Expecting Emily

by Clare Dowling

  “How on earth did we end up like this, Conor?”

  “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I’m sorry, Emily.”

  “I suppose I’m sorry too.” This sounded a bit too contrite. “Even though I think you should have said something before!”

  But he wasn’t going to take this lying down. “And so should you, if you felt you weren’t getting what you wanted! There’s no point in giving me those disappointed little looks when I don’t know what the hell they mean!”

  “You needn’t worry on that score! I’m a different woman now, you know!” A woman in labour could get away with this kind of statement, she felt.

  “So am I!” Conor retaliated. “Or a different man at least.” He cast a look at the green line on the monitor. “Emily, maybe you should have some gas –”

  “Are you trying to avoid issues here?” she asked suspiciously, ignoring the pain.

  “I am not! It’s just that Jessica left me in charge of gas!”

  “That decision you wanted me to make, Conor . . .”

  “Why don’t we leave that for the moment?” he said, looking worriedly again at the monitor.

  “I can’t make it. Not yet.”

  “Yes, yes . . .” The green line merrily raced towards its peak. “God Almighty, Emily, could we please concentrate on the matter at hand here! Use the gas!”

  “You’re just not going to stop, are you –” She was cut off mid-stream as the contraction finally hit her full-force. Her mouth fell open and she stared wordlessly, helplessly at Conor.

  “Oh Lord,” he said, fumbling about with the gas mask. “Hang on, Emily, hang on, I’ll get this thing on you . . . damn!” He had somehow wrapped the tubing around his leg. He looked at Emily’s stricken face, and she saw that fear again, that backing off when things got too tough, and she closed her eyes to him and lay frozen and alone as the contraction attacked.

  She started to say a Hail Mary again. It was worth a try.

  Then she felt a hand on hers; tight, reassuring. Conor. She opened her eyes briefly to see him close to her, his face comforting, or at least a good impression of it. His voice was low in her ear.

  “Don’t hit me,” he said, “but maybe you should try doing your breathing.”

  “Can’t . . .” she managed.

  “You can. You’ve been doing it all along. Come on. Just try. I’ll help you.”

  She did try, a little bit, expecting Conor to start puffing in unison. But he didn’t. Instead her rubbed her belly, quite vigorously like the midwife had shown them in antenatal classes. She didn’t know if it actually helped. But, on the other hand, it didn’t hurt.

  The contraction was at its peak now and she felt it slipping out of her control.

  “Jesus, Conor,” was all she whispered.

  He didn’t really humour her at all. Instead he said, “Just remember, Emily, you’re eight centimetres. You’re nearly there.”

  He kept saying that over and over, that she was nearly there and that the baby would soon be born. After a while she started to believe him. It didn’t get any easier but somehow it got more bearable. And he never let go of her hand.

  That was the way Mr Chapman found them twenty minutes later when he swished in wearing blue scrubs and smelling of canteen coffee.

  “Hello,” he said pleasantly.

  They looked at him as though he were an intruder. Possibly they didn’t recognise him in his scrubs. “It’s Mr Chapman,” he clarified rather sharply. And he after driving up from Cork too! Still, maybe they were annoyed that his predication of the birth date had been wildly off target. That would teach him.

  But no, they gave him a cursory greeting before going back to their breathing, both of them very concentrated, very calm really. Mind you, she was huffing much too fast in Mr Chapman’s opinion. They were trying to produce a baby here, not run a mini-marathon. He hoped she wouldn’t ask to take the placenta home to bury in the back garden. He wouldn’t put it past her.

  “She’s almost ten,” Jessica informed him crisply, after a quick exam.

  Of course she was. He wouldn’t be here otherwise. Like every other obstetrician, he only showed up for the grand finale.

  “Okay, Emily, we’re nearly there,” he said with his usual calm authority, snapping on gloves.

  Two other midwives joined them now. Mr Chapman liked to think it was because they had heard he was here. It didn’t occur to him that they had come for Emily, the woman who was fighting their court case for them in exactly one hour’s time.

  He had thought of the court case on the drive up. Cork’s management would be raging that he had not thought to ring them up and let them know that Emily Collins had gone into labour early. But his first loyalty was, as always, to his patient. And anyway, it was in the hands of the courts now. His job was to delivery her baby safe and sound.

  “Excellent,” he said, doing an exam. He felt the baby’s head under his fingertips, round and hard, straining to get out. “I think we can start getting ready to push, Emily. Jessica will tell you when.”

  The place was suddenly a flurry of activity. Two midwives helped Emily into the birthing position, slightly hunched over with her chin tucked into her chest, and her hands clamped under her thighs. One the midwives gave her quiet instructions on how to push – “One long push down. Keep it going as long as you can, okay?”

  Jessica took up residence in front of the monitor, watching and waiting. The fourth midwife was ready to assist Mr Chapman.

