23. Beatrice
— ? —
Beatrice
Full term.
The words feel impossible, like a finish line I wasn’t sure I’d ever reach. But here I am, enormous and uncomfortable and ready to meet my daughter.
I wake to the smell of coffee strong enough to strip paint and something that might once have been an omelet. Kenneth’s culinary skills have not improved with practice, but his dedication is unquestionable. Every morning, without fail, he’s in the kitchen before I open my eyes.
“You’re awake.” He appears in the bedroom doorway, wielding a spatula like a weapon. “How do you feel?”
“Like I swallowed a watermelon.” I push myself upright, a process that now requires strategic planning and significant effort. “And like I haven’t slept in a month.”
“Just a little longer.”
“Easy for you to say.” I rub my lower back, trying to ease the ache that’s become my constant companion. “You’re not the one whose bladder is being used as a trampoline.”
He grins at that, and my heart does something complicated. I’ve been noticing things like that lately. The way his smile transforms his face. The way his eyes soften when he looks at my belly. The way he’s present, truly present, in a way he never was during the first years of our marriage.
I love him.
I haven’t said it out loud, not since before the dinner, not since he destroyed everything and then spent months painstakingly rebuilding it.
But I know it’s true. I feel it every time he brings me tea, every time he reads to my belly, every time he holds me in the dark and doesn’t ask for anything more than I’m ready to give.
I’m going to tell him soon.
Maybe today. Maybe when the baby comes. Maybe when the terror and joy of new parenthood settles into something like normalcy.
But I’m going to tell him.
The morning passes in its usual routine.
Kenneth mangles breakfast. I pretend it’s edible. We sit together on the couch, his hand on my belly, feeling our daughter move and kick and stretch inside me.
“She’s active today,” he says.
“She’s been active for weeks. I think she’s running out of room in there.”
“Can’t blame her. Must be cramped.”
“Try carrying her for nine months. Then we can compare notes on cramped.”
He laughs, that real laugh that I’ve heard more often lately, and I lean into him, letting myself enjoy this moment. These moments. The simple domesticity I never thought I’d have again.
At noon, it happens.
A cramp. Low and sharp, different from the Braxton Hicks that sent us racing to the hospital weeks ago. This feels deeper. More purposeful.
I freeze.
“Bea?” Kenneth’s voice is instantly alert. “What is it?”
“I think-” Another cramp. Stronger. A pressure building in my pelvis. “I think it’s time.”
“Time? Time for what?”
I would laugh if I could breathe properly. “The baby, Kenneth. I think she’s coming.”
The drive to the hospital is calmer than last time.
Or maybe it just feels that way because I’m too focused on the contractions to notice anything else. They come in waves, each one stronger than the last, each one telling me that my daughter has decided she’s ready to meet the world.
Kenneth drives fast but controlled, one hand on the wheel and one on my knee, squeezing in rhythm with my breathing exercises.
“You’re doing great,” he says. “We’re almost there.”
“I’m not doing anything yet.” I grip the door handle as another contraction hits. “This is just the warm-up.”
“Some warm-up.”
“Wait until the main event.”
He doesn’t laugh at that. His jaw is tight, his eyes fixed on the road, and I realize with a jolt that he’s terrified. Not of the traffic or the hospital or even the birth itself. He’s terrified of losing us. Of something going wrong. Of being helpless in the face of nature doing what nature does.
“We’re going to be fine,” I tell him between contractions. “All three of us.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
He glances at me, and I see the fear naked in his eyes. “I’m trying to.”
“That’s enough.” I take his hand. “That’s more than enough.”
Labor is brutal.
I knew it would be. I’ve delivered babies, watched countless women go through this process, held their hands and told them they were doing amazing. But knowing something intellectually and experiencing it in your own body are two very different things.
Fourteen hours.
Fourteen hours of contractions that steal my breath and leave me gasping.
Fourteen hours of walking the halls and bouncing on a ball and trying every position the nurses suggest. Fourteen hours of Kenneth beside me, never leaving, never wavering, even when I yell at him for things that aren’t his fault.
“I hate you,” I snarl during a particularly brutal contraction. “This is your fault.”
“I know.”
“If you ever touch me again-”
“I won’t. I understand.”
“I don’t mean that.”
“I know that too.”
He wipes my forehead with a cool cloth. Holds my hand when I need something to grip. Tells me I’m strong, I’m brave, I’m almost there.
At hour ten, I’m convinced I can’t do this.
“I can’t.” The words come out broken, desperate. “Kenneth, I can’t. I’m too tired. I can’t push anymore.”
“You can.” He cups my face in his hands, forcing me to meet his eyes. “Bea, look at me. You can do anything.”
“I can’t-”
“You survived worse than this.” His voice is fierce, certain. “You survived me. You survived that dinner. You survived months of rebuilding yourself from nothing. You can do this.”
I want to argue. I want to tell him that childbirth and heartbreak are different kinds of pain, that knowing you’re strong doesn’t make you feel strong when your body is trying to turn itself inside out.
But he’s looking at me with such absolute faith that I find myself believing him.
I push.
Hour fourteen.
The doctor says I’m almost there. One more push. Maybe two. My daughter is crowning, ready to enter the world.
“One more time,” the doctor says. “Give me everything you’ve got.”
Kenneth is beside me, holding my hand, his face pale and terrified and hopeful all at once.
“You’ve got this,” he whispers. “You’ve got this, Bea.”
I push.
Every ounce of strength I have left. Every bit of determination that got me through the past year. Every drop of love I have for the daughter I haven’t met yet but already know with my whole heart.
I push.
And then-
Silence.
The doctor catches the baby. Holds her up.
No sound.
No cry.
Nothing.
The world stops.
Everything narrows to that small, still form in the doctor’s hands.
My daughter. My Eleanor. Not moving. Not breathing. Not making any sound at all.
“Why isn’t she crying?” My voice is high, thin, barely recognizable. “Kenneth, why isn’t she crying?”
He’s gripping my hand so hard it should hurt, but I can’t feel anything except the terror clawing at my chest.
The medical team is moving. Suctioning. Rubbing her back. Doing all the things they’re supposed to do, the things I know from years of medical training, the things that usually work.
But there’s no sound.
No cry.
Just silence, stretching on and on, endless and terrible.
“Please.” I’m sobbing now, my body shaking with exhaustion and fear and something that feels like grief. “Please, please-”
Kenneth’s face is white. His lips are moving, but no sound comes out.
I look at him. At this man who broke me and rebuilt me. Who learned, too late, what mattered. Who has been trying every single day to be the husband and father he should have been from the start.
And I say the only words I can think of.
“You fixed me once.” My voice breaks. “Fix her. Please-”