CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT #2
“Dusky dolphins!” the guide announces excitedly over the PA system. “A resident pod that calls Milford Sound home. They’re one of the smallest dolphin species in the world and unique to New Zealand waters.”
The sleek creatures race alongside us, jumping playfully in our wake, creating perfect arcs against the backdrop of towering cliffs. Passengers rush to the railings, cameras raised, as the dolphins perform what seems like choreographed acrobatics.
“They’re so fat and cute!” Madison exclaims, nearly spilling her hot chocolate in her excitement. “They look like little torpedoes!”
The views are even more spectacular on the return journey, with the sun now highlighting different features of the landscape and glinting off the occasional dolphin fin as they continue to escort us.
It was so beautiful that I had almost forgotten about the pregnant woman when a cry from the lower deck cuts through the guide’s commentary.
“Help! Is there a doctor on board?”
Jack and I are moving before the words fully register, instinct overriding everything else. We push through passengers to find the pregnant woman on her hands and knees, face contorted in pain, a puddle of fluid beneath her.
“Her water broke,” a panicked friend explains. “The contractions started suddenly, she says they’re coming fast!”
I kneel beside the woman, slipping automatically into nurse mode. “I’m Sophia, I’m an ER nurse. What’s your name?”
“Hannah,” she gasps between quick breaths. “It’s too early. It’s too early! My due date’s three weeks away.”
Jack kneels on her other side. “I’m Jack, a paramedic. We’re going to help you, Hannah. How far apart are the contractions?”
“Maybe a minute? I don’t know, th-th-they came on so fast.” Her face contorts as another wave hits. “Oh God, I think I need to push!”
I exchange a look with Jack. This isn’t just labor—this is precipitous labor, progressing far too quickly for comfort, especially in our current situation.
“How far are we from the harbor?” Jack asks the wide-eyed crew member hovering nearby.
“Twenty minutes at least,” the young man stammers. “We’re going as fast as we can.”
“We might not have twenty minutes,” I say quietly to Jack. “Hannah, we need to check your progress. Is that okay?”
She nods desperately, gripping her friend’s hand.
The crew clears the lower cabin, directing other passengers upstairs. Madison pushes forward, ignoring Emma’s attempt to guide her away.
“I want to help,” she insists, her eyes wide with a mixture of concern and curiosity. “What can I do?”
“Madison, honey, this isn’t—” I begin, but am cut off by Hannah’s sudden cry as another contraction hits.
“Jack, see if they have any medical supplies on board,” I direct, falling into our familiar pattern without thinking. “And we need clean towels, blankets, anything you can find.”
He nods, immediately moving to action. I turn my attention to Hannah, helping her into a more comfortable position as I assess her situation.
Emma tries again to guide Madison away. “Come on, let’s give them space to work.”
“But I want to see,” Madison protests. “Maybe I could help somehow.”
Jack returns moments later with a basic first aid kit and an armful of clean linens. “Not much,” he says grimly, “but it’s something.” He rummages through the kit, examining its contents with a practiced eye.
As I examine Hannah, my worst fears are confirmed. “Baby’s crowning,” I say quietly to Jack. “This is happening now.”
He nods, already arranging the supplies we have. “Hannah,” he says calmly, “your baby is coming very quickly. We’re going to deliver right here. Everything’s going to be fine.”
Madison has positioned herself where she can see, despite Emma’s protective hand on her shoulder. Her face is a mix of fascination and growing apprehension as she realizes what is about to happen.
“On the next contraction, I need you to push,” I instruct Hannah.
The next moments blur into a focused intensity. Hannah pushes with primal determination. Jack supports her while I guide the baby’s head, our hands working in perfect coordination despite the months of distance and days of tension.
“I can see the head,” I announce. “You’re doing so great, Hannah. One more big push.”
Madison’s face has paled considerably, her earlier curiosity replaced with shock at the reality of childbirth. Emma notices immediately. “Madison, honey, let’s step outside—”
“I’m fine, I just—” Madison starts, then suddenly claps a hand over her mouth, her face turning a sickly shade of green.
Emma reacts instantly, pulling Madison away just as she doubles over and retches. “Oooookay, that’s our cue to exit,” she says firmly, guiding Madison quickly toward the door.
The moment turns critical when I realize the umbilical cord is wrapped around the baby’s neck. Without a word, Jack reaches for the meager supplies we had, ready with exactly what I needed before I could ask.
