Chapter Twenty #2
“Okay,” Rose said. Or she thought she did.
She’d commanded her body to say it, but it was impossible to tell whether the synapses had actually fired.
There had been times in Rose’s life where hours had felt like days, days like weeks, and months like years, but those times had nothing on the three minutes that stood between Rose and this final push.
The seconds dragged, threatening to pull her down to the bottom of the ocean to rest among the remains of the ghost ship she’d begged Landon to take an interest in a lifetime ago.
There was no harmless chatter in the room, no shooting the breeze, no oohing and aahing over any part of the experience. They rested on a knife’s edge.
The clock ticked, and Rose, who believed in the sanctity of science and could count on one hand the number of times she’d stepped foot in a church, began to pray.
God, she thought, God, it all seems so formal, talking in my head like this.
But maybe that’s all part of it. The surrendering.
The letting go. It’s me, Rose. I don’t know who you are or what you are, but I hope you’re a woman, because I don’t think a man is going to understand this in the same way.
I need you to do something for me that is in my worst interest. I need you to make sure the baby makes it out of this.
I’m sure you’re looking down on this scene and thinking that you’ve seen a million worse things, and I’m not here to argue that.
I’m just here to tell you that I don’t think I could bear it if I’m here and this baby is not.
This baby is a blank slate. They could do anything.
Be anyone. Please, whoever you are, whatever you are, if you hear me, give me a sign.
Some sort of sign to let me know you heard me, to let me know—
The contraction gripped her and Rose shrieked with pain.
“Push, push, push!” the doctor yelled, pulling on the end of the forceps with more force than Rose could ever have imagined given how small and compact her body was.
So much force she couldn’t understand how the baby’s head was still wedged there.
The monitors whirred and beeped and Rose was tired—so, so tired.
“Push, push,” Landon said beside her, voice thick with emotion Rose could not think too deeply about.
She could not think anymore. She could only feel.
Push.
Push.
Push.
Pull. The doctor pulled hard—hard enough a head finally, mercifully, miraculously broke through. “You’re doing great, Rose,” she said. “Baby’s head is right here. I’m going to need another good push. Three more pushes and we can get baby out safe. You give me three more good pushes.”
Three pushes, Rose thought, desperate for anything to hold on to. Sweat streamed down her face, matted her hair to her skin, and fell into her eyes.
“You can do this,” Landon said beside her. “You have to do this, Rose.”
Push.
Push.
Push.
“Shoulders are out,” the doctor said. “We’re getting baby out on this contraction, Rose. One more good push. Bear down and give me one more good push.”
No pain like this ever again, nothing like this ever again, the pain, the pain, the pain. Push, push, push.
“Push!” Landon yelled over the roaring in her ears. “Rose, I can see the baby. Rose, I can see them. I can see them, they’re here, they’re here, please, Rose, please.”
Nothing but the pain, nothing but the roaring in her ears, nothing but push, push, push.
She held Landon’s hand and screamed through the pain, screamed as baby’s shoulders tore through her, screamed as baby’s legs finally, finally, slipped out of her, screamed as she and the baby were no longer one, but two, screamed and screamed until Landon’s hands were there, on her face, wiping back hair and tears and sweat and kissing the corners of her eyes.
“She’s here,” he said, through thick sobs. “She’s perfect.”
A girl.
“Where is she?” She was tired—so, so tired—but even after nearly two days of slow progress and sudden emergency, her body ached for the child. “They’re checking her vitals,” he said. “Cleaning her up. But she’s here. She’s going to be okay.”
“Go check on her,” Rose said, eyes fluttering. “Protect her.”
“She’s safe.” Landon leaned over the bed and kissed her cheeks, cradled her head in his hands. “She’s safe, Rose. I’m not leaving you.”
And then she was there. The doctor placed the baby on her chest, on the exposed skin of her chest, the robe having lost its hold at a point Rose could no longer remember.
She could no longer remember a lot of things.
Who had she been, before this little being was laid on her chest?
Who had she been, before these little cries and gurgles sounded in her ears? It hardly seemed to matter.
“Cordelia,” she said. It was the name her father hadn’t wanted to burden her with. She and Landon had gone back and forth—burden or blessing?—but staring into this creature’s dark gray eyes, she could not imagine any other name. She was beloved. Most beloved.
“Cordelia,” Landon agreed.
She’d just placed a kiss on the baby’s soft head when she felt the warm gush.
Rose knew something was wrong before any one of the medical professionals in the room could confirm.
She shifted slightly, clutching Cordelia to her chest, and the wetness spread.
Her vision blurred, the room softening. Her fingers prickled. She was cold.
Someone called her name. A hand pressed down on her stomach. Her baby was ripped from her body a second time.
“She’s losing too much,” Rose heard through the haze.
Bright red on her hands, bright red on the bed.
Blood. She was losing too much blood.
She tried to speak, to lift her arm, but her body had stopped cooperating. Nausea pounded through her, fast as the beating of her heart.
In, out, she drifted. In, out.
Rose tried to hold on to the sound of her baby’s cry, that primal call for safety. Her cries were as perfect as she was, but so, so far away. Slipping away. Like she was never there. Like neither of them had ever been there.