MirrorWorld

“You’re okay,” I say, bicep-deep in water, supporting my wife’s weight. “Just breathe. Take it easy.”


The midwife, Deb Fairhurst, standing on the other side of the birthing tub, stares at me, incredulous. I can see the question in her eyes. How can you be so calm? Despite having aided in hundreds of births, Fairhurst is amped. She’s doing an admirable job of forcing calm into her voice, speaking slow, soothing words into Maya’s ears while monitoring her vitals, which is harder now that Maya decided to get in the tub. But there are subtle cues revealing the tension she’s hiding. She’s sweating. Her forehead is locked in place, wrinkles unmoving. I wonder if, when she’s older, her heavily wrinkled forehead will be a reminder of all the children she helped deliver, or if they’ll just be unwanted lines? Her movements have become sharp and quick when she’s out of eyeshot of Maya.

I flash Fairhurst a calm smile. Her forehead flattens a bit and she grins back, shaking her head. She’ll ask how I stay calm later. It’s the number one question I get asked. For now, there is a baby about to be born.

Maya crushes her nails into my shoulder, drawing the first noncalm expression from my face. If she’s trying to share the pain of childbirth, she’s doing an admirable job, though I’m sure it’s nothing compared to what she’s enduring, so I keep this thought to myself.

“Breathe, baby,” I say. “Move beyond the pain. Control it.”

“And push,” Fairhurst says.

From my position behind Maya, I can’t see what’s happening, but Fairhurst’s attention is suddenly more on the water than on Maya. In a moment, she’ll have two patients to care for.

“Good,” Fairhurst says. She’s grinning now. “Just one more push and we’ll be done.”

As the contraction ends, Maya releases my arm, then taps it several times. I lean down to her.

“Go,” she says.

“You want me to leave?”

“Go.” She waggles a finger toward the tub beyond her basketball belly. “Watch.”

That she’s thinking of me in this moment of pain, not wanting me to miss witnessing the birth of our first child, is a testament to her strength, love, and selflessness. I kiss her wet forehead, slide my arms out from behind her back, and move to the side of the tub, opposite Fairhurst.

“Anything I can do?” I ask.

“Just watch,” the midwife says.

Maya tenses, gripping the sides of the tub. Her forehead furrows, but it’s the only outward sign of pain I can see. She’s doing this drugless, focusing her will and body, letting things happen naturally. I didn’t think it would be possible, but here she is, overcoming pain I can only imagine and fear I will never know.

My jaw drops when a small, naked body appears in the water, flowing up and out of the water, carried aloft by Fairhurst’s skilled hands. And then she says three words that put a permanent chink in my thick armor. “It’s a boy.”

Before this moment, if you had asked me if I wanted kids, I would have shrugged and said, “I don’t know.” I was indifferent. I felt happy when Maya told me she was pregnant, but wasn’t moved by the news. I saw a child as just another one of life’s challenges to overcome. Fairhurst announced the sex because we chose not to find out earlier. But something about those three words: “it’s a boy…”

I weep for the first time since joining the military. It’s just a single tear, but its presence feels like Noah’s rainbow, a promise of something greater than myself, of continuing generations of Shilohs and … a son.

My son.

I reach for him and find only darkness.

I’m out of the memory, which was returned to me by the Dread mole. I can’t see or sense the world around me, but I can feel it in my head. But why would it give that memory back to me? Of all my memories, that poignant moment reminds me of exactly what I lost. What the Dread took from me. And why I hate them. If they were looking for brownie points, they don’t have a very good understanding of what makes people tick.

An image begins to resolve. Another memory.

I’m walking with my son. Just the two of us, out experiencing the world, sloshing through a swamp. He steps up beside me, rubs his head into my side.

“Are you ready?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“Your strength and courage honor me,” I tell the boy.

He bristles with pride. “Now … let’s go.”

We move together, pushing through the mire until we reach the other side, where a desert awaits. It’s flat, brown, and barren. But there has been activity here lately, and I’ve been tasked with understanding it. Walking casually, son by my side, we head for a collection of buildings. They’re new but lack all the other things that normally indicate habitation—power lines, paved roads, and other types of infrastructure.

We stop a mile out, watching the activity in and around the small collection of buildings. And then, at once, the people there leave. A parade of vehicles heads north. Curious, I start toward the buildings but notice my son isn’t following.

“What is it?” I ask him.