30. Logan
— ? —
Logan
The drive to the hospital takes twenty-three minutes.
I know because I’m timing it on the stopwatch I’ve been carrying in my pocket for two weeks, the one I bought specifically for this moment despite Fran’s repeated assurances that labor timing doesn’t actually require military precision.
“You’re doing the thing,” she says from the passenger seat, gripping the door handle as another contraction hits.
“What thing?”
“The obsessive timing thing.”
“I’m monitoring the situation.”
“You’re annoying me is what you’re doing.” But she’s almost smiling, and I’ll take annoyance over panic any day.
Behind us, a caravan is forming. Theo’s car, with Bree and Rafael and the kids.
Junie’s truck, with some of the wedding guests who apparently decided a hospital waiting room was better entertainment than leftover cake.
The whole procession probably looks insane from the outside, a wedding party following an emergency vehicle, except we’re not an emergency vehicle, we’re just a guy in a suit driving his wife to give birth.
“Contraction?” I ask as Fran’s breathing changes.
“Obviously.”
“Timing?”
“About four minutes since the last one.”
“That’s consistent with early active labor.” I’ve read so many books. I’ve memorized charts. I’ve watched videos that will haunt me for the rest of my life. “We should be fine. Plenty of time.”
“Thank you for the medical assessment, Doctor Davis.”
“I’m trying to be helpful.”
“You’re trying to manage your anxiety by drowning me in information I already know.” She reaches over and squeezes my hand. “I appreciate it. But also, please shut up.”
I shut up.
The hospital is ready for us, Bree’s phone call ahead of time means there’s a wheelchair waiting at the entrance, a nurse who greets us by name, a room already prepared.
“Mrs. Davis,” the nurse says as she helps Fran into the wheelchair. “I hear you decided to skip the wedding cake and go straight to the baby.”
“The cake was mediocre anyway,” Fran says.
“It was not mediocre,” I protest. “I picked that cake myself.”
“You have mediocre taste in cake.”
“I have excellent taste in wives, which should count for something.”
The nurse laughs and wheels Fran toward the labor and delivery wing, and I follow with the overnight bag I’ve had packed for three weeks, actually packed, not just assembled, with everything organized by category and labeled with color-coded tabs.
“You color-coded the hospital bag,” Fran observed when I showed her.
“I wanted to be able to find things quickly,” I said.
“You’re going to be insufferable during the actual birth, aren’t you.” She said it fondly, which took most of the sting out.
“I prefer ‘prepared,’” I told her.
“Insufferable.” She kissed my cheek to soften it.
The labor room is larger than I expected, with enough space for the medical equipment and a bed and a small couch against the wall where I’ll presumably be positioned when I’m not being useful.
Fran changes into a hospital gown with the nurse’s help while I stand awkwardly by the window, trying not to get in the way.
“The doctor will be in shortly to check your progress,” the nurse says. “In the meantime, try to relax. Walk around if you feel like it. The early hours can be slow.”
“Slow is fine,” Fran says. “Slow gives me time to mentally prepare for the part where a human exits my body.”
“You’ve done all the prenatal classes. You know what to expect.”
“I know what the classes said to expect. That’s different from actually experiencing it.”
The nurse pats her hand. “You’ll do great. Most first-time moms are terrified. The fact that you’re making jokes means you’re already ahead of the curve.”
She leaves, and it’s just us, me and Fran and the beeping machines and the weight of everything that’s about to happen.
“Hey,” Fran says.
“Hey.”
“Come here.”
I cross to the bed and sit on the edge, taking her hand. Her fingers are cold, which tells me she’s more nervous than she’s letting on.
“We’re going to meet our daughter today,” she says.
“We are.” I squeeze her hand.
“That’s completely terrifying,” she says.
“Terrifying and inevitable,” I agree, “which is somehow worse.”
“But also kind of amazing?” She says it like a question, like she needs me to confirm it’s allowed to be both.
“Definitely amazing.” I bring her hand to my lips. “Whatever happens - whatever the next few hours look like - I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
“I know.” She squeezes my fingers. “You’ve been practicing.”
“I’ve been preparing for this my whole life. I just didn’t know it until I met you.”
The first few hours are exactly what the books described: slow, uncomfortable, full of waiting.
Fran walks laps around the room when she can, leaning on me during contractions, making increasingly creative complaints about the hospital gown and the beeping monitors and the general indignity of the entire process.
“I thought labor was supposed to be dramatic,” she says during a quiet stretch. “Water breaking at weddings. Frantic drives to the hospital. Why is it so boring?”
