Cover Your Tracks

by Daco Auffenorde

  He shook his head. “Say it another way.”

  “Slide your hand down to the bottom of my abdomen, where you can feel the bottom of the baby.”

  He did as she asked.

  “When I exhale, gently push your fingers underneath the baby. Try to get a firm hold on the baby’s buttocks, the lump of flesh at the lowest point. Keep a firm hold. I’ll try to manipulate the baby by pulling the head from the top counterclockwise. When I stop, you push upward in the same direction. We’ll alternate.”

  He nodded.

  She took a deep breath and let it out. “Now.” She groaned as his fingers delved deeply into her abdomen.

  “Got it.”

  “Push, gently. Until …” Barely able to speak, she groaned, the pain intense. “Hold it!”

  When he stopped, she used her hands in a push-pull movement, urging the baby to move.

  The baby began to turn after several attempts. When the baby had turned forty-five degrees, he announced, “I lost my grip.”

  “It’s okay. Move your hands up to the side and push.”

  Nick pushed.

  “Not so hard, damn it!”

  He reduced the pressure. Finally, the baby made the rest of the turn.

  “Is it okay?”

  “Yeah, we did it.” Silently, she thanked God.

  For the following few hours, the baby held its position. To endure the pain, she tried singing every stupid song she could remember. Nick, the steadfast soldier, just stood and waited for her to give orders. But there were no orders. This was the time to breathe and get through each contraction, some of them excruciating. There would be no epidural or other medication to ease the even more intense pain yet to come. That she dreaded.

  The baby continued descending and didn’t flip again. Margo’s body shifted to the second stage of labor—the transition stage, they called it. Her stomach rippled up and down, forming a peak at the height of the contraction, making it easy to judge the stage by the formation of the stomach. The strong contractions came on faster, every couple of minutes, and each lasted at least a minute. It was time to get ready for the actual birth, so she removed everything except her shirt for warmth.

  She walked around the room until the next contraction hit. When that one passed, she began to shake and shiver and was now nauseated, on the verge of vomiting. Then it was time.

  Back in bed, she propped her body up against the wall and raised her knees. “I’m getting pressure on my pelvis. I can’t see if my cervix is entirely effaced and dilated. The opening needs to be a full ten centimeters.” Another contraction hit hard. “Oh, Jesus. I don’t want to push until it’s time.”

  The contraction passed. But another one was just around the corner. “Are you a good judge of centimeters, Nick?”

  He shrugged. “I learned the metric system in the army. One centimeter is about the width of a pencil.”

  “Very good. I need you to feel inside. Slide two fingers to the end of the vaginal canal and you’ll find the cervix. It should be flat, not fleshy, and shaped like a donut. See if you can assess how much it’s opened.” Though she was directing Nick clinically, and he was cooperative, he was still a stranger and she wanted nothing to do with him. But she couldn’t do this alone and had to tolerate him.

  He kneeled down, placed a hand upon her inner thigh, and grimaced. He slid two fingers inside her vaginal canal and probed. “Not sure, there’s …”

  “Can you identify the cervix?”

  He nodded.

  “You’re looking for an opening in the cervix. Think of the inside of a donut, how wide the opening is.”

  “It’s more than two fingers, more like the width of a baseball. Maybe eight centimeters. And there’s something round, is that …?”

  “Yes, the baby’s head.”

  “Sure it’s not the rump?”

  “Let’s hope not.”

  Over the following few hours, Nick improved his nursing skills. He held Margo’s hand and rubbed her back during painful contractions. When the baby had fully descended in her uterus and she had the strong urge to push, the next stage of labor began.

  “Before I start pushing, I need you to check the cervix again.”

  He didn’t wince this time but almost gleefully did as she asked. “Looks like you’re there.”

  A contraction came on, and the urge to push was powerful. “Good! Here we go.” She bore down. “See anything?”

  “No, just bulging.”

