Chapter 28
Tessa
Eight and a Half Months Pregnant
It's still two weeks before my due date, but my bag is packed. Fitz made sure of it.
He's become quite the overprotective father, and I don't mind it one bit. I was stuck at work late, and he was hanging out at my house on a night we had planned to go to dinner.
He worked it out so he could spend the last few weeks of my pregnancy in LA, which has meant entrusting the cattle ranch and the farm to a new foreman, but so far it seems to be working out.
Then I’ll spend the first couple of weeks of my maternity leave in Willow Springs so we can both be with the baby.
When I come home from work, he shows me everything that he put into the bag. “Oh my gosh, Fitz. This is amazing.”
It makes me smile to think about my brawny cowboy reading baby books for tips on what to put in our Go Bag.
It has snacks for me, snacks for him, a zippered velvet onesie, and a little hat for the baby to wear home from the hospital.
It's like a little yellow terrycloth snowsuit with a bear on the chest and a hood with little bear ears.
“I also brought you this. Nothing’s longer than a page,” he says, showing me a book of poetry. My attention span is that of a gnat lately, so I appreciate the brevity.
“I love it. It’ll be a nice break from reading this.” I indicate all the reading material on my laptop. Our court date for the trial against Tomahawk Corporation isn’t for a few months, but the amount of preparation I’ll need to do just as the baby is coming feels overwhelming.
Maybe it’s good to have choices between what scares me more—the idea of arguing on behalf of Willow Springs or the fear of how I'm going to push a child out of my body.
I put the bag in the closet because there’s no way I’m having this baby before my due date. I still need time to mentally prepare, and if I can keep it inside for two more weeks, that’s how it’s going to be.
Hannah delivered two days after her due date, and genetics are strong, so I’m reassured thinking that’s probably how it will go for me.
So it surprises me when I feel my stomach harden and clench with a jolt of pain.
“Ow, geez!” I exclaim.
Fitz startles from where he's reading a psychological thriller on the couch. “You okay?”
“I think I just had a Braxton Hicks contraction. You know, it's false labor, but it still hurts.”
“What makes you think it's false labor?” He comes to my side, puts a hand on my belly, and kisses my temple the way he does several times a day when we’re together.
“It has to be. I’m not having this baby for two more weeks.”
He chuckles and walks over to where I’m standing there defiant, cupping my belly with both hands as though I can hold the baby in.
Tucking me under his arm, he walks me to a chair, and I sit.
Then he kneels in front of me and calmly smiles.
“I don’t think it works that way. If the baby is ready to be born, that’s what’s happening. ”
My arms flail about. I’m uninterested in his attempt to make me chill out. “Don’t I get a say? My body shouldn’t be making decisions without me.”
“Better get used to it. I don’t think you’re the boss anymore.”
I pout at that, and Fitz puts a hand on my cheek. “We’re in this together. Don’t worry.” He kisses my temple.
I nod, still sulking.
“But let’s take the contractions seriously. You're close enough to your due date that this could be the real thing.”
“I'm pretty sure it's false labor,” I say, determined to be the boss of my body and know it better than he does. “I feel certain that if I were having a baby today, I would know it.”
An hour later, as I huff and puff in the back seat of Fitz’s truck, I have to admit I don't know anything.
The contractions have gotten closer together, and now they're more painful, causing me to lose my breath each time one comes. Looking at Fitz’s eyes in the rearview mirror, I see a furrow in his brow as he presses the gas pedal harder.
“Relax, I’m not going to have the baby in the back of your truck. You can slow down.”
“You also said you weren’t gonna have the baby for two weeks. I’m not sure I should listen to you right now.”
“I think I’m offended by that.”
We called the doctor as soon as my contractions were ninety seconds apart, which is what he instructed when I had my last office visit. I was unwilling to call him a minute before then.
I’m still timing them with a stopwatch on my phone, and now they’re closer to a minute apart. I don’t mention this to Fitz because he’s already pushing the speed limit. We’re only a few blocks from the hospital now, and he knows where to park and how to get us to the third-floor maternity ward.
“She’s in active labor. Tessa Demille,” Fitz tells the labor nurse who brings a wheelchair over. Within minutes, I’m shown to a room, where a different nurse takes my vital signs and straps a monitor around my swollen belly to monitor contractions.
Each time a new one grips me, I squeeze my eyes shut and squeeze Fitz’s hand. He reminds me to breathe and smooths the hair from my forehead. His presence calms me, but the contractions are no joke. “This is another situation where I’m a one-and-done,” I grit out, pulverizing Fitz’s hand.
“Feels like I’ve heard that before.” The guy can still heat my veins with one hot smirk.
