16. Isaac
— ? —
Isaac
The community center smells like floor wax and lavender essential oil - someone’s idea of “calming,” though my nervous system begs to differ. Yoga mats are arranged in a semicircle facing a whiteboard covered in anatomical diagrams I’m trying very hard not to examine too closely.
Chantal signs us in at the front desk while I hover behind her like a bodyguard who’s lost his principal.
“Name of partner?” the receptionist asks, pen poised.
Chantal hesitates. Glances back at me.
“Isaac Wren,” I supply.
The receptionist writes it down without looking up. “Relationship to mother?”
The question hangs in the air like a guillotine blade.
“He’s-” Chantal starts.
“Friend,” I say quickly. “I’m the friend.”
The receptionist’s pen stops moving. She looks up at me, then at Chantal, then at Chantal’s very pregnant belly, then back at me. Her expression cycles through confusion, judgment, and something that looks suspiciously like pity.
“The… friend,” she repeats.
“Support person,” Chantal amends. “He’s my support person.”
“Mm-hmm.” The receptionist writes something down - probably investigate further - and hands us two name tags. “Mat seven. Class starts in five minutes.”
Mat seven is in the middle of the semicircle, flanked on both sides by couples who are very obviously couples.
The woman to our left has her partner’s hand resting on her belly like it lives there.
The man to our right is whispering something into his wife’s ear that makes her giggle and swat at him.
I lower myself onto the mat behind Chantal and try to figure out where to put my legs.
“You can sit closer,” she murmurs over her shoulder. “You’re supposed to be supporting me. Physically. With your body.”
“I’m aware of the concept.”
“Then why are you three feet away?”
“Personal space. Very important. Boundaries.”
“Let’s breathe at things,” I add, and settle in behind her, my knees bracketing her hips without quite touching.
Before she can answer, the instructor bounces into the room.
Bounces. There’s no other word for it. She’s a woman in her fifties with a gravity-defying ponytail and the energy of someone who mainlines espresso and positive affirmations. Her name tag reads brENDA in aggressive purple marker, with a smiley face dotting the A.
“Welcome, welcome, WELCOME!” Brenda claps her hands together like she’s summoning spirits. “I see some new faces tonight! Let’s go around the circle and introduce ourselves. Name, due date, and one fun fact about your pregnancy journey so far!”
Oh no.
The couple on mat one starts. “I’m Jessica, this is my husband Mark, we’re due next month, and our fun fact is that the baby kicks every time Mark sings in the shower!”
Everyone laughs. Mark looks pleased with himself.
Mat two. Mat three. Mat four. Each couple more aggressively wholesome than the last. We’ve already picked out names! We’re having twins and we couldn’t be more excited! My husband cried at every ultrasound!
Mat six. The couple directly to our left.
“I’m Amanda, this is my husband Derek, and our fun fact is that Derek has read seventeen parenting books so far.” Amanda pats Derek’s knee fondly. “He’s going to be the best dad.”
Derek beams. “I just want to be prepared.”
Everyone awws.
I want to dissolve into the floor.
“Mat seven!” Brenda’s laser focus swings to us. “Your turn!”
Chantal straightens. “I’m Chantal. Due next month. And this is-”
“Isaac,” I say. “I’m the, uh. The friend.”
Silence.
The pregnant women and their partners stare at me with expressions ranging from confused to concerned.
“The friend,” Brenda repeats slowly, like I’ve just announced I’m here to inspect the plumbing.
“Support person,” Chantal adds quickly. “He’s my support person. My husband and I are… separated.”
“Oh.” Brenda’s face transforms into aggressive sympathy. “Oh, honey. Well, we’re SO glad you have someone here for you. Isaac, you’re doing a beautiful thing. Not all friends would step up like this.”
“Thanks,” I manage. It comes out as a croak.
The woman on mat eight - visibly pregnant, aggressively curious - leans forward. “So you’re not the father?”
“No.”
“How modern,” she says, in a tone that suggests she means the opposite.
Brenda claps her hands again, rescuing us.
“Alright! Let’s start with some breathing exercises.
Partners, I want you to move in close. You should be able to feel her breathe.
Put your hands on her belly - you’re going to sync your rhythms. You’re a team.
You’re connected. You’re bringing life into this world together! ”
Around us, the other partners scoot forward. Hands land on bellies with practiced ease.
I don’t move.
Chantal glances back at me. “Isaac.”
“Yep.”
“You have to touch me.”
“I’m aware.”
“Then why aren’t you-”
“I’m working up to it.”
“Hands on the belly, Friend Isaac!” Brenda appears beside our mat like a cheerful apparition. “Don’t be shy! She needs your support!”
Chantal reaches back, grabs both my wrists, and physically pulls my hands onto her stomach.
