Chapter Twenty-Four
Elio
Labor begins with a backache. Not the kind I’ve been living with for weeks, the dull constant complaint of an aching spine. This is different. Lower. Deeper. It wraps around from my back to my belly and then lets go. The real clue is that it’s not something I can sleep through.
I get out of bed, trying not to disturb Marcello, and go to the kitchen for some orange juice. What I’m feeling is definitely different, but until I know for sure that I’m in labor, I don’t want to wake Marcello.
It could still be nothing more than Braxton Hicks. I’m not quite ready to say the word “contraction” out loud just yet. Saying it makes impending labor real. And even though I can’t wait to have the baby, I’m also terrified. I’ve seen enough birthing videos in the last few months to scare me.
When Marcello appears in the kitchen doorway in boxers and a T-shirt, his hair flat on one side, I feel relieved. I needed him to bounce ideas off of but hated disturbing him. But if he’s here of his own volition, then I don’t have to feel guilty.
“You’re having contractions, right?” He moves closer, his eyes fixed on me intently.
“How did you know?”
He grimaces. “I’m not sure. I just knew. Why didn’t you wake me?”
“I felt bad disturbing your sleep.”
He scowls. “You think I care more about sleep than you having a baby?”
“No, but, I don’t know what the etiquette is. Don’t be mad. This is my first baby, remember?”
His face softens. “I’m not mad. I just want you to remember I’m a part of this. Okay? I want to be woken up, or disturbed as you might say. So how far apart are the contractions?”
“They may not be real contractions.”
“Okay,” he says patiently. “How far apart are the things you’re feeling that may not be contractions?”
“I didn’t officially time them, but if I had to guess, I’d say about eight minutes apart?”
“Let’s see what the doctor says.” He pulls out his phone and calls Dr. Vasquez. I hear her voice on the other end of the phone. She sounds calm.
Another contraction builds while he talks.
This one feels like someone has wrapped a belt around my midsection and is slowly tightening it.
Not sharp, just relentless. When it releases the relief swamps me.
I’m also aware that these are nothing like real contractions.
They’re much gentler. That knowledge does not comfort me.
“She says to wait until they’re five minutes apart or your water breaks,” Marcello says, hanging up. “Then we go to the hospital.”
“Okay, so we wait.”
“Yes.” He nods. “But I’m going to call Anthony and have him on standby. Then I’m calling the hospital to tell them to reserve us a private room. Their best room. I’m also going to wake Mama and my sisters so they can keep you company while I shower.”
“No, don’t wake them—”
“Shhh.” He holds up his hand, jaw set. “There’s no discussing this. We need help. This is a big moment. I’ll see if Carlo is available too.”
Marcello is so different from me. In this moment, my impulse is to curl in a ball and whimper in silence. He starts running contingencies in his head, and calling in reinforcements. This is how the don of the Foschini syndicate handles the onset of labor: like a military operation.
“Marcello.”
“Yes?” He says distractedly, texting on his phone.
“I appreciate you’re taking charge of things.” I smirk. “But I think it’s best if you… uh… put on pants before you… inspect the troops.”
He looks down at his boxers. “Oops. I’ll be right back.”
I salute him, grinning. “Sir, yes, sir.”
****
My water breaks at 8:45 a.m. while I’m sitting on the edge of the tub trying to decide if I should shower. It’s not a dramatic gush. It’s a warm, sudden leak that soaks through my sweatpants.
“Shit. My water just broke.”
Marcello is buttoning his shirt and he glances over. “Really?”
“Seeing as I’m pretty sure I didn’t pee myself, I’m going to say yes?”
His jaw twitches. “Okay, I’ll help you change. Let’s see, the bag is in the car. Anthony is out front, engine running. Dr. Vasquez is already on the way to the hospital per my request and Carlo is on standby in case he’s needed.”
“I see,” I mutter as he helps pull off my wet sweatpants. “But did you alert the coast guard and the air force while you were at it? We might also need the Marines.”
He squints at me. “Don’t mock me, Elio. It’s good to be prepared.”
“There’s prepared and then there’s over-prepared.”
“Ha.” He shakes his head. “That’s not a thing.”
Once I’m in dry pants, we head out to the car. No shower for me. The morning air is chilled against my sweaty, overheated skin and it feels nice. Anthony does indeed have the car running and he hovers as Marcello helps me into the SUV.
The drive to Harbor View Medical takes fourteen minutes.
I know this because Marcello meticulously counts the duration of every contraction.
The contractions are closer now, six minutes apart, and they’ve changed.
