by Judy Baer
“Not anymore, Randall.”
“But you said right here…” He waved the paper under her nose.
I put my hand on his arm. “Women in labor often change their minds about things. The plan isn’t etched in stone. The mom is always in charge.”
“Then why do we have it?” Nervous Father morphed into Crotchety One. “What do we need a doctor for,” Randall yelped, “if she’s already making all the decisions?”
“Anything medically necessary will override a birth plan. This is just a guide, a map, to let everyone know how she’d like things to proceed.”
“Too messy. Much too messy,” he muttered. “I thought things would be much more organized than this.”
“Don’t worry, things are remarkably well organized.”
I spun around at the sound of Dr. Reynolds’s voice. At least I thought it was his voice. Chipper, cheerful, encouraging—all the things he never is when he talks to me.
He walked into the room with the easy, confident gait of an athlete. He would no doubt get a haircut in a week or so but I preferred the gentle curl currently threatening his dark hair. It made him softer and more accessible.
He bent over Ellen like a tender father consoling a child. I couldn’t hear what he said, but I watched the tension bleed from her body as he spoke. Oh, he is good, very good.
Then Randall flung himself toward Dr. Reynolds waving the troublesome plan. “What kind of monitoring is she having? Intermittent or continuous? It says here…”
I saw Ellen stiffen. Not good. Giving birth was job enough without contemplating how to fling one’s husband through an open window to the pavement three stories below. I went to my bag and pulled out a candle with the promising moniker Serenity. We could use a little of that right now. The scents of chamomile and lavender usually do the trick. I’m not sure how much good any of this does, but anything that makes a mother more comfortable and content works for me. Then I recalled a new candle I’d just purchased. It’s called Stressless and promises to relieve stress with a mixture of lavender, lemon and sage. I glanced at Randall as he hovered over Ellen’s bed, bouncing slightly on his toes.
Stressless it is, then.
I lit the candle, and a delicious scent slowly began to waft its way through the room. Now things were moving in a direction I liked. The calmer the mom, the better.
Suddenly a volcanic-size eruption came from the foot of Ellen’s bed.
“Aaaaaachoooooo! Ah…ah…ah…choooooo!” Randall dived for the box of tissues on Ellen’s bedside table. His eyes were streaming. “What is that? Oo hab to bow it owdt!”
I and Dr. Reynolds stared at the man as he snuffled into a wad of damp tissue. “Aaachooo!”
“He said ‘You have to blow it out.’ There’s sage in that candle,” Ellen explained calmly, as if she were vaguely glad that her husband was suddenly occupied elsewhere. “Randall is allergic to sage.”
“I’ll put it right out.”
Before I could even turn around, Ellen added hopefully, “Or maybe Randall should leave?”
“I don wanna leab you!” He snuffled.
“Just for a few minutes, perhaps,” I said.
Ellen squeezed my hand in agreement.
“I’ll open a window. The sage scent will be gone shortly and you can come back.”
He gave his wife a watery glance and she nodded encouragingly. Apparently even for her, a little of Randall goes a long way. It wasn’t my best moment, but I was beginning to wish—as were, I sensed, his wife and Dr. Reynolds—that Summers would go away…far, far away.
No such luck. Instead he hovered outside the door like a vulture over carrion, waiting for the sage to dissipate so he could land again.
“Thank you,” Ellen whispered, “but maybe you could burn the candle just a little longer?”
Dr. Reynolds turned aside, but I could see him fighting a grin.
I went into the hall to shepherd Randall, but it didn’t take long for him to insist on returning to the room—and the birth plan.
“Ellen, it says here than you want the baby to have a pacifier!” Mr. Summers sounded appalled, as if he were discovering this for the very first time. Maybe he was the type of guy who never really did believe his wife was going to give birth, that somehow the child would magically appear in the hospital nursery via UPS—Unusually Prolific Stork—like a package of Omaha Steaks or an order from the JCPenney catalog. “Did you read the material I gave you? Do you know how much dental work costs?”
“The baby won’t be using a pacifier forever,” Ellen said sharply. “It will be done with the pacifier before it has teeth!” Beads of sweat broke out on her brow and I, working around Randall, sponged her forehead with a cool towel.
“Just stay calm,” Dr. Reynolds said. “We don’t want your blood pressure to jump. It won’t be long now….”
Randall started flapping his arms in excitement. He resembled a greater sandhill crane, a bird with a seven-foot wingspan, trying to take off.
A tic started along the imperturbable Dr. Reynolds’s jaw. Randall was even getting to him.
Ellen stared at me as if an idea were coming to her.
“Molly,” she whispered so only I and her doctor could hear. “Would you mind if I fired you, then rehired you for my husband instead? I’ve got Dr. Reynolds. Randall doesn’t have anyone and… Oh!” She grimaced at a contraction. “And he’s driving me nuts.”
Welcome to the crowd.
“It’s no problem for me but what about him?”
“Leave us alone for a moment, will you? I’ll talk to him.”
Dr. Reynolds and I looked at each other and nodded. Finally, something about which we were agreed. Together we backed toward the door to the hallway.
“Where are you going?” Randall’s nose twitched as if he smelled a conspiracy in the air. He looked up from the birth plan he held as we headed for the door. The fresh breeze had already helped his sneezing. “Aren’t you supposed to be here for my wife? You aren’t going to let any interns or residents in here, are you? This specifically states that no unnecessary personnel be present.”
“Here.” Ellen pointed to a spot on the floor beside her. “Now.”
We made our escape to stand by a wall of charts near the nurses’ desk. I shