Author: Robyn Carr
She smiled prettily into his eyes. “You know I wouldn’t trade this for anything.”
“It’s the greatest thing anyone has ever done for me,” he said. “I love you so much.” He came around the bar, fishing his keys out of his pocket. He walked her out onto the porch. She took a deep breath. “Smell that air? Don’t you love the smell of rain? It’s going to bring us flowers.”
He kissed the top of her head. “I’ll see you in a few hours. See if you can get some sleep. I know you don’t sleep through the night.”
She gave him a pat on the butt and went down the porch stairs to his truck. She waved as she cut a wide U-turn and drove out of town. Her back started to really throb as the wind along the road picked up steam and was blowing hard, whipping the branches wildly against the truck. Then there were several bright flashes of lightning and the rain pelted the windshield with gale force. She was within a quarter mile of the cabin when a sharp pain ripped across the front of her abdomen, and when she pressed her hand there she felt the rock-hard tightening of her uterus and she thought, shit! You dummy! Who let you be a midwife? You’re in labor! Back labor! All day long! And some of yesterday, too!
Right in front of her in the road lay a pine, obviously cut down by a lightning strike, and she was too late to stop. Swerving, she at least didn’t hit it head-on, but she ran the left front bumper into it and caused the right front wheel of the truck to veer off the shoulder.
Distracted by the contraction, she’d almost had an accident. Make that, worse accident. At least the air bag hadn’t deployed—that could’ve been bad, given her advanced pregnancy. She’d go back to Jack; go to the hospital.
She put the truck in Reverse and the tires spun. She tried again and again, rocking the truck. And now, she thought, I have made a real mess of things. Why didn’t I stay at the bar ten more minutes? Time enough for this first really good contraction to kick in!
She had no option but to walk the rest of the way to the cabin and call Jack. It wasn’t far; she wasn’t going to drop this little acrobat on the ground. But, she thought, I am going to be very, very wet. And I’m having a baby a little sooner than I thought.
Seventeen
Mel had to climb over the thick trunk of the tree, heavy with branches, which was a challenge, belly and all. She had her medical bag, the collar of her coat pulled up high. It was necessary to lean into the wind, bending a bit as she pushed forward. She hadn’t gone far when another contraction seized her. Whoa, she thought—the last one wasn’t long ago. But—first baby—there was lots of time. She was no doubt going to labor for hours, then have to push for more than an hour. Don’t panic—there’s plenty of time. But she hated the thought of trying to get back to a vehicle over that tree trunk. Well, she thought, he’ll just have to carry me. Good that I picked me a big, strong man!
On the porch of her cabin, it happened again. Another contraction. She counted—it was nice and long. Little doubt—this was it.
When she got inside, she went immediately to the phone before taking off her boots or coat. She lifted the cordless and punched some numbers, then listened. No ring went through. She disconnected and listened. No dial tone. Oh, crap, she thought.
Now it would be okay to cry, she told herself. She started to snivel a little bit, trying to calculate in her mind where she might be in her labor in a few hours, when it finally occurred to Jack to hitch a ride home. She flicked the light switch. Nothing. Okay, it was definitely okay to cry, she thought. No electricity, no phone, no doctor, only one idiot midwife on the premises. And baby coming. Coming.
Mel sat down at her kitchen table, her hand on her abdomen, and tried to collect herself. She took several deep, calming breaths. There was nothing to do but get ready, in case the baby came at home. She was dripping wet from the rain. She’d attempt to check her dilation, which could be a challenge, given the big bulge in the way. But first, she’d find a way to protect her mattress, gather some towels and blankets, basin or pan, medical bag by the bed. She’d take a quick shower—if she could get her boots off. That always proved harder than she thought, and before she had the second one off, the next contraction came.
She found a couple of plastic trash bags. She stripped off the bottom sheet on the bed and spread them across the mattress. Over the plastic, she smoothed out a couple of towels, then replaced the fitted sheet. A couple more towels on top of the sheet. She pulled extra pillows out of the closet to prop herself up. She gathered up the candles from the kitchen, living room, bedroom and set them up on her dresser and bedside table. Oh, she hoped she didn’t have to deliver herself by candlelight. In the middle of all this, she was hit again—big one. She had to sit on the edge of the bed for a few moments to get through it. Then she got the baby blankets and more towels and put them by the bed.
Finally set up, she headed for the shower. She started the water so it would get hot, stripped off her wet clothes, kicking them aside, washed her hands thoroughly and waited rather impatiently for another contraction to come and go. When it had, she squatted, legs apart. She held on to the bathroom sink with one hand to keep balance. Slipping one hand under her belly, she slid her fingers into her birth canal, reaching. This was the best she could do. She pushed gently, reaching. This was a damn difficult maneuver. One, two, three fingers and some room—God. Already seven-plus—she was cooked. She knew at that moment, she wasn’t going anywhere.
She pulled out her hand and with it came a gush of amniotic fluid, spilling between her legs onto the floor.
Okay. No shower.
She tossed some towels onto the floor to sop up the spill, then tried to dry herself off. If she were attending someone else in birth, she’d have the mother walking, squatting, rocking her hips side to side, using gravity to assist that baby downward and out—but this was a different ball game. She wanted some company—at least Jack, and preferably John Stone or Doc.
Her flannel granny gown would be a poor choice for a labor garment, so she chose one of Jack’s oversize T-shirts. She pulled the shirt up around her breasts, got into bed atop a couple of thick, soft terry towels, covered her belly with the sheet and hoped to keep back the labor for a while. Long enough for someone to see that truck up against the tree; long enough for someone to try phoning her and discover the lines were down.
She pulled the fetoscope out of her bag and listened, very gratefully, to the baby’s strong and regular heartbeat.
Thank God Jack was a worry wart. It might come in handy for once. She felt another contraction and looked at her watch. Two minutes long. She waited—less than three minutes later, another, and with every one, more amniotic fluid was being pushed out. Another couple of minutes—oh, Jesus, this boy was going to come barreling out of her.
Jack tried to call Mel, just to be sure she made it back to the cabin without incident, because the storm had really picked up right after she left. But there was no answer. Maybe it took her a little longer—given the rain. He tried again ten minutes later, but there was still no answer.
“She pick up yet?” Rick asked.
“Not yet. She said she wanted to go home and take a shower, get into bed. She’s probably in the shower.”
It was nearing the dinner hour and there were a couple of people in the bar. Jack brought them drinks, then went back to the phone. No answer.
“Could she have turned the phone off?” Preacher asked him.
“Probably. To keep me from calling her every ten minutes to ask her how she’s doing.”
Paige was getting rolls ready to put in the oven. She laughed at him. “Jack, she’d call you if she needed you.”
“I know,” he said. But he dialed. Nothing.
A little while later he was pacing. “You think she could be sleeping through the phone ringing?” Preacher asked.
“I’d be surprised if she actually slept,” Jack said. “Her back is killing her.”
“I hope she isn’t having back labor,” Paige said rather absently. “I had a lot of that with Christopher. It’s awful.”
“She’d know if she was in labor,” Jack said.
“Yeah, I suppose. But I didn’t,” Paige said. “Not until it moved around to the front, and by then I was pretty far dilated.”
Jack threw a look at Preacher, at Rick—a stricken look. How long ago had she left? A half hour? Hour?
“Okay, we’re outta here,” Jack said. “Come on, Rick, let’s do it.”
“It’ll be okay, Jack,” Paige said.
“I know,” he said, but as he said it, he was rushing for his coat and flying out the back door, Rick on his heels. Jack went to the driver’s side of Rick’s little truck, because he couldn’t ride. He was too wound up, too worried. Rick went along with this, knowing better than to argue with the guy now. He tossed him the keys and Jack started the truck, threw it into gear and tore out of town before Rick’s door was closed.
It was a long ten minutes to the cabin, and through it all Rick kept trying to talk him down. “She knows what she’s doing,” he said. “You don’t have to worry about Mel—she’d call.” Jack said nothing. He flew down the road, taking those sharp turns real tight and fast. Rick felt his own panic rising, after what he’d just been through. He tried not to let it show. “You know everything is going to be—”
Rick was cut off midsentence as Jack screeched to a stop behind his own truck, the left front of which was rammed into a fallen tree. “God,” he said, jumping out of Rick’s little truck and running to his own. “Mel!” he yelled, opening the driver’s door. Finding the cab empty, he looked for blood, for her bag. Neither was evident, so he took off at a dead run, bounding over the huge tree and racing toward the cabin.
He blew into the house and slipped on the wood floor, nearly falling on his ass, his boots and clothes dripping wet from the rain and muck. “Mel!” he called.
“Jack,” she called back, her voice small and strained.
He saw a soft glow coming from the bedroom and went toward it. She was propped against the pillows in the bed, sheet drawn over her.
“It’s happening,” she said.
He rushed to her side and knelt. “I’ll take you now. Take you to the hospital.”
“Too late,” she said. “I can’t take the ride now—I’m too far into this. But you can get John, see if he can come….” She grunted against a contraction, grabbing Jack’s hand. “Phone’s out,” she said. “Go back to town, call John, tell him my water broke and I’m at eight. Can you remember that?”
“Got it.” He ran back to Rick and repeated the message, and then the boy was gone. Jack ran back to Mel and took her hand. “Tell me what to do,” he said.
The contraction passed and she let out her breath. “Okay. Okay, listen to me. Mop up your mess before you kill yourself slipping in a puddle, get some dry clothes on, see if you can get a little more light in here and then we’ll see where we are. It’s going to be a while. Maybe John will make it. Whew,” she said, leaning back. “I don’t know when I’ve ever been happier to see you.”
Her face took on a look of pain and she began to breathe, short and shallow, panting, while he stood looking down at her, helpless. When she recovered, she said, “Jack, do what I told you to do.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Right.”
He started by going for a towel in the bathroom to wipe up the puddles he’d dragged in and there he found her clothes, hastily discarded, panties a little bloody, and wet towels left in a pile on the floor. He kicked everything aside, clearing a path in the bathroom. He opted for the kitchen mop, cleaning up the trail of water that went from the front door to the bedroom. He left his boots by the front door. Hurrying, he pulled off his jeans and shirt, adding them to the pile of wet towels and clothes, put on fresh, dry clothes and socks, and went again to her bedside.