The feeling of a belt has been replaced by something else.
It’s now more like a deep grinding pressure low in my pelvis that makes me want to stand up.
I press my forehead against the cool window and Marcello keeps his hand on my thigh.
Anthony pulls up directly in front of the entrance, and Marcello is out of the car before I’ve even managed to get my door open. He comes around, takes my arm, and walks me inside with the overnight bag in his other hand.
The lobby smells like floor cleaner and burnt coffee. The woman behind the front desk looks up, and her expression changes the instant she sees Marcello.
“Mr. Foschini.” Her voice wobbles.
“Labor and delivery,” he says. “Now.”
She’s already on her feet. “Of course.”
Someone appears with a wheelchair almost immediately. I start to protest, but Marcello gives me a look that shuts me up. I haven’t seen that look from him in a long time. It’s very effective. I get into the wheelchair without a peep.
The woman behind the desk is already on the phone, speaking quickly to someone upstairs. Nobody asks Marcello for insurance information. Nobody tells us to take a seat. Within minutes, an orderly is wheeling me toward the elevators while another staff member hurries alongside us.
We’re taken straight to a private room on the fourth floor.
It’s bigger than I expected, but then of course it is.
I’m not just anyone. I’m Marcello Foschini’s omega.
The bed has rails, buttons, and enough equipment attached to it to make me nervous.
A television hangs on the wall, and someone has already set a cup of ice chips on the rolling table beside the bed.
The nurse arrives. She’s maybe fifty, short and compact, with reading glasses on a beaded chain and gray-streaked hair pulled back in a stubby ponytail. Her name tag reads Maureen, and she looks very unimpressed with the entire situation.
“Okay, Dad.” She looks at Marcello. “Don’t touch the monitors. Don’t touch the IV pole. If you feel faint, sit in that chair over there, not the bed. The bed is for my patient. Questions?”
Marcello appears taken aback as he blinks at her. “No.”
“Good. On second thought, why don’t you sit right now? You look a little pale around the gills and I don’t want you passing out and cracking your head open. Go on, sit.” Surprisingly, he obeys. She turns to me. “Now let’s see where we are.”
She checks me with quick, no-nonsense hands and declares me four centimeters dilated. She delivers this information like a weather report. Partly cloudy, four centimeters, chance of baby by evening.
“Only four?” I groan.
“Four is respectable. Some people show up at one and I have to send them home crying. You’re ahead of the curve.” She hooks up the fetal monitor and the room fills with the rapid thud of the baby’s heartbeat. “That sounds beautiful. Baby’s happy in there.”
“Baby might be happy,” I grumble. “I’m less enthused.”
She pats my arm. “You’ll be fine. I’ve delivered over a thousand babies and I can tell you, the ones who complain the most always do the best.”
“Then I’m going to be spectacular.”
“That’s the spirit.” She looks at Marcello, who hasn’t moved from the spot where she planted him. “Dad, you can relax. This is the boring part. Many hours to go.”
He meets my gaze and gives me a weak smile.
Dr. Vasquez arrives. “You boys ready to meet your baby?”
“Yes,” I say enthusiastically. “But it’s going to be a while, right?”
“Probably. First babies sometimes take the longest.” As she speaks she checks the monitors, checks me, confirms four centimeters. “Labor takes as long as it takes. You should try to rest between contractions.”
Maureen nods. “True. These contractions are child’s play. You ain’t seen nothing yet.”
I swallow loudly. “Yay?”
Maureen and Dr. Vasquez laugh.
The idea of resting between contractions is the real joke. Each one gets progressively more painful. It starts with a slow, unrelenting squeeze that starts in my lower back and migrates forward, wrapping around like two hands pressing inward.
Marcello sits beside me. Between contractions he feeds me ice chips and rubs my lower back, but doesn’t say anything.
He’s not one to offer useless platitudes which I appreciate right now.
I feel irritable. I don’t want to hear how everything is great.
It doesn’t feel great, and I like that he’s not pretending it should.
He’s just there beside me. Solid. Steady.
When a contraction hits he lets me grab his hand and squeeze until his knuckles go white. He doesn’t even flinch.
At noon I’m at six centimeters. At 2:00 p.m. I’m at seven.
The contractions are three minutes apart now and each one is a production.
A tightening that builds for thirty seconds, holds for another thirty, and then releases.
During one of the worst contractions, I make a low, guttural noise and Maureen looks up from her charts.
“There you go. We’re getting somewhere now, Elio.” She nods her approval. “Let your body do its job.”
“I don’t think I have any choice.”