Chapter 35
Chapter thirty-five
Every cell in me fractured open
Carina
Something’s off.
Not wrong exactly, but I’ve been off all day. Restless and hot and itchy. Vaguely crampy, then not, then again. My lower back has this dull ache like I’ve been standing too long, even though I haven’t.
I kept moving anyway—vacuumed the living room, washed the baseboards, wiped down every surface in the kitchen. Made cookies. Ate four. Told myself I was just nesting and this wasn’t labor.
But then another wave hits, deeper and tighter this time, and I brace both hands against the edge of the kitchen counter with a soft, startled gasp.
“Oh, fuck me,” I mutter, closing my eyes and breathing hard. “Okay. Okay, maybe.”
The front door swings open from the foyer, and I hear a bag hit the mat.
“Hey,” Reid calls, walking through. “You eat all the lemon cookies without me?”
I straighten up fast, trying to look casual. “I didn’t know we were sharing.”
He walks around the dining table, sweat-damp from his gym session, T-shirt tight across his chest, towel around his neck. He eyes me suspiciously.
“You alright?”
“Fine.”
That one word does me in, because his eyes narrow. “Bullshit.”
“I am.” I wave him off. “It’s nothing, just Braxton Hicks. They’ll go away.”
“Uh-huh.” He crosses the room and stops in front of me. “And is it normal for fake contractions to make you white as a ghost and clutch the counter?”
“Totally normal,” I say, then yelp as another wave crashes through me. “Jesus fuck—okay. Not nothing, but we’ve got time. I haven’t even—”
SPLASH.
I freeze, and Gremlin yowls.
“Oh my god,” I say. “Tell me that didn’t just happen.”
Reid looks down. The floor is wet, and so is my foot. And so is Gremlin, who is now bolting across the kitchen, tail soaked and thrashing in indignation.
“Oh my god,” I repeat, clapping a hand over my mouth.
Reid blinks once. Twice. “Did you just—”
“My water broke.”
“On the cat?”
“I didn’t mean to.”
Gremlin lets out a banshee wail from the hallway, and Reid stares at me. Then at the floor. Then back at me. A beat passes.
“Cat deserved it,” he says flatly. “Get your bag.”
“I haven’t—wait—I should check if I’m leaking clear fluid, or if there’s any meconium, or—”
“Bag, Havoc.”
“But—”
“Carina. You’re in labor, and your water broke. You just soaked a fucking feline. Let’s go.”
By the time we get to the hospital, I’m gripping the door handle like it might fly off. The contractions are faster now. So strong, my hands are shaking.
I try to hold it together. I’m a surgeon, for God’s sake. I do this. I’ve coached residents through complicated pelvic repairs and midline incisions on thirty minutes of sleep and a vending-machine diet. I know pain.
But this isn’t like any pain I’ve encountered.
“Don’t forget to tell them I’m GBS positive,” I manage as I’m wheeled into triage. “And I want the epidural before transition, not during. And tell them I’m at risk for precipitous labor. And—”
“Carina.”
Reid’s voice cuts through my spiral, and I turn to look up at him.
He crouches in front of the wheelchair, resting one palm gently over my knee. The same man who once grunted his way through a dressing change like I’d insulted his bloodline now looks up at me like I’m the one who needs the grounding.
“You’re okay,” he says quietly. “You’re safe. I’ve got you, just like always.”
My breath catches unexpectedly, and the sting behind my eyes makes no damn sense.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Okay.”
He squeezes my knee once, then stands and faces the nurse with all the restrained force of a man who would carry me through fire.
“She’s having contractions every four minutes. Her water broke on our cat just over an hour ago.” The nurse’s eyes dart to me as Reid continues. “She’s GBS positive, no known complications. She wants an epidural early. Chart her down as Dr. Carina Park, orthopedic surgery.”
He looks back at me. “Did I miss anything?”
I gawk at him, then shake my head. “No. That was… perfect.”
He grunts. “Let’s get you a room.”
***
The room is too cold, or maybe it’s too hot. I can’t tell anymore.
Everything hurts.
The epidural didn’t come in time due to some complication with anesthesiology, or a staff delay, or a system backlog—none of it matters now. It’s too late.
The contractions have taken over, they’re tidal and brutal and all-consuming. My body’s locked in a rhythm I can’t control, and I am so fucking tired.
They’ve clipped a heart rate monitor to the baby’s scalp, inserted while she’s still inside me. I saw Reid’s face go blank when they did it—when the fetal heartbeat slowed, and the nurse said, “We need to keep a closer eye” in a voice that didn’t fool either of us.
They didn’t call it an emergency, but there is a shift. An edge.
I’ve been in active labor for eight hours now.
Eight. And if one more person tells me to breathe through it, I’m going to surgically remove their vocal cords with whatever’s sharpest in the damn room.
