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She peeks under Beth’s nightdress. “There’s no need. The baby is crowning.”
She’s what?
This is a fucked up coronation.
The midwife sits between Beth’s legs, guiding her on breathing and when to push.
I’m so glad I’m not a midwife…or Beth.
“Would you like to look?”
I glance behind me.
There’s no one else here.
She’s speaking to me.
How can I say no?
So, I don’t.
I look.
I come close to passing out.
That isn’t a keyhole.
Five pushes later, a broken hand, and a delirious mother later, sounds of tiny cries fill the maternity ward.
“Oh, my God,” I cry as the midwife places the baby on Beth’s heaving chest. She’s covered in blood and other bodily fluids. “She’s perfect,” I weep because she is. “Beth, you did it.”
They should have confetti for these women. Popping champagne bottles. A medal.
Something.
I’m still wiping her forehead. It’s muscle memory at this stage, but she doesn’t mind.
When I hear a sob crack through the air, I try to comfort her, only to realize it’s me.
I’m the blubbering mess.
I’m never having children.
I’d never survive the sheer joy.
Beth rubs the little one’s face, soaking in every feature. Ten fingers and ten toes.
“Thanks, Claire.”
I run the cloth down her neck.
“You can stop doing that now.” She laughs.
How is she laughing? They’re doing something that should only be done to ripped trousers between her legs.
I drop the cloth on the chair and go back to staring at the baby.
“Sorry about your hand,” she says, noticing how I’m working my wrist back and forth.