  She rested and waited for the next contraction. Then she pushed again. The process repeated itself more times than she cared to count. So much for birthing babies with ease like her mother.

  The next time Nick checked her progress, he cried, “I see the head.”

  Her tissue stretched, causing an intense burning. She needed an episiotomy, but no way would she let Nick perform one, not with a mere table knife. Finally, the baby’s head crowned. Again the unthinkable: Nick’s face exploded with an exuberance she didn’t think him capable of. On the next big push, the baby’s head emerged.

  “Make sure the umbilical cord isn’t wrapped around the neck. Check the mouth to make sure nothing is inside it.”

  Nick waited a beat. “All clear. But the head’s turning to the side. Is that all right?”

  She nodded. “When the baby’s out, cut the cord.” Then she pushed, fighting the pain. At once, her baby emerged and began a marvelous wailing.

  Margo opened her eyes. Nick was smiling so broadly that her heart skittered. The strangest thoughts invaded her mind, but she couldn’t quite articulate them.

  “Is the baby a girl or a boy?” she rasped, wanting to weep. She was so exhausted, she was shivering, but also elated.

  “A son.”

  CHAPTER 40

  After Nick was exposed to the toxic chemical in Afghanistan, he was ordered back to the United States for rest and recuperation. The paralysis subsided after a few weeks, but it had weakened him, and the physical therapy—hours a day in the facility—helped him regain muscle mass. Three months later, he was reassigned to Fort McNair, Washington, DC, again to train soldiers. At age forty-two, he’d served twenty-four years, and that was enough. He was realistic—he couldn’t go back to Afghanistan, hunt down Andie’s killers, and destroy them. By participating in the destruction of the chemicals, he’d avenged her death as best he could. There was nothing more he could do, so he retired from the military.

  He wasn’t qualified for much except war, so he took a job consulting with a private defense firm located in Virginia just outside of Washington, DC, which designed and manufactured weaponry for sale to the government. If he couldn’t be on the battlefield, he would at least keep those who could fight safe.

  Andrea White’s memory was never far away. Sometimes, out of nowhere, he would find himself remembering one of those corny, ribald rooster jokes. He would hear Andie’s deadpan delivery in the clipped, no-nonsense Nebraska twang and see the slight upturn at the corners of her mouth and the mischievous glint in her eyes as she neared the punchline. Life plays dirty tricks by stealing the people we love and then taunting us with their memories.

  Late one Friday evening, Nick arrived home at his condo. He’d just pulled a cold beer from his refrigerator when his cell phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID. It read US Government. He set the phone on the counter. When it rang for the second time, he answered.

  “Nick Eliot?” a man asked. “I’m Captain Keith Stone, with the Judge Advocate General’s Corps.”

  Nick’s stomach clenched. A military lawyer. What was this about?

  “What can I do for you, sir?” Nick asked. “Is there a problem?”

  Stone was silent for a moment. “So it seems. But nothing to do with your military service. Your record is spotless, Sergeant. I’d like to meet with you in person about another matter.”

  In person without explaining? In this day of texting and emails? He sighed. Only in the military would this be required. Just like the time Colonel Dwyer called hi
m in about that final mission to Afghanistan.

  “Let’s say Monday, Fort McNair, JAG Office, 0900,” Stone said.

  It wasn’t an order, but it sure felt like one.

  CHAPTER 41

  Margo had given birth to a son! All along, she’d assumed the baby would be a girl because girls ran in her family. When she began labor, she feared that the baby’s lungs would be underdeveloped, given the early delivery and the ordeal she’d gone through in the past few days, but there was no question about his lung capacity. He bellowed so loudly her ears hurt. But those bellows were the sounds of pure joy.

  However, her joy was tempered at the moment by a serious medical problem—she still had not birthed the placenta. If it didn’t come soon, she would have a medical crisis neither Nick nor she could overcome.

  Nick had cut and tied off the umbilical cord with no trouble whatsoever. She expected as much, considering his ability to tie knots.

  She groaned as another contraction hit.

