to her.
The doctor was still working behind the drape, still finishing what had to be finished.
“Go look at her,” Carmen whispered.
I looked down at her. “You sure?”
She nodded, tears still drying on her face. “Go.”
I stepped away from the table slowly, almost like I was afraid moving too fast would break something.
When I got to the warmer, one of the nurses pulled the blanket back just enough for me to see more of her.
My daughter’s face was tiny and perfect.
Her mouth kept moving like she still had something to say about being dragged into the world early.
Her little hand slipped free from the blanket for a second and opened, then curled again.
I stared down at her and felt the whole room disappear.
“Hey,” I said, and my voice came out deep but soft, like I already knew I couldn’t talk to her the same way I talked to anybody else. “Hey, baby girl.”
The nurse smiled at me in that way people do when they know they’re watching something private. “She’s strong,” she said quietly. “She’s small, but she’s strong.”
I looked back toward Carmen, and she was watching me, smiling through tears, exhausted and beautiful and still right there. I walked back to her side with my daughter’s cry still ringing in my ears and took Carmen’s hand again. “You did that,” I told her. “You hear me? You brought my girl here.”
Carmen laughed softly, weak and teary, and squeezed my fingers. “Our girl,” she whispered.
I leaned down and kissed her forehead again, slower this time, with feelings of gratitude and fear and love all tangled up in one thing too big to name.
“Our girl,” I said back, and I looked over at the warmer one more time where the nurses were still moving around our daughter, getting ready for whatever came next. “And she got lungs on her too.”
Carmen smiled harder at that, then winced a little as the doctor said something behind the drape.
I brushed my thumb over the back of her hand and stayed right where I was, mask on, gown on, and heart still trying to figure out how to live outside my body now that part of it was over there wrapped in hospital blankets.
Outside this room, I knew the family was waiting.
Candy D was probably pacing, and it was a lot going on, but in that room, for those few minutes, it was just me, Carmen, and the sound of our daughter being alive, and I wasn’t finished being there yet.