Chapter 1 Molly #8
Jesse’s hand tightens on mine. “When you asked me to text Toby to get coverage for you, I texted her, too. I hope that’s okay.”
I’d almost asked him to do just that. I’d hesitated, unsure she would feel comfortable sitting at my bedside in a moment of crisis.
Except . . . she already has. And I am so damn glad to see her.
If Dr. Mantillard thinks it’s strange for her receptionist to walk into a patient’s room and take her hand, she doesn’t comment. Maybe she thinks we grew close on the night of the snowstorm. “All right, let’s go,” the doctor says, pushing down on my belly again.
This time, I grit my teeth. Georgia grimaces, bearing all the pain I push on her. The corners of my vision go white, and I remember Georgia and me in a hospital once before in the middle of the night.
Do you have kids? I had asked.
I lost my baby.
I turn to her, frozen in the grip of pressure. “You didn’t”—-
I grunt—-“lose me.”
She squeezes my fist even harder.
“There we go,” Dr. Hayes says, and everything loosens. The fullness in my stomach, the vise of Dr. Mantillard’s hands, the blood rushing in my ears. I can breathe again, and I do.
“Good girl,” Dr. Mantillard says. I’m not sure if she’s talking to me or my baby, but, blissfully, the fetus is now head down.
“Remember when you were worried because your contractions weren’t close enough?” Jesse says, and I swat at him.
It’s been ten hours since the baby’s heart rate stabilized and they gave me Pitocin to increase my contractions and bring on labor. The contractions rush like a tide now, a new one ripping into me before the first even finishes. I’m ten centimeters, and ready to push.
Georgia and Jesse have traded off—-one getting coffee while the other is with me in the throes of labor; at one point, Jesse took a power nap—-and right now he is behind me, bracing my shoulders. Ironically, Georgia had to leave to open Dr. Mantillard’s office.
A monstrous hum groans out of me as another wave strikes, this time turning like a corkscrew low in my back and radiating across my abdomen. I huff my way through it—-those breathing classes were bullshit—-and claw into Jesse’s arm again.
I see on his face the utter frustration that comes from watching me feel pain.
Dr. Mantillard comes into the room again, washes her hands, and takes up a position between my legs. “You ready to have this baby?”
Am I? Once she is out in the world, triggering a chemical chain reaction in my brain, I may not even recognize myself. But yes, all I want is to get her out.
When the doctor tells me to push, I lean forward, Jesse draped over my shoulders and pushing with me. I am a funnel, and the entirety of the universe is pouring through me. I see stars.
Then I collapse against the bed, against Jesse, my face turned against his chest. “I don’t want to have a baby anymore,” I moan.
He rubs my shoulders. “I think we’re past the point of no return.”
Another contraction laces me tight. I bear down, growling. I do this ten times, a dozen, twenty, until I am spent and staring at the ceiling.
“One more, Molly,” Dr. Mantillard says.
Maybe later.
“Come on, baby,” Jesse murmurs in my ear. “You’re a fighter.”
It is exactly the right thing to say.
I’m the one who goes out in the lashing storm, who stays behind so everyone else can be evacuated, who risks death to save the lives of others.
If those aren’t transferable skills for motherhood, I don’t know what is.
With a roar that shakes my bones, I lean forward between my bent knees and feel a quicksilver rush between my thighs. I suck in a mouthful of air just as my daughter wails, as if I gave her not only life, but also a voice.
The baby is whisked away by a nurse, and a moment later handed to me. A swaddling cloth is draped over her tiny pink body. She’s still screaming, as if she is affronted to be thrust into this cold, brutal world. “Congratulations,” the nurse says. “She’s got a set of lungs on her.”
Jesse reaches down to touch the baby’s cheek, her hand. Her tiny fingers curl around one of his. “She’s perfect,” he breathes.
“We made that,” I reply.
“Maybe we should open a factory.”
I glance at him. “Find another wife.”
He smiles through his tears. “Nah. I’m too crazy about the one I already have.”
When he kisses me softly, the baby stops crying. She blinks up at us, her eyes hazy and gray. “Hi,” I whisper. “I’m your mom.”
When ice is packed between my thighs, along with a thick sanitary pad, and the nurses and Dr. Mantillard have left, Jesse takes the baby from my arms and walks around the room with her.
She feels like a limb I’ve always had—-natural, necessary, familiar.
I can tell that there’s already been some chemical change in my brain—-not the one I’m so afraid of, but an elemental understanding that this child is part of me. It’s love at first sight in its purest form; I would burn the world down to keep her safe.
It makes me think of Evie, who would have done the same for me.
But it also makes me think of Georgia.
To walk away—-to stay away—-must have felt like a piece of herself had been carved apart, with her own hand holding the blade.
“I’m gonna teach you how to ride a bike, yes I am,” Jesse says. “And you can do my hair and paint my nails any time you want. And when you bring home a boyfriend or a girlfriend,” he croons, “I’m going to make sure I’m cleaning my gun.”
I burst out laughing, and he turns. When I hold out my arms, he gently settles the baby into them.
Right now—-possibly for the first time—-I’m not worried about the general population of Rhode Island and what may befall it. Every-one I want to keep safe is right here.
“What should we name her?” I ask.
We had a list, but none of them seems to fit.
Jesse sinks beside us on the bed. “After what you just went through, if you want to name her Doorknob, I’m down with it.”
But a name is a powerful thing. It can be something that fails you, or something you live up to. It can be a fresh start, or a tribute.
I lift my face to Jesse’s. “I know what I want to call her,” I say.