Chapter 27 #2
"For however many seconds, the entire world saw me on a shower curtain, legs splayed, umbilical cord hanging out, bloody and exposed.
A billion people, Hamish. Shannon accidentally flashed a fire crew when she gave birth in that elevator, and I have held that over her for years as the most embarrassing birth story I've ever heard, and now mine is internationally worse.
Mine is translated-into-forty-one-languages worse. "
"Ye looked beautiful. I saw an angelic glow."
"That was my blowfish labia."
He winces.
"I looked like a woman expelling a human from her body surrounded by discount diaper packs while wearing a stained sports bra I bought at Target in 2019. There is nothing beautiful about it."
"Everythin' is beautiful about it."
I stare at him. He stares back. He means it. The man means every word.
"I hate you," I say.
"Ye love me."
"I do."
My phone rings. It's Jody Previte. Hamish hesitates, but I accept the call.
"Amy! Hamish! Congratulations. The baby is gorgeous. I'm crying. My wife is crying. My dog is crying." A pause. "Now. Business."
"Already?" Hamish says.
"The broadcast reached over a billion viewers.
Every record obliterated. The clip is the most-viewed segment in British television history.
Translated into forty-one languages. There's a petition with eight million signatures demanding Malcolm Rees be fired, and he's currently in an undisclosed location under security protection.
Someone sent a funeral wreath to his office. "
"It's his own damn fault," I say.
From the hallway, Fiona's voice: "Aye, and if I ever see that wee jobby of a man, I'll rip his bawbag clean off and stuff it in his geggie 'til he chokes on his own bollocks. He's a—what did Amy call me? An asswaffle twatclown."
Silence on the line.
That's not quite what I called her, but I don't say a word.
"Was that your mother?" Jody asks.
"Aye."
"Remind me never to get on her bad side. Anyhow - here's the deal: Str1kecast wants Hamish back. Immediately. Malcolm is out, fired, effective today. They're saying name your terms."
Hamish looks at me. I look at him.
"Go for the throat," Hamish says. "Get me the biggest deal in network history. I want a schedule I choose, one that keeps me home for the birth of every subsequent child—"
"SUBSEQUENT CHILD? I can't think about that right now," I interject.
Hamish flashes me that thousand-watt smile.
"—a morality clause that applies to producers as well as talent, and a public apology from Str1kecast leadership on air."
"With pleasure. One more thing. The resort campaign for Anterdec. James has already called me twice."
I take a bite of a chocolate maple cream from one of the boxes stacked on my tray. Denise slipped me a note that says, The break table is full and half the nursing staff is on Ozempic right now. The next shift can take whatever you want off your hands.
"Tell James we'll do the campaign," I say.
"Hamish owes him for the helicopter and the jet.
We both do. I'll give James that - he really came through for us when it mattered most, and that's what family does.
And I owe him for—" I stop and swallow the chocolate.
"Actually. Speaking of things my husband announced on live television without consulting anyone. "
"The VP thing." Hamish has the decency to look sheepish.
"The VP thing." I turn to him. "You promoted me to vice president at Anterdec Holdings in front of over a billion people. Without asking me. Or James. Or HR, legal, the board of directors, or any human being with the authority to authorize a promotion."
"Aye."
"On live television."
"Aye."
"While I was lying on the floor holding a newborn, with the umbilical cord still attached."
"I thought it was a nice push present."
"A push present is jewelry. Or a spa day. A push present is not a C-suite promotion at a Fortune 500 company announced unilaterally during a nervous breakdown on Str1kecast Sports."
Hamish grins. The full one. The devastating, dimpled, redheaded one that got me pregnant in the first place.
"But ye're not saying no."
I eat another chocolate.
"I'm saying it's the most audacious thing you've ever done, other than marrying me and knocking me up on our honeymoon."
"And look how that turned out." He pats the baby's back.
"So that's a yes on the resort campaign and a yes on the VP title?" Jody asks. "Not that I have any input on the VP thing, but we can spin it from a PR standpoint related to Hamish."
"It's a yes on both," I say. "Effective when I return from my one-year, fully paid maternity leave."