“Carina.” Reid’s voice is calm, completely unlike me right now. “You’ve got this, baby. You’re the scariest person I know.”
I try to laugh, but it catches halfway up my throat. Everything in me is shaking. My hands and my spine and my resolve.
Another contraction rips through me like a wave I can’t surf, and I brace both elbows against the bed rail, dragging in air through gritted teeth. I want to scream, and I want to push.
Reid’s hand is in mine, thumb stroking the inside of my wrist in rhythmic circles. He’s the only thing in the room more consistent than the monitor beep.
Something shifts low and deep.
“Oh God,” I moan. “I feel like I need to—fuck, I think I need to go. To the bathroom.”
I don’t even finish the sentence before Reid stands up.
“Hey, nurse! She says she needs to—uh—go.”
The nurse moves quickly, snapping on gloves. “Don’t get up, Carina. Let’s just check you first.”
“No, I really—” But I stop, because I know what this means. I know the shift, and I know that when it feels like you’re about to shit yourself, it’s probably not shit. It’s showtime.
The nurse slips her fingers into place and nods sharply. “Fully dilated. You’re ready. Let’s get you into position.”
There’s a flurry of movement, and a second nurse arrives. The OB gets paged. Reid squeezes my hand as they adjust the bed.
“You’re okay,” he murmurs. “We’re almost there, Havoc.”
I nod, but I’m distracted by another sound. A heart rate beeping, but not mine. The fetal monitor skips, stutters, then drops.
The nurse goes still for half a second, then her voice changes. Calmer, but too calm. “Baby’s heart rate is dipping a little with each contraction. We’re going to try a few position changes to get things moving quicker.”
I freeze. “What—what does that mean?”
“It means we need her out soon,” she says. “And you’re going to help us do that.”
My vision tunnels, but Reid is there, crouching beside me now, both hands framing my face. “You’re safe. She’s safe. Just listen to them, okay? We’ve got this.”
Thirty minutes later, I’m still pushing, and I swear I’m going to break in half.
I sob. “Reid—”
He presses his forehead to mine. “You’re doing so fucking good, Havoc. You’re the strongest goddamn person I’ve ever met.”
The OB’s voice is tight. “If we don’t make progress in the next twenty minutes, we’ll prep for a surgical birth.”
I want to scream, and I want to quit, but I can’t.
So I push.
I push, and I push until I see stars. Until the world tunnels to nothing but Reid’s voice and the fire in my spine and the unbearable stretch of bringing her here.
“Come on, Dr. Park,” the midwife says as she holds one of my legs wide. “We need this baby out.”
I nod like I’m listening as I curl forward to push again, but I don’t hear her. Not really. Because the pressure turns to pain, and the pain turns to terror, and something shifts in Reid’s eyes.
“Carina—” His voice cracks as he looks down, seeing everything.
“Don’t,” I pant. “Don’t look away—Reid—don’t—”
“I’m not,” he says fiercely, like he’s holding himself upright by sheer will. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, baby, I swear—”
“Reid—”
“I love you—fuck—I love you so much—”
My body gives one last brutal push, then I scream. Reid roars.
A wet, furious cry rips through the room like it’s been waiting for its cue.
Sharp and piercing. Alive.
She’s here.
I collapse backwards, sobbing, my eyes fused tightly shut and skin damp with sweat and tears, every cell in me fractured open.
“Hello, baby!” says the midwife. “Open your eyes, Momma, and say hello!”
Slowly, I open my tear-drenched eyelashes and watch as they lift her up, slippery and purple and wailing like a siren, and every inch of me trembles with her.
“Hi…” I breathe through a sob, streams of tears soaking my face.
Reid doesn’t speak; he just stands there, eyes wide and full, shaking like the floor just fell out from under him.
I turn back to the nurses, rubbing her down on my tummy. “Is she okay? She’s… she’s okay, right? Reid—”
But Reid Hutchison—my anchor, my grumpy caveman, my steady storm—is not okay. He crumples beside me, both hands pressed to his face as tears rack his body.
“I couldn’t do anything,” he chokes. “I couldn’t—I just watched you—fuck, Carina—”
I reach for him, and he comes fast, arms around me like he might float off if he doesn’t anchor himself here.
“You didn’t need to do anything,” I whisper, stroking his hair. “You were here, that’s everything.”
“Here you go, Mom and Dad,” the nurse says, her eyes shimmering as she places the baby into my arms, and all I can do is stare.
A warm blanket is tucked around us, but I barely notice. Because she’s in my arms—tiny and damp and furious—and everything else disappears.
The noise and the monitors. The pain and the panic and the ache that split me open from the inside out. It all dissolves.
There’s only her.
Her chest rising in tiny stutters, her fists curled like she’s still fighting her way here. Her cry, tapering off to a whimper, then a shuddery breath, like she recognizes something.
Me. Us.