  “Be quiet, Margo. Don’t upset the baby.”

  “I can’t help the contractions. Dammit. The placenta hasn’t birthed.” If her uterus didn’t expel the placenta and harden, she could die—would die.

  He cradled the baby in his arms, comforting him. “I’m going to clean him up.”

  “Wait.” She held her arms out and toward the baby. “Let me hold him first.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea; you’re still having contractions.”

  “Give him to me! Please.”

  Nick faced her but didn’t bring the baby. “You’re out of control. Get a hold of yourself.”

  “Now!” she demanded.

  “I’m going to clean him up first. You better stay focused on what you’re doing.”

  Damn him. She stood up to go get her baby, to wash him off herself, but she was dizzy and fell back down to the bed.

  “Get control of yourself, Margo,” Nick said as if commanding an underling on an army base. “I’ve got everything handled.”

  Why was he speaking like this? She began to weep. “Just please let me hold him.”

  “Stop acting like a fool. You’ll only upset the baby. You’re too weak to hold him.”

  Maybe Nick was right, maybe she was so weak that she might drop … no, she would never. Another contraction came on. Why was it so painful? This was the afterbirth, which was supposed to be easy, to feel like nothing, to literally just slide out. She cried in agony.

  “Quiet!” Nick said.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” she moaned.

  “I don’t tell jokes. And I don’t like foul language from a woman. You’re upsetting the baby.”

  Completely abandoned, she could only watch the pleasure Nick was taking in cleaning the baby—robbing her of the joy she should have felt. She was so angry. Her baby belonged in her arms, especially right after the birth, so he could bond with her. He needed to suckle, even if her milk hadn’t yet come in. That was how it worked, how it was supposed to be.

  Nick began to sing to the baby. “Hush little baby, don’t say a word, Daddy’s going to buy you a mockingbird—”

  “It’s Mama, not Daddy!” she screamed.

  Nick turned back. “I’m not going to tell you again, Margo. Get control of yourself. If you don’t …”

  “What’s that supposed to mean, ‘If I don’t?’ You’ve lost your mind, Nick. No, it’s clear you’ve never had it to begin with. Did we really have to go up the mountain? Did you bring me up here because you wanted to avoid the rescuers?”

  He only glowered, incongruously rocking the baby in his arms.

  “This is my baby, not yours,” she said.

  “You’re wrong about that, Margo. You stole him from me.”

  And then, it hit her. This man was one hundred percent insane. And she was his target. She’d heard of women stealing newborns from their mothers, but she’d never heard of a man doing it. No amount of screaming or swearing would change his warped mind.

  He calmly walked over to her, cradling the baby in his left arm. For a moment, she thought he was going to hand her the baby. She extended her arms. But her relief lasted a nanosecond, because he slapped her face hard, so hard that sparks of light obscured her vision. Rage exploded inside her. She started to come at him, but he shoved her back down to the mattress.

  She gasped and grabbed the sides of her head.

  “You don’t believe me, do you, Margo? But it’s true. This is my son.”

  “How is that remotely possible?” she asked through a moan, wondering why she was again playing his twisted game.

  “Think about it, doctor.”

  Could Nick be the biological sperm donor? The sperm donor’s identity wasn’t provided. Only the genetic and biological data about the donor had been released. Anything was possible, but this was so farfetched that she couldn’t buy it.

  Who cared? If there was a scintilla of truth in what he was saying, it didn’t matter. The baby was hers.

  “If that was true—and I know you think it is—then why would you deprive your child of a mother?” she spat.

  “He’ll have a father.”

  “He needs a mother, goddammit!”

  Nick pointed a threatening finger at her. “I said get control of yourself. Are we clear?”

  The baby started to wail.

  “We’re not at war, Nick. Give me my baby.”

  His face hardened, and she recoiled in fear. He was going to strike her again. Another contraction came, and she grasped her stomach. She moaned like a wounded animal experiencing pain, and also from the rage building inside her. He backed off.

