A smile dances on the edges of her lips as she replies, “They told me at the hospital that I could have died. If that infection had spread to my brain, I would have died.”
And at that I feel something in me snap. It was avoidable, it was all so avoidable had she followed my explicit directions. But she didn’t follow my directions, and it was intentional, a stroke of luck when she spied that infection starting to form inside her mouth and decided to do nothing about it.
“You bitch,” I whisper. “You stupid bitch.” And I’m moving forward, closing in on her quickly as she backs away and into the open front door. There’s nowhere for her to go. Her back is quite literally to a wall, and it’s all I can do not to press my hand to her trachea and stop the airflow. I imagine her turning blue before my eyes, arms and legs flailing for air, her eyes gaping wide with fear. I all but feel the tautness of her skin beneath my hand, all those vital arteries of her neckline, the carotid artery and the jugular vein, fully distended as she sucks in to breathe ineffectively against the weight of my hand.
And that’s when the cell phone in my pocket begins to ring.
Clara is laid out in the hospital bed when I arrive, wearing a light blue gown and socks. It’s a large room, a private room, and the doctor, Clara’s obstetrician, is attending to her as I trot in, out of breath.
“I’m not too late,” I beg, huffing the words out. “Please, tell me I’m not too late.”
“Eight centimeters,” the doctor says, pulling a hand from between Clara’s legs and draping a paper-thin blanket over them. “You’re not too late,” she assures me. “Shouldn’t be much longer now,” as she pats Clara’s knees and smiles at me. “You ready for this?” she asks, and I tell her that I am, rushing to Clara’s bedside to envelop her in a hug.
Clara looks exhausted, but ready. She is a tough woman, a resilient woman. She can handle anything, and lying there in the hospital bed waiting for the next contraction to arrive, she has her game face on. She’s ready for this. I stroke her moistened hair; she’s been sweating. There’s a washcloth set to the side of the bed, which I dampen with cool water from the bathroom sink and press to her head. I feed her ice cubes with a plastic spoon from a Styrofoam cup that sits on her table tray; the ice cubes have begun to melt and form a puddle at the bottom of the cup. The contractions are coming every few minutes, lasting thirty seconds or more, and within minutes I become a slave to the clock, knowing before Clara does when the next contraction will arrive. She grits her teeth and pushes through them while the nurse and I remind her to breathe.
“We don’t have a name,” Clara gasps between contractions. “We never gave him a name.” And there is panic in her eyes, as if without a name he might just poof! disappear before our eyes.
I have no good reason why we don’t have a name. We had nine months to decide. Maybe we just need to see him and then we’ll know, I rationalize, and suddenly I’m overwhelmed with a sense of eagerness and anticipation that soon my baby boy will arrive. I’m filled with pride. Soon I will welcome a child into the world, and I envision Clara, Maisie, my baby boy and me all curled together on Clara’s hospital bed, and in that moment everything else fades away: the practice and Connor, Kat and Melinda Grey, the malpractice suit. There are voices in the hallway, two men, a new father and a new grandfather, moseying down the hall, discussing the game. I try to turn a deaf ear to what they say, to focus on Clara and only Clara, but I catch wind of it anyway.
They’re talking about basketball. The NBA series. The Golden State Warriors have taken the lead in the series, and I feel this great relief at hearing those words, knowing that out there somewhere, in a POD account, is money. Money waiting for me.
As another contraction grips Clara, I feel the weight of the world lifted from me and, for the first time in a long time, a sense that this will be okay. That everything will be okay.
She cries out from the pain, and I hold her tightly and tell her that she can do this. “You’re the strongest woman I know,” I whisper into her ear, words that are altogether true. Clara is a fighter. If there’s anybody in the world who can do this, Clara can do this. Her body is glossy with sweat, the paper-thin blanket now kicked from her legs and to the tile floor. She breathes heavily as the contraction passes, her rib cage expanding and contracting with each gulp of air. She lays her head on my shoulder, and I stroke her hair.
“Charles,” she whispers to me, gasping for air. “Let’s name him Charles,” she says. A concession. My father’s name and my middle name. But I don’t let Clara capitulate in fear.
“No,” I tell her, kneeling down so that I can see her eye to eye, the floor digging into my knees so that they burn. Clara’s cheeks are flushed, the red spreading from her face to her chin and neck. Her eyes, always so sure, are consumed with fear and doubt and exhaustion. I hold her hand in mine, pressing it to my heart, and say to her, “We’ll know when we see him. When we see him, we’ll know,” and in my voice, there’s conviction, a guarantee, and she nods her head, believing.
“I’m sorry,” she says, meaning our fight this morning over coffee and paint. A dumb fight. An argument that means nothing. I tell her that I’m sorry, too. “It was stupid,” I say, and she agrees, “So stupid,” as our lips press together, erasing the moment from our minds for the time being.
The doctor returns again to check on Clara. This time, she’s nine centimeters and nearly one hundred percent effaced. “You’re in the home stretch,” she tells Clara. “We’ll begin pushing soon,” and again she leaves.
Clara is thirsty, but only ice cubes are allowed, a sorry consolation prize for someone who’s completely parched. I feed her the last from the Styrofoam cup and then tell her I’ll be right back; I’m going to get more. But Clara clings to me, begging me not to go. The kitchen is just across the hall, just a quick hop, skip and a jump away I tell her, but Clara holds tightly to my hand and begs, “Don’t leave me. Please, don’t leave me,” and I melt like snowdrifts on a warm spring day. I’m moonstruck. In all my life, I’ve never loved anyone as much as Clara. I fall again to my knees, swearing over and over again that I won’t leave. “I’m right here,” I say. “I’m here. I won’t go anywhere. I’ll never leave you,” I say as the nurse takes the cup from my hands. I stroke Clara’s hair as another contraction arrives, her fingernails bearing down hard on my skin, leaving their mark. But I don’t mind. What I wouldn’t give to do this for her, to birth our baby myself, to take the pain away. “If there’s anybody in the world that can do this, Clara, you can do this,” I say again into her ear as she screams through yet another contraction.
“Breathe, Clara,” I remind her. “Just breathe.”