“There,” she says. “Was that so hard?”
Yes. Yes, it was.
Her belly is warm beneath my palms, even through her shirt. I can feel the baby moving - a slow roll, like a wave beneath the surface. Chantal’s hand settles over mine, holding it in place.
“Now breathe with her,” Brenda instructs, moving on to the next mat. “In through the nose, out through the mouth. Feel her rhythm. Match it.”
Chantal breathes in. Her shoulders rise, pressing back against my chest.
Chantal breathes out. Her body softens, settling into me.
I’m supposed to breathe with her.
I hold my breath instead.
“You’re supposed to be breathing,” she whispers.
“I’m breathing.”
“You’re absolutely not breathing.”
“I breathe all the time. Self-taught. Very experienced.”
“Isaac.”
“If I breathe, I’m going to smell your hair.”
“…What?”
“Your hair. It’s right there. If I breathe in, I’m going to smell it, and it’s going to smell like coconut, and then I’m going to have to think about coconut for the rest of this class while my hands are on your pregnant belly, and I don’t think that’s what Brenda had in mind.”
Chantal’s shoulders start shaking.
She’s laughing. Silently, but definitely laughing.
“This isn’t funny,” I mutter.
“It’s a little funny.”
“I’m in hell.”
“Breathe, Isaac. For me. Please.”
I breathe in.
Coconut. Just like I knew it would be. Coconut and something else - something warm and clean and specifically her. A scent I’ve been cataloging for five years without meaning to.
I breathe out.
She breathes with me.
“There you go,” she murmurs. “That wasn’t so hard.”
It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
Twenty minutes in, Brenda introduces partner massage.
“Labor is hard work,” she announces, prowling between the mats like a general inspecting troops.
“Your body is going to need support. Partners, you’re going to learn three key techniques tonight.
First up: the lower back release. Partners, put your hands on her lower back - right at the base of the spine.
You’re going to apply firm, steady pressure in a circular motion. ”
The room fills with the sounds of shuffling as partners reposition.
I stare at Chantal’s lower back like it’s a bomb I need to defuse.
“You can touch me,” she says dryly. “I won’t break.”
“I know you won’t break.”
“Then why do you look like you’re about to pass out?”
“I’m not going to pass out.” I place my hands on her lower back. The fabric of her shirt is thin. I can feel the heat of her skin through it. “I’m completely fine.”
“Firm pressure,” Brenda calls out, passing our mat. “Really get in there, Friend Isaac. She’s going to be in a lot of pain during labor. You need to know how to help.”
I press my thumbs into the muscles along her spine.
Chantal makes a sound.
A sound.
Low and breathy, halfway between a sigh and a moan. Her head drops forward, and her whole body loosens under my hands like I’ve found a release valve.
“Oh god,” she breathes. “That’s - don’t stop doing that.”
Don’t stop.
I dig my thumbs in a little deeper, working in slow circles, and she makes the sound again - louder this time, enough that the woman on mat six glances over with raised eyebrows.
“Sorry,” Chantal says, not sounding sorry at all. “Pregnancy back pain. This is the first relief I’ve had in weeks.”
I focus on the wall. On the ceiling tiles. On anything except the small, involuntary noises she keeps making every time I hit a particularly tight spot.
“You’re very good at this,” she murmurs.
“YouTube tutorials.”
“You watched YouTube tutorials on pregnancy massage?”
“Couldn’t sleep. Seemed productive.”
She’s quiet for a moment. Then, softly: “You’re kind of amazing, you know that?”
I don’t trust my voice, so I just keep rubbing.
Brenda materializes beside us, beaming. “Wonderful technique, Friend Isaac! Look at that form. You’re a natural. Have you considered doula certification? You have very intuitive hands.”
“I haven’t, no.”
“Think about it! The birthing community needs men like you.”
She bounces away to terrorize another couple.
Chantal’s shoulders are shaking again.
“Not a word,” I mutter.
“I wasn’t going to say anything.”
“You were absolutely going to say something.”
“I was just going to observe that Brenda thinks you have intuitive hands.”
“Please stop.”
“Intuitive hands, Isaac. That’s high praise from a Lamaze professional.”
“I’m going to walk into traffic.”
“After you finish. I wasn’t done with that.”
By the time we hit the third technique - something involving tennis balls and shoulder blades that I execute with grim determination and zero eye contact - I’ve counted every ceiling tile (forty-seven), memorized the cracks in the wall behind Chantal’s head (twelve), and seriously considered faking a medical emergency.
“Beautiful work tonight, everyone!” Brenda concludes, somehow even more energetic than when we started. “Same time next week. Practice your breathing at home. And partners-” she points at us like a general rallying troops - “remember: you’re not just passengers on this journey. You’re co-pilots!”