“No. Jokes.”
Then I get an epidural. Almost immediately, it’s like I’ve been doused in pregnancy fairy dust. I can still see the contractions as little spikes on the fetal monitor, but I don’t feel them nearly as painfully.
“I think this is the best I’ve felt my entire pregnancy,” I say. “I don’t even care that I still have swollen feet.”
Fitz laughs, stroking my hair. “You’re doing great.
I wish I could take this off your hands, but…
I can't.” He looks tired, mouth turned down in a grimace, lines around his eyes, and I realize he’s bearing the burden of my delivery in his own way, feeling responsible.
He called my family to let them know I’m here, he’s been communicating with the doctors and nurses, he’s been losing sleep worrying about how I’m doing.
“I know. You’ve been amazing. I can do this.” My doctor checks and says I'm dilated enough that I can try a few practice pushes. As soon as my water breaks, the contractions hit even harder, and he tells me to bear down.
“It's time to have a baby.” Panic sweeps through me like a knife blade, and I lock eyes with Fitz, looking for something to ground me. I find it in his fierce, steady gaze. He gets up from his chair and steps over to the side of the bed, grabbing onto my hand and interlacing our fingers.
“You've got this, honey. Not a doubt in the world. You’re strong and beautiful and incredible. What can I get for you?”
“I need you to get this baby out.”
He holds my hand and whispers encouragement. “Okay, we're going to do it together, just like we practiced.” Fitz takes me through the breathing exercises that seemed ridiculous when we learned them, and I’m impressed that he remembers what to do because I've already forgotten.
“In, hold your breath, out,” he says. I do as told, and I start to calm down. “You’re doing so well. Duchess, you’re amazing.”
After another minute, I’m only focused on breathing through each contraction. My doctor looks at the monitor, timing the contractions, and finally tells me to push.
“Honey, I’m right here. Squeeze my hand, swear at me, do whatever you need.”
“I’m not gonna swear at—dammit, Fitz, fuck!”
“I love it, Duchess. Keep going.”
I grit my teeth, close my eyes, and give it my all. The epidural blunts some of the pain, but I can feel the pressure of the baby’s head. I push so hard that I’m sure the baby has come flying right out.
Looking down at where my doctor is focused between my legs, I search for a baby. “Did I do it?”
“You did great,” the labor nurse says. “Same thing on the next contraction,” she tells me, despite the fact that I’m already exhausted from labor.
I take a moment to catch my breath and look at Fitz with pleading eyes, as though he can bail me out of this situation. “You've got this, you've got this, come on, honey, you've got it.”
And somehow, hearing the lilt in his voice and imagining him talking to our baby the same way calms me enough that I take a deep, deep breath. And on the next contraction, I push harder than I've ever pushed in my life.
“Here we go…” The nurse presses my legs open wider, and my doctor pushes against my abdomen while I breathe and push and marvel at how women have survived doing this since the beginning of time. “Top of the head…” I hear.
“Okay, one last push on my count.” My doctor counts, and Fitz squeezes my hand, and I let out a long breath and push with everything I’ve got. I hope it’s enough because I’m not sure I have another push in me.
“There we go, head’s out, and…got her.”
A moment later, I feel the pressure release. I hear gasps and positive sounds that don’t make sense right away. I see Fitz’s eyes, wet and round in disbelief. And I look down at the tiny baby my doctor is holding up for me to see. “Meet your baby girl.”
She's messy and beautiful and perfect. Her eyes are squeezed shut, and her mouth is wide open as she lets out a tiny, sweet little wail that sounds like a bird cooing for me.
There’s no question in my mind that she's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
Fitz leans down and whispers, “You’re a rock star. And Grandma Ann and your sisters are in the waiting room. Should I invite them in?”
I shake my head. “Not yet. Let it be just us for a little while longer.”
He kisses me on the cheek and I let myself be overwhelmed by happiness.
From day one, Fitz is an amazing dad. He knows what to do almost by instinct.
“It's just because I've lived on a ranch for so long. I'm used to being around when some of our foals have their babies. It's not that different,” he says.
Um, it's really different. I watch him sing to our little daughter, Charlotte, and rock her to sleep. My heart feels so full when I look at the two of them together that I feel like it almost can’t contain this volume of joy.
It’s the hormones. I know this. It’s all about survival of the species, and a new mom has to feel this kind of attachment to the father of her children to begin nesting.
The father needs to feel a warm possessiveness over his partner and baby to provide food for them. But it’s temporary. I know this too.
Given some time, the hormones will subside, and I'll get over the feelings I have for him. But right now, my system is so flooded with love for Charlotte and for Fitz that sometimes it’s hard to breathe.