I gripped the scissors harder as adrenaline sent a surge of its juicy chemicals through my blood stream, making my heart start pounding in return. I angled away, taking small steps toward Mindy’s head, and the call bell. Where the hell was the call bell?
“Who the hell are you?” Big nose said, looking from me, to Mike, to Mindy and Mike again.
Mike was still in hand recovery mode, shaking the injured appendage before sticking it in the tall guy’s direction. I winced as they shook, but then realized both men’s hands had been where Mike’s were most recently. “I’m Mike,” hairy guy said, “you the doctor?”
Stunned at that assumption, I looked at big nose, who was wearing his jeans halfway down his ass, showing off his Fruit of the Loom underwear. Hairy guy — erm, Mike — wasn’t very bright, I assessed, if he thought this bozo was a physician. I desperately hoped he wasn’t the baby’s father, not that the alternate was much better. Poor kid was going to have a tough enough childhood as it was.
“Out, please.” I finally made my mouth work enough to speak up, flapping my arms in a sweeping gesture to herd them toward the door. “I want both of you to head to the waiting area while I check Mom.”
Once the two potential paternity candidates figured things out, I didn’t want the blowup to be in this room. And from the way they were eyeing each other, and from the still panicked look in Mindy’s eyes, it might happen soon. For big nose, certainly. He appeared to have more than a few brain cells working. It might take a little longer for Mike to figure things out.
I shooed them out the door and moved back to the patient’s bedside. She fell backwards onto the pillow, both hands covering her eyes. I pried them away and gave her antibacterial wipes to clean them. Damn. What was wrong with these people?
“So, what is the plan?” I asked her, desperately trying to keep my voice calm and sympathetic when all I really wanted to do was shake some common sense into the girl. “Do you know which is the father?”
She blinked rapidly while her head did a slow side to side. “I… I was hoping I’d figure it out when the baby was born,” she confessed with a little sob. “You know, by the hair color.”
I sighed, deciding this wasn’t the best time to get into a genetics conversation, then heard a small voice call out, “Can I help you?” Then it came again, barely audible. Realizing what it was, I followed the cord to the patient call box, which was wedged under a trembling Mindy. How she hadn’t felt the rigid plastic under her ass was a mystery. Well, at least I now knew why the buzzer had kept going off.
Before I could answer, Lorie came into the room. I practically leaped at the primary nurse, filled her in on her patient’s delicate situation, and left her with the mess, promising to call security to come deal with the men if necessary.
Suddenly, Instagram Barbie didn’t seem so bad, and I nearly flung myself into her room, pumping out a double dose of sanitizing foam along the way, working it into my hands and almost up to my elbows, wishing I could use it to disinfect my brain as well.
“It’s about time,” Mrs. Harlington-Worthington, the Fifth exclaimed with a huff that shot her bangs up into the air.
Bangs?
I blinked at her. “You’ve changed your hair.”
And with that one comment, my tardiness was apparently forgiven. She beamed and stroked her fingers through the even longer mane of even brighter blonde curls. “Do you like? I think it showcases the tiara better, don’t you?”
Poor, poor baby.
“Absolutely,” I said with what I hoped was a warm smile. “You look beautiful.”
She beamed even brighter, but what she didn’t know was that I’d tell that to any laboring mom, no matter how matted the hair or sweat-streaked the face.
Labor was the epitome of vulnerable, and often, a kind word or two went a long way toward easing the stress of the constant pain.
“Well, you still look terrible,” the social media brat said, and I immediately hated her again. “I don’t mean to be mean…” Sure she didn’t. “But you’d be really pretty if you just tried a little bit. Giselle and I were just talking about how good your skin is. A little pale, but it complements your auburn hair — which would be more attractive if you straightened it — and makes your blue eyes look even bluer. If I were you, I’d cover the freckles though. Have you seen the blending cremes on the market? They cover all kinds of deformities.”
I inhaled deeply through my nose as I typed in her chart. Deformities? When did a few spots on the nose and cheeks become a terrible thing?
Suddenly missing Mindy and the two-father dilemma two doors down the hallway, I ignored Mrs. Harlington-Worthington, the Fifth while I continued to chart and she went on about how best to contour my face.
“Aren’t you going to check me?” she asked with a huff, rubbing her hands over her slight mound of belly. If I didn’t know she was past her due date, I would have thought she was closer to seven months along. Her bump was tiny. “I’m probably ready to push by now, you took so long to come back.”
Inhaling another long, deep breath in through my nose, I let it out just as slowly. “Are you feeling any contractions yet?”
A pained expression came across her face, and she lifted her phone to take a picture of it. She looked at the screen, was clearly not pleased with the result, made an even more agonized face, and snapped again.
Oh, dear god.
“Yes.” She fanned herself with her hand. “It’s agony.”
Snatching up a pair of gloves, I snapped them on, thinking I could do this gently, or not so gently. I could even have thumb slippage and give her a little jolt in the ass.
Mrs. HW5’s eyes widened just as I was about to ask her to let her knees fall to the side. “Oh…” She grabbed her belly. “Oooh!” I glanced at the monitor, and hurray, oh thank you god, she was having a contraction. A real damn one. Finally.
The stylist surged forward and patted rice paper on her nose while my patient writhed on the bed. Dear heavens above. Calmly, I timed the contraction, encouraging her to breathe through the pain.
“Epidural,” she screamed, and her husband’s head finally popped up from his laptop screen.
He looked directly at me and snapped his freaking fingers. “Get on that.”
I shot laser darts of hatred onto his head as he looked back down at his computer and began tapping away, but ignored his command. I showed my teeth to my patient in what I hoped would pass as a smile. “I’ll check you as soon as this one ends.”
She continued to writhe and scream, her camera forgotten for a moment. If this was how real labor with her was going to be, I’d put in the epidural myself. Maybe even a backup one, just in case.
“Have you decorated the nursery yet?” I asked in way of a distraction as I felt her belly grow even tighter under my palms.
She huffed and puffed, but managed to nod as the contraction wound its way down. “Yes,” she panted. “It’s beautiful. Better than Princess Charlotte’s, no doubt. It’s… oh… oh… auggh…” The last sound ended on a scream that jerked her husband’s head up again.
He had a highbrow, annoying tone. “Do you plan on doing anything?”