Series: Like Us Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 177
Estimated words: 174544 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 873(@200wpm)___ 698(@250wpm)___ 582(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 174544 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 873(@200wpm)___ 698(@250wpm)___ 582(@300wpm)
“I…you’re coming in…clear,” Akara responds.
Thank fucking God.
I don’t jostle the radio in case it messes the signal. “Get Farrow on the line. Jane’s going into labor, and I need some instructions. I have no cell service, and I can barely hear you.” Where’s Web MD when you need it most?
Akara tells everyone else to stay off comms, leaving the channel open for Farrow.
“Here,” Farrow says, a little crackly but audible. “How far apart are her contractions?”
“I think every minute or so.” I peer back underneath her skirt. Oh shit. I speak softly into the mic. “I can see the start of a head.” My stomach knots, and I almost think of asking Farrow about maternal mortality rates. Like what are the odds of everything going okay with me delivering a garden baby. But I’m not about to ask those questions in front of Jane.
I can’t bring myself to let them into the air.
“Jane needs to push, now,” Farrow says. Just like that all ill thoughts drive away. I’m focused in.
I touch her knee. “It’s time to push, Jane.”
She’s crying again and muttering, no, no, no, then intakes a sharp breath. “I don’t want to do this without him. I don’t want to.” She wants her husband. She wants Thatcher, and she’s sobbing. My heart splits open because I know I’m not a good stand-in for the love of her life.
I wouldn’t want this either.
In my mic, I say, “Farrow, give me a run-down of what to do as fast as you can.” He does. I listen. It’s scaring the fuck outta me, really, because he adds, in case this happens, you need to do this—and I’m hoping and praying she won’t land in a worst case scenario. “Alright. Now get Thatcher on the line.”
Thatcher is in my ear in a millisecond. “Donnelly—”
“You’re gonna talk to your wife through comms. I won’t be able to hear you, but she can.” So carefully and quickly, I detach the radio and pry out my earpiece. I tell Jane, “You won’t be able to respond to him, but Thatcher is gonna walk you through this. He’s right here.”
Jane sniffs, then shuts her eyes, battling another contraction. I reach over her and nestle the earpiece into her ear, then lie the radio beside her.
Please tell me the signal is still clear. “Can you hear him?” I ask Jane.
She nods, her body easing like her husband is a morphine drip. Before I draw back, she catches my hand to squeeze it in appreciation. Relief spills tears out of the corner of her eyes. “Thank you.”
Don’t thank me yet. I push fabric of her peachy tulle skirt out of the way. “You’ve gotta push, Jane.” I peel off my black T-shirt hurriedly, and with Thatcher in her ear, she begins to push.
Gritting down on her teeth again, her scream this time is one of full-blown strength and anguish.
I tune out the sound and focus on the baby.
“Almost there, one more push,” I tell Jane, cupping the baby’s shoulders, and as Jane pushes, I ease this fragile being out into the world. My pulse is racing again. ‘Cause she’s covered in membranes and I hear nothing but Jane’s exhausted pants.
“Is she okay?” Jane asks, her voice pitching. “She’s not crying. Donnelly?”
Please cry. Cradling her baby girl in my arms, I rub my fingers along her nose to ease out mucus and I warm her back with my shirt. This is what Farrow instructed in the event the umbilical cord wrapped around her neck, but the cord isn’t cutting off her oxygen. Still, she’s not breathing.
And she kind of looks like an alien. And I wonder if Luna might have done a better job.
I wonder if I wasn’t the right person for this at all.
My throat swells.
Please. Please. Please.
I know some people think I’m this toxic thing, infecting everything I touch. But I can’t be the reason this baby doesn’t take her first breath.
I can’t.
I can’t.
“Donnelly,” Jane starts sitting up more.
Another swipe along her nose, and the baby suddenly stretches an arm and cries out to the world. It pummels me backward, and I let out a strained exhale. All the tension I’d been caging rushes out of me. Jane breaks into happier, more overwhelmed tears.
As I place the newborn in Jane’s arms, the waterworks hit me too, seeing Jane embrace her baby, kiss her soft cheek, instantly love her. Life is strange and beautiful, and moments like these, I’m grateful to be alive.
I help Jane take off her sweater so the baby can lie on her chest, skin-to-skin. Without pulling the earpiece out of Jane’s ear, I click the mic and say, “Congratulations, Papa Moretti. You’ve got a beautiful baby girl.” I lower the mic to the newborn who lets out softer cries.
Thatcher can hear his daughter.
Jane laughs into more tears. When I release the mic, Thatcher can respond back. After their moment together, Jane sniffs and tells me, “They’re asking for you.”