"James called the leave stunt 'the cheapest television ad buy in corporate history' and then asked if Hamish could hold the baby near a branded beach towel. I hung up on him."
"Good man, Jody."
He ends the call. Hamish looks at me. I look at him.
We look at our son, who has slept through the demolition and reconstruction of our careers.
He is eight hours old. His priorities are milk, warmth, and sleep, which is a more rational approach to life than anything either of us has managed in the last eight months.
The hallway quiets. Fiona and Mom have reached a ceasefire born of grandmaternal joy. Hamish hasn't put the baby down since he arrived. He shifts him gently, adjusting the swaddle, and then a movement by the doorway makes him look up.
His da is standing there.
Fergus McCormick, in the corduroy jacket he's worn to every significant family event since 1989, holding a paper cup of hospital coffee with a drip stain down one side. Quiet and proud, not saying a word. Being here is enough.
"Da," Hamish says. "Ye named me after Mum's da. But would ye mind if we dinna name him Fergus?"
Fergus takes a sip of his coffee.
"I dinna care what ye name him, son. I've never liked the name Fergus. It sounds like a sneeze." He takes another sip. "Whatever ye do, ye'll call him McCormick, so..."
From the hallway, Fiona's voice: "Call-um? Didja say Callum McCormick? Tha's a fine name!"
I start to correct her, tell her Fergus said "call him," not "Callum," but the mistake fades as the name rolls around in my mind, taking a tour, checking the scenery.
Callum.
I look at Hamish. Hamish looks at me. The name hangs between us like something that was always there, waiting to be found.
Then Dad walks in.
Dad taught me to ride a bike and balance a checkbook and never, ever let anyone tell me I wasn't smart enough.
He's holding a cup of coffee too—he and Fergus have clearly been in the cafeteria together, bonding over grandfatherhood—and his eyes go straight to the baby.
His face is blank, which happens when he feels something too big for words.
His chin trembles. He blinks three times fast.
"Dad. Fergus. Come meet your grandson."
Fergus defers to Dad, who moves beside the bed. He puts his hand on Hamish's shoulder and looks at the baby, and his mouth opens but nothing comes out. Dad touches my shoulder, eyes wet.
"How about Callum Jason Fergus McCormick?" Hamish says.
Dad's chin trembles again. He takes off his glasses, puts them back on, takes them off again.
"That's—" His voice catches. "That's a lot of name for such a tiny person."
"He'll grow into it," I say.
"Aye," Fergus says, raising his paper cup. "McCormicks always do."
But instead of taking the baby, Dad stops, looks at Fergus, and gestures to him.
"I've held three grandchildren, Fergus. This one's your first. Be my guest."
Hamish stands carefully, his knee working fine, and the tender transition of Callum from one man's arms to another releases something in me. I relax and let the flood of love just... flow.
Tears pool in Fergus's eyes as he cradles his first grandchild, his finger tracing Callum's hairline, bopping his wee nose.
"Oh, I'd forgotten how sweet they smell, Hamish. We had eight o' ye and ye all had a scent, and Callum has his own, but I can smell a bit o' ye in him, too. Ye're a da now, son. Welcome ta the club. It's a fine place ta be."
And my big, strong Hamish lets out a deep sob and hugs his father and his son, three generations bound by fierce attachment and unwavering love.
Then the room gets crowded.
Shannon comes first, already crying, pulling Declan behind her by the wrist. Carol follows, holding a stuffed bear that is mercifully normal-sized.
Andrew and Amanda arrive together, Amanda's hand resting on the curve of her belly—she's showing now, four months along.
The sight of her sends a ripple of joy through the room that's separate from ours, and yet very much connected.
Mom steps in from the hallway with Fiona, walking shoulder to shoulder, ceasefire holding, united in the only cause strong enough to end their rivalry: a grandchild.
The room is too small. It was designed for two parents and maybe three visitors, and it now holds eleven adults, one baby, stacks of chocolates, and two plush animals. The noise level rises from murmur to chatter to the full, chaotic, overlapping roar of a family that does nothing quietly.
Including love each other.