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“You’re gonna talk to your wife through comms. I won’t be able to hear you, but she can.” So carefully and quickly, I detach the radio and pry out my earpiece. I tell Jane, “You won’t be able to respond to him, but Thatcher is gonna walk you through this. He’s right here.”
Jane sniffs, then shuts her eyes, battling another contraction. I reach over her and nestle the earpiece into her ear, then lie the radio beside her.
Please tell me the signal is still clear.“Can you hear him?” I ask Jane.
She nods, her body easing like her husband is a morphine drip. Before I draw back, she catches my hand to squeeze it in appreciation. Relief spills tears out of the corner of her eyes. “Thank you.”
Don’t thank me yet.I push fabric of her peachy tulle skirt out of the way. “You’ve gotta push, Jane.” I peel off my black T-shirt hurriedly, and with Thatcher in her ear, she begins to push.
Gritting down on her teeth again, her scream this time is one of full-blown strength and anguish.
I tune out the sound and focus on the baby.
“Almost there, one more push,” I tell Jane, cupping the baby’s shoulders, and as Jane pushes, I ease this fragile being out into the world. My pulse is racing again. ‘Cause she’s covered in membranes and I hear nothing but Jane’s exhausted pants.
“Is she okay?” Jane asks, her voice pitching. “She’s not crying. Donnelly?”
Please cry.Cradling her baby girl in my arms, I rub my fingers along her nose to ease out mucus and I warm her back with my shirt. This is what Farrow instructed in the event the umbilical cord wrapped around her neck, but the cord isn’t cutting off her oxygen. Still, she’s not breathing.
And she kind of looks like an alien. And I wonder if Luna might have done a better job.
I wonder if I wasn’t the right person for this at all.
My throat swells.
Please. Please. Please.
I know some people think I’m this toxic thing, infecting everything I touch. But I can’t be the reason this baby doesn’t take her first breath.
I can’t.
I can’t.
“Donnelly,” Jane starts sitting up more.
Another swipe along her nose, and the baby suddenly stretches an arm and cries out to the world. It pummels me backward, and I let out a strained exhale. All the tension I’d been caging rushes out of me. Jane breaks into happier, more overwhelmed tears.
As I place the newborn in Jane’s arms, the waterworks hit me too, seeing Jane embrace her baby, kiss her soft cheek, instantly love her. Life is strange and beautiful, and moments like these, I’m grateful to be alive.
I help Jane take off her sweater so the baby can lie on her chest, skin-to-skin. Without pulling the earpiece out of Jane’s ear, I click the mic and say, “Congratulations, Papa Moretti. You’ve got a beautiful baby girl.” I lower the mic to the newborn who lets out softer cries.
Thatcher can hear his daughter.
Jane laughs into more tears. When I release the mic, Thatcher can respond back. After their moment together, Jane sniffs and tells me, “They’re asking for you.”
So I collect the radio, earpiece. Comms are back with me. “Donnelly here.”
“Check Jane,” Thatcher orders.
“Get Farrow back on,” I say, chest tighter, and my cool-as-a-cucumber doctor friend walks me through assessing Jane. Once I make a guess that Jane isn’t bleeding too much, I undo my shoelaces and take out a knife in my back pocket. Gotta cut the umbilical cord.
Everything goes smoothly, but it’s not like TV. It’s messier, more frightening because she still really needs a doctor and I’m not it. Thankfully, the paramedics arrive about four minutes after I cut the cord. Frog and Luna rush in beside them.
The girls all comfort Jane and grow teary-eyed seeing her newborn. I hang back a bit and let the professionals do what they’re good at.
While they put Jane on a stretcher with the baby and start taking vitals, I rub my palms together, trying to wipe off the blood.
“Here.” Luna digs in her backpack and passes me a few Kleenex.
