Chapter 1 Molly #7
Georgia laughs. “I still wanted that Golden Ticket more than anything. I used to check the book out every week from the library, until my father got it banned. But I was obsessed with the idea of being plucked out of my home and being told that the world held bigger things for me.”
She had been dreaming of escape longer than I thought. It was why she ran from Alabama, why she let her imagination take flight in art. But instead of becoming remarkable, she spent twenty--five years living a life that left no trace.
“One year for my birthday,” Georgia says, “my sister, Adie, set up a Wonka treasure hunt. I found M that she might have thought about not running away—-it’s proof that I didn’t know I needed.
I stare at her grainy, dusty features, but all I see is myself.
That night, I dream that I am swaddled in the softest of blankets. I am waiting for something I don’t have the words to describe. I know hunger, I know wet, I know pain. Time is one spark after another, not a continuum. I am alert, and then I’m not.
I am startled out of the violet space I’m suspended in, although I don’t know what pulled me from sleep. It feels like a monster has awakened beneath the earth. I start crying so hard that the hiccups come.
Not the real tears . . .
I hear her voice, the plea in it. My face is damp and hot. My breath is a runaway train.
Then I am raised like an offering, until her face becomes the sun in my sky. I stare at it and go blind with relief.
She is white dust and white hair and black eyes and black mouth, but my eyes find the only other color in the palette of my vision: that snake of red over her shoulder that my hand reaches for, even now.
It is the first true color I saw, when shapes and lines began to have meaning; when I began to differentiate between me and her, and realized we were not a single entity.
Shh, she soothes. I’ve got you.
I wake up to Jesse shaking me. “You okay?” he asks. “You were having a nightmare.”
Was I?
I roll onto my side, facing him. “Thank you for the photograph,” I say softly.
“When I first saw it, I freaked out. It looked too much like you.”
“I know.” My belly tightens. “Jesse? Promise me that if—-”
I cut myself off as a gush of fluid rushes between my legs.
“It’s too early!” I’m only thirty--eight weeks.
“I don’t think the baby’s paying attention to a calendar,” Jesse says.
It is April Fool’s Day, but this is not a prank. Since my water broke, I have had three contractions in forty--five minutes. I keep expecting them to come faster. I read all the books and took the classes and gathered the birthing stories of other women. I know—-
I just know—-that something is terribly wrong.
When we got to the hospital, the nurse did an exam, skating her hands over my skin and pressing on my belly.
Then she left to call Dr. Mantillard, who comes into the room, washes her hands at the sink, and slips on gloves.
“Molly, Jesse,” she greets. “Looks like this baby’s in a hurry.
” She does the same things the labor nurse did, molding her palms over the landscape of my belly.
Then she moves to a position between my legs, doing a quick exam.
She strips off her gloves and stands. “Your baby has somehow managed to turn herself sideways. The good news is that you’re not in active labor yet—-so we have a chance to manually turn the baby so she’s pointing head down. ”
I look at Jesse. I told you so.
He clears his throat. “How does that work?”
“It involves us pressing down on the uterus, trying to massage her into moving. It might not be successful. You need to be aware that there’s a risk for abruption, and for an emergency C--section.”
“But if the baby stays sideways, doesn’t that mean a C--section, too?”
“Yes,” Dr. Mantillard says.
Fear seizes me. Jesse grips my chin, turning my face to his. “Hey. It’s going to be okay.”
I nod, but tears fill my eyes. I turn to Dr. Mantillard. “Do it,” I say firmly.
It seems like time speeds up. The room is suddenly alive with nurses. One wraps a belly band around my waist and sticks pads on me, cataloging my contractions and the baby’s heart rate. A nurse gives me a shot—-terbutaline, she says—-to prevent contractions, and an IV, just in case.
The calm before the storm is a half hour, during which the medication they injected makes my heart hammer, or maybe that’s just fear.
When Dr. Mantillard returns, she brings a second ob--gyn.
Younger, maybe a resident? “Showtime,” Dr. Mantillard says.
“Molly, this is Dr. Hayes. She’s going to be assisting.
” They do an ultrasound to confirm the baby’s position.
“We’re going to try rolling her forward,” Dr. Mantillard says.
“If that doesn’t work, we’ll try backward. ”
She squeezes gobs of ultrasound gel onto my stomach, making the surface slick.
Jesse’s fingers lace with mine just as Dr. Mantillard digs her left hand above my pubic bone, trying to grab the baby’s bottom.
With her right hand, she tries to dislodge the baby’s head from under my breasts and presses clockwise.
Meanwhile, Dr. Hayes holds the ultrasound wand, checking the baby’s position and movement and stress.
It. Fucking. Hurts.
I grit my teeth at the immense pressure. Looking down, panting hard, I can see the outline of the baby through my skin.
“Breathe like this,” Jesse guides, hissing through his teeth. Hee hee hah. Hee hee hah.
“Heart rate’s up to one eighty,” Dr. Hayes says, and suddenly all the pressure is gone.
I fall back against the pillow, sweating. “Did it work?”
“No,” Dr. Mantillard says, scanning the fetal monitor. “Let’s let her heart rate calm down and we can try again.”
The door cracks open, and Georgia’s face peers through.