“Your body is doing incredibly complex work,” I offer. “It just doesn’t look exciting from the outside.”
“It doesn’t feel exciting from the inside either.” She shifts against the pillows. “It feels like really intense period cramps with occasional panic.”
“The panic is normal,” I say.
“The panic is annoying.” She glares at a contraction like it’s personally insulted her.
Theo pokes his head in around hour three. “How’s it going?”
“Your brother is being insufferable,” Fran says.
“Standard state of being for him,” Theo agrees. “The waiting room is filling up. Junie brought snacks. Bree is trying to keep Rosie from pressing all the buttons on the vending machine.”
“Tell them it might be a while.”
“I’ll tell them. But you know how those grandmas are. They’re settling in for the long haul.”
He disappears, and Fran laughs despite herself. “The grandmas came?”
“Apparently half of Marigold is in the waiting room.” I shake my head. “I didn’t invite them. They just… appeared.”
“That’s how they operate. Like a very supportive swarm.”
Hour five brings real progress.
The doctor, a calm woman named Dr. Patel who radiates the kind of competence that makes you feel like everything will be fine, checks Fran and declares her “well on her way.”
“You’re dilated to seven centimeters,” she says. “Things should start moving faster now. How are you feeling about pain management?”
“I want to try without an epidural as long as I can.” Fran’s voice is strained. “But I reserve the right to change my mind at any moment.”
“That’s completely your choice. We’re here to support whatever you decide.”
The contractions are coming faster now, three minutes apart, then two and a half. Fran grips my hand with a strength I didn’t know she possessed, her face twisting with each wave.
“Breathe,” I remind her. “In through your nose, out through your mouth.”
“I know how to breathe,” she informs me through gritted teeth.
“Just reminding you,” I say.
“I don’t need reminding.”
“Okay.” I hold up my free hand in surrender.
“Shut up.”
“Shutting up.” I press my lips together and mean it for approximately four seconds.
But she doesn’t let go of my hand, and when the contraction passes, she looks at me with something that might be gratitude or might just be exhaustion.
“You’re doing great,” I say.
“I’m doing terrible. I’m sweating and crying and probably making sounds that will haunt you for the rest of your life.”
“You’re bringing our daughter into the world. That’s the opposite of terrible.”
Another contraction hits, and she squeezes so hard I’m pretty sure something in my hand pops.
Hour seven. Almost there.
Dr. Patel is back, flanked by nurses, the energy in the room shifting from waiting to action.
“You’re at ten centimeters,” she says. “Baby’s in position. On the next contraction, I want you to push.”
Fran nods, her face pale but determined. I’m standing beside her, holding her hand, feeling more useless and more essential than I’ve ever felt in my life.
“Remember,” Dr. Patel says, “you’re in control here. Push when your body tells you to, rest when you need to.”
“Okay.” Fran’s voice is small. “Okay, I can do this.”
“You can absolutely do this.”
The next contraction comes, and Fran pushes.
It’s nothing like the movies, no screaming, no chaos, just intense focused effort and the sound of Dr. Patel giving calm instructions. I watch my wife work harder than I’ve ever seen anyone work at anything, her whole body committed to bringing our daughter into the world.
“You’re doing amazing,” I say, because it’s the only thing I can say.
“Stop narrating,” she grits out between pushes.
“Sorry.”
“Keep holding my hand.”
“I’m not letting go.”
Time loses meaning after that.
Push, rest, push, rest, the rhythm of it, the intensity, the way Fran’s grip on my hand never loosens even when she must be exhausted beyond measure.
And then, suddenly, a cry.
Not Fran’s cry, a smaller cry, higher, the unmistakable sound of a newborn announcing her arrival.
“There she is,” Dr. Patel says, and there’s warmth in her voice. “Dad, would you like to cut the cord?”
I look at Fran, who nods, tears streaming down her face. My own eyes are blurring as I take the scissors from the nurse, as I cut the cord that connected my daughter to her mother, as I watch them place her on Fran’s chest, red and squalling and absolutely perfect.
“Hi,” Fran whispers to the baby. “Hi, sweetheart. We’ve been waiting for you.”
The baby’s cries quiet as she settles against her mother’s skin. I stand there frozen, watching them, this woman I love and this tiny person we made together.
“Logan.” Fran’s voice is thick with emotion. “Come meet your daughter.”
I move closer, my hand trembling as I reach out to touch the baby’s back. Her skin is soft, impossibly soft, and she’s so small, and I built furniture for this person, read every book the store had for this person, and none of it prepared me for the reality of her.
“She’s perfect,” I manage.
“She looks like you.”
“She looks like a baby.”