  “Ready?” Mr Chapman said, throwing a detached smile at Emily and Conor.

  They watched him with pale, tired, frightened faces. They looked very young, almost like teenagers, and for a moment he forgot that he heartily disliked the pair of them.

  “It’ll be all right, you know,” he said, kindly. The midwives looked up in surprise. He was not known for his bedside manner, and he felt a bit embarrassed now.

  “Well?” he barked brusquely at them. “How are we doing?”

  “Here comes one now,” Jessica announced, watching the monitor. “When I tell you, start pushing, Emily, okay?”

  On the bed, with her arms locked around her thighs and stringy hair falling in her eyes, Emily tried not to panic. She turned to Conor who was practically on the bed beside her. He was mucking in so much that he was nearly crowding her.

  “I’m afraid,” she whispered, as she felt the pain growing steadily stronger. “I don’t think the baby’s going to be able to get out down there.”

  “He will if he has my driving skills,” Conor reassured her.

  “Here we go!” Jessica cried enthusiastically. “Push now, Emily! PUSHHHH!”

  And Emily did. She dug her chin into her chest and gave a long, hoarse shout as she squeezed downwards with all her might. Blood rushed to her head with the strain and she fiercely hoped that nothing up there would burst.

  “Don’t let up-don’t let up-keep going-keep going,” Jessica chanted, her damned enthusiasm strangely infectious now. Emily did as she was told and kept going.

  “That’s it, Emily! You’re doing brilliantly!” Good lord – surely that wasn’t Conor shouting like he was at a football match? It was, and she bore down with all her strength one last time.

  “All right. Well done. Relax, Emily,” Jessica said. “Deep breaths.”

  Emily fell back onto the pillows, exhausted, feeling that her whole face must be hideously swollen. But it was strange, this feeling of exhilaration and excitement.

  Suddenly she was desperate to see this through, to hold her baby in her arms.

  “Can you see it yet?” she asked Mr Chapman breathlessly.

  “Um, no. It takes a bit more than one push.”

  “Oh.”

  But she didn’t lose heart. When the next contraction came, she attacked it with all her might. The midwives all started braying again and the room rocked to the roar of ‘Push!’. She was almost starting to enjoy herself.

  It was a different story fifteen minutes later.


  “I can’t do it any more. I can’t.” She was prostrate on the pillows, exhausted, sodden and defeated. Conor had used every last word of encouragement in his vocabulary and even Jessica was starting to repeat herself.

  “Here comes another one,” Jessica said. But Emily went at the next contraction only half-heartedly, feeling that she had nothing left to give.

  “You might need some help here, Emily,” Mr Chapman informed her, and she froze as she thought she saw him eyeing a large pair of forceps. Surely to God those things wouldn’t fit inside her? And if they did, how would he get them back out again with a baby’s head stuck between them?

  Conor saw her face. His voice was for her only. “Don’t give up now, Emily. After coming all this way. You’re on the last leg! Come on. I’ll help you. Let you help you.”

  “Here we go again,” Jessica announced.

  “Are you ready, Emily?” Conor asked. “Will we give it another go?”

  She looked at him. “Yes.”

  “PUSH!” Jessica shouted.

  Emily did. She felt she were going to split open with the effort but she kept pushing, Conor bearing down with her, his hands on her shoulders, his voice in her ear urging her on.

  Then, the magic words.

  “I have the head,” Mr Chapman murmured.

  “Ohmigod!” Emily squealed, beaming insanely at Conor.

  “I know. I know. It’s fantastic.” He smiled back almost as madly. “Good luck.”

  “Yes,” she said, and she went to work for the last time.

  Down below, Mr Chapman didn’t feel it necessary to give any running commentary. He had the baby’s head in his hands now. Its eyes were scrunched up tight and the little mouth puckered in outrage, all ready to bawl the second it had the breath to do so.

  Mr Chapman smiled although he was unaware he was doing so. Almost there. He had a shoulder out now. It was a fine big baby; he would put it at eight pounds or more. And boisterous. All that wriggling! He kept a careful eye on the perineum, but there was no sign of any tear. Good. There would be no need for any stitches at all.

  The rest happened very quickly, and the same as it always happened bar the odd few cases. Another push and he had baby out and he was holding him up to drain away any fluid from the respiratory tract, and he was saying those words, ‘It’s a boy’. Then he was cutting the cord and Jessica was helping to staple it and the baby, crying, suddenly opened his eyes and looked up at Mr Chapman in that blind way that newborns do. And Mr Chapman involuntarily thought of the grandchild he had been denied, the grandchild he would never deliver and who would never look up at him like that, and he felt bereft.

  “Mr Chapman? I need to weigh the baby.”

  “Of course.” Mr Chapman blinked and handed over the baby briskly to Jessica. He settled down to wait for the placenta to come out.