  After the pain subsided, she moaned to herself, “Come on. Come on.” There was no indication that the afterbirth would expel.

  Nick walked to a chair, sat down, and began rocking the baby back and forth. The baby gurgled. It was all so horrifying. She’d kill this man. She didn’t know how, but she would.

  The baby quieted.

  The pelvic bleeding had not subsided, and the pain was excruciating, causing her to moan no matter how hard she tried to stay quiet. “Don’t you even care about what I’m going through?”

  Nick didn’t react, didn’t even blink an eye, and offered no words of comfort or support.

  “If I die, the baby dies,” she said.

  “He’s healthy. He’ll make it.”

  “Bullshit. He needs to suckle, he needs to work the colostrum out of my breasts, and he needs nourishment. That’s what he needs. Not songs.”

  “You’re not getting the baby until you’ve birthed the placenta and gotten ahold of yourself. I see no signs that you’re in a rational state of mind or anywhere near it.”

  She screamed.

  “Shut up, Margo!” He got up and took the baby to the stairs.

  “Where are you going?”

  He ignored her.

  Then she understood. He was leaving with the baby. She could feel it. She was too weak to pursue him. “No!”

  But she was wrong. He didn’t leave. He came back upstairs cradling the baby in one arm and the filthy elk skin in the other.

  “You can’t put him in that skin,” she said. “It’s filthy, full of bacteria.” Her entire body was now shaking.

  He paid no attention to her but took the skin, placed it in a pan filled with water, and set the pan on top of the stove. Then he returned to the chair and began rocking the baby again.

  This could not be happening.

  The contractions spaced farther apart. Too tired to fight, she lay on her side, hoping her body would birth the placenta. After boiling the elk skin for about a half hour, Nick removed it from the pan and hung it to dry near the stove.

  “Andreas is a nice name, Margo. It’s the name of a member of my squadron who died in the line of duty. Well, she was a woman, so her name was Andrea. Why don’t we name him Andreas?”

  Margo wanted to leap from the bed and choke the life out of Nick. Now it was clear why he’d called her Andie during the bomb cyc
lone, why he gave her that disgusting kiss. Even so, whatever he’d experienced in the war, whatever had happened to Andrea, there was no us to this equation. The baby would be named Michael, after her grandfather.

  “His name is Michael, as in the angel who is like God,” she said.

  “My father was named Michael. He was an evil man.”

  Catch more flies with honey, her mother had always said.

  Margo had to play this game according to Nick’s rules if she had a chance to survive and get out of there alive with her baby—Michael. “So we’ll compromise and call him Gabriel, the Messenger.”

  “His name is Andreas,” Nick insisted.

  She couldn’t get the upper hand with this madman. He had the physical advantage, and more than that the army had trained him to kill. Except—.

  “Your leg’s infected, Nick. Isn’t it?”

  “No, it’s only a scrape. Nothing.”

  “Show me.”

  The intensity in his eyes returned. “I told you. It is nothing.” He growled, the tone more animalistic than ever before.

  “May I feed the baby now?”

  “You haven’t birthed the placenta yet.”

  “Nursing him will help me do just that. He needs me.”

  The baby woke up and fussed. Then Nick did another unthinkable thing. He placed his finger in the baby’s mouth and let him suckle it.

  “Don’t do that! You’ll confuse him. Please, please don’t. If you’re really the father.”

  “Which I am.” And then, in an instant, she believed him. Tragic. Maybe if things were different, if Nick were different.

  She was too weak to stand, too weak to take Nick on—incapable of it even at her strongest. She continued to weep and rock. So tired. She closed her eyes, listening to the sounds of her baby fussing.

  CHAPTER 42

  When morning light broke, the mental fog slowly subsided. Margo had survived the night without hemorrhaging to death. Her body was fatigued, but thankfully, the cramps were gone. Her abdomen was hard, a good sign, which meant her uterus had contracted and, she hoped, the placenta had been expelled.