“Cord’s around the neck,” I say quietly, our heads close together over our patient.
“Can you slip it over?” he asks, his breath warm against my cheek.
“Going to try.”
Our hands work together in the tight space, his steadying Hannah while mine carefully maneuvers the cord. For those critical moments, there is no wealth disparity, no betrayal, no hurt. Just two medical professionals working to bring a life safely into the world.
With a final push from Hannah and careful guidance from me, the baby slips free. A boy, small but perfect…but alarmingly silent.
“He’s not crying,” Hannah says, panic rising in her voice. “Why isn’t he crying!?”
Jack is already moving, grabbing what looks like a saline squeeze bottle from the first aid kit.
In one smooth motion, he empties the saline, cuts off the narrow tip with a pair of scissors from the kit, and creates a makeshift bulb syringe.
The improvisation is quick, efficient—testament to years of emergency field work.
“He needs a little help clearing his airway,” Jack explains calmly to Hannah, his tone completely reassuring despite the urgency of the situation. “This happens sometimes with fast deliveries.”
I hold the newborn, slightly inclined, while Jack works rapidly, using his improvised suction to clear the baby’s mouth and nose.
The close quarters force us together, his body pressed against mine as we hunch over the infant.
I can feel his heartbeat, rapid with adrenaline, his breath warm against my cheek.
“Come on, little one,” he murmurs, his hands gentle but sure.
A moment later, the baby gives a spluttering cough, followed by a lusty, indignant cry.
“There we go,” Jack says, relief evident in his voice. “Hello, mate. Welcome to Milford Sound.”
Our eyes meet over the crying newborn, a moment of pure connection that transcends our personal conflict.
Without words, Jack passes the baby fully to me, our hands brushing intimately in the transfer, fingers lingering a fraction longer than necessary.
The touch sends electricity through me that has nothing to do with the adrenaline of the delivery.
For a heartbeat, it is not the baby in my arms that makes me feel overwhelmed—it is Jack’s eyes meeting mine, full of something I don’t have the strength to name.
I place the baby on Hannah’s chest, guiding her to hold him skin-to-skin. “This will help regulate his temperature and breathing,” I explain. “He’s perfect, Hannah. You did such a good job! He just needed a little help getting started.”
Jack is already wrapping clean linens around both mother and child, his movements synchronized with mine as we work to keep them warm. Again, our hands brush several times, each contact a reminder of the connection that still hums between us despite everything.
While I attend to Hannah and the baby, Jack is on his phone, arranging for medical evacuation from the harbor. “Te Whatu Ora is sending a chopper,” he reports back. “They’ll meet us at the harbor. Ten minutes out.”
“Good,” I nod, still monitoring Hannah and her newborn. “Baby’s APGAR improved after the suction, but I’d feel better with a full pediatric assessment.”
Jack kneels beside me again, his presence both comforting and unnerving. “You were amazing,” he says softly, for my ears only. “That was…I’ve delivered babies before, but never with a nuchal cord, and never on a boat…”
“We were lucky,” I deflect, though the praise warms me despite myself. “She did all the hard work.”
“No,” he insists gently. “It was you.”
I meet his eyes then, really meet them for the first time since the revelation. The admiration there is genuine—the same look he’d given me in the ER when I’d handled a difficult case with calm efficiency. It wasn’t about attraction or even our personal connection, but pure professional respect.
That, at least, hadn’t changed.
When we dock, everything moves quickly. The evacuation helicopter is waiting, its rotors still turning.
Jack handles the handover to the flight medics with practiced efficiency, providing a concise report of the delivery, the nuchal cord, his improvised suction intervention, and Hannah’s current status.
Emma and Madison reappear as they are loading Hannah and the baby into the helicopter. Madison looks pale but composed, her earlier nausea under control…though sporting a conspicuously large wet spot on her shirt.
“Mom! Is she okay? The baby?” she asks, keeping a safe distance from the medical activity.
“They’re both fine,” I assure her, suddenly aware of how exhausted I feel. The adrenaline is wearing off, leaving me shaky.
“You guys were like…superheroes or something!” Madison says, her eyes wide with residual shock and something like awe. Then her face turns sheepish. “I threw up.”
“That’s okay. It’s not really a front-row sport,” Jack says with a tired grin.
“Perfectly normal reaction,” Emma assures her. “First time I saw a calf being born on the estate, I passed out cold.”