  He never spoke during this because he wanted to give the parents some privacy as they met their baby for the first time. But he couldn’t resist looking up to see Emily Collins bending over her bundle, shocked, exhilarated, uncomprehending. At least she was normal in that respect.

  The placenta was taking its time. He checked his watch. Ten-thirty. Two things struck him: the court case would be starting about now, and Killian and Andrea had a ten-thirty flight back from London. He knew, because he had booked it himself. Andrea had insisted on travelling on a Monday morning, as though she were trying to fool people that she was a businesswoman or something.

  He knew that they would not survive this, Killian and Andrea. He had seen the first traces of blame in her face already. He doubted that Killian had any notion yet.

  He found that he felt sympathy for his son, perhaps for the first time. Like most things in Killian’s life, the break-up would come from left of centre and take him completely by surprise.

  There was nothing Mr Chapman could do. His interference was not wanted, even though he preferred to think of it as protection and guidance. Was this what parenting finally came down to, merely picking up the pieces? Good luck to Emily Collins. She would need it.

  The placenta was finally out. He was finished.

  “Let’s have a look at the little fellow,” he said before he left, as he always did.

  Emily Collins looked up at him with shining eyes and held out her baby. Conor Collins hovered protectively. Mr Chapman peered in at the little face and nodded. “He’s lovely. Well done.”

  Emily Collins was tearful. “Mr Chapman – thanks. You were marvellous.”

  “My pleasure,” Mr Chapman said politely. He couldn’t resist adding, “And good luck in court today.”

  “Um, yes.”

  Mr Chapman left, followed by three of the midwives. Jessica pulled a blanket up on Emily.

  “Thanks.” Emily smiled hugely at Jessica, her new best friend.

  “I’ll be back shortly,” Jessica advised. “Then we’ll get you moved down to a post-natal ward.”

  Emily and Conor were left alone at last.

  “Are you all right?” Conor asked her.

  “Yes, yes,” she said impatiently. “My God, Conor! We have a baby!”

  And indeed they had. He was resting on Emily’s tummy.

  “Is he all right?” Conor ventured. “Can he breathe, do you think?”

  The baby was completely swaddled in a blue blanket, except for his face. His eyes were brown and were squinting against the glare of the fluorescent lights. Apart from that he didn’t make a move.

  “I think so,” Emily said, doubtful. “You know, he’s not at all how I imagined he would look.”

  “Well, you thought he would be a girl, didn’t you?” Conor said helpfully.

  “So did you!”

  “I said I didn’t care what it was so long as it was healthy,” he argued. “I hope he likes the colour yellow.”

  “Look at all that hair, Conor.”

  “What? Where?”

  “Where? On his head!”

  “Oh, right. Yes. I didn’t think they grew hair until they got out. Still, it suits him, don’t you think?”

  They just looked and looked at this baby, not sure what to make of him, not sure what to feel at all. Emily, her exhaustion kicking in now, was just glad that he was alive and healthy and normal. And, really, he was beautiful.

  “Isn’t he?”

  “What?” Conor said. He didn’t sound himself.

  “Beautiful.”

  Conor looked down at the baby for a long moment, considering. “He’s all wrinkled,” he said eventually. “He looks like a little old man.”

  “Yes,” Emily agreed. “My father.”

  “I suppose we’ll be calling him Robert so.”

  “Only if you think he looks like a Robert.”

  “He looks like a Robert.”

  And it was decided.

  Part Three

  She saw them the minute she entered the church, huddled together on a seat at the back. Her heart lifted as she went towards them.

  “Maggie!”

  Maggie looked up, confused for a moment. “Oh, Emily! Wow, look at your face! It’s all gone down!”

  “Thank you,” Emily said, not sure at all that this was a compliment. “And Dee! And Laura! You’re great for coming.”

  “We wouldn’t have missed it.”

  It was marvellous to see them all again, and there were hugs and kisses and exclamations all around. They had all meant to meet up ages ago, of course, but between one thing and another . . .

  “And you’ve brought all the babies!” Emily exclaimed. Four car seats were lined up on the pew in front. The babies were all magnificently decked out in Baby Gap and Gymboree. She hadn’t seen any of them since they were newborns.

  “Look at little Chloe! She’s gone huge!” she swooned, leaning in to tickle Maggie’s baby under the chin.

  “That’s actually my Regina,” Dee clarified.

  “Of course it is,” Emily said, mortified at having offended two women in the one breath. But Dee then said, “At le
ast you didn’t think she was a boy. Most people do.”

  And they all guffawed heartily.

  “What did you call the twins in the end, Laura?” Emily asked.

  “Baby 1 and Baby 2,” Laura sighed. “We just can’t make up our minds.”

  “Well, come on then!” Maggie cried. “Let’s see the man of the moment!”

  Emily shyly held out her own car seat. Robert was sleeping, a miracle in itself. She’d snatched the soother out of his mouth on the church steps and was glad now. None of the girls’ babies had soothers. A lot of parenting books frowned on them.