Page 137 of Everything But Mine

“Her vitals are stable,” the doctor says. “We can try for a few contractions. But we need to see progress soon, or a C-section is imperative.”

The drumming of my pulse dulls, I nod. We help Amanda onto her hands and knees, her hair falling like a dark curtain. She arches her back with the next contraction. I place my hands on her hips, pressing inward as her bones shift under my palms to make space for the baby.

She cries out, and panic flashes in my chest until she exhales in relief, her shoulders sagging.

“Don’t stop.” She gasps.

I squeeze harder. Her whole body shakes with effort as she pushes, arms trembling under her weight. I want to lean in close, but I hold steady so she can focus.

“You’ve got this. I’ve got you,” I whisper, my voice cracking.

“Push again with the next contraction,” the doctor says.

She does, screaming and moaning, her body tilting toward me for contact. I soothe her back when it passes.

“This is good,” the doctor says. “The head is out. Side-lying will be easier now.”

We move her onto her side, her right knee drawn up, her body trembling. “Do that thing again,” she tells me.

“One more,” they say.

She roars through it.

And then⁠—

The room fills with a sound I’ve never heard before. A furious, sputtering cry—outraged to be here and alive enough to announce it. It echoes off the hospital walls and lodges itself between my ribs enough to make my breathing stop.

Beckett.

He’s slippery and red and alive. Amanda sobs as they unsnap her gown and place him on her chest. I can’t breathe. She murmurs sweet nothings to him in Italian, her hand reaching for mine to bring me to them. I kiss her hair, her forehead, her lips, tasting her tears or maybe mine. I’ve lived my whole life just to get to this moment with her.

He’s screaming, with a head full of dark hair and Freddy Krueger nails, like Amanda joked. Someone offers to take a picture. Shit. I forgot. Every woman gets that picture. I hand out my phone, and the three of us get photographed first. Then, I snap more shots of Amanda and Beckett alone.

The nurses and doctors are fussing. A tear and page OB for repair in the OR. Better safe than sorry, they say. The nurse catches my eye.

“Just to stitch her up,” she assures. “She’s okay. Standard.”

“Who’ll stay with the baby?” I ask.

The nurse smiles. “You will.”

They wheel Amanda away, her eyes asking me to take care of Beckett. She squeezes my hand until she’s too far to reach.

Someone pats my shoulder. Then I’m handed a swaddled Beckett. “That was good advocacy,” she says. “Asking the doctor. Good instincts, Dad.”

Now, I’m alone with my son in my arms. Pink splotches of blood and white vernix stick to his skin. He pushes against the swaddle, so I open it and let his arms stretch out. I reach behind my neck and take off the scrub top, then place him in the center of my chest, skin to skin. His tiny hand wraps around my pinky, mouth moving like he’s hungry. He doesn’t seem to like this world very much. I can’t blame him. He just left Amanda’s side, and she’s⁠—

It’s a precaution, routine. Just stitches. She’s stable. What if they missed something? Amanda’s mom almost died giving birth. What if something happens to her?

Beckett shrieks. I rock him gently. I want to run after Amanda, get updates in real time, but I stay in this chair, in this moment. I stare at his impossibly small hand around my finger. I never thought my heart could hold more love, but somehow it’s expanded for him. I loved him before, yes, but now he’s here. All eight pounds, six ounces of him.

“Your mom will be fine,” I tell him.

His eyes open. Brown. Daray’s eyes.

My child. He doesn’t know I don’t have a clue what I’m doing. He doesn’t know how much of a mess I’ve been. He just knows me. And that’s enough for him. For Amanda. And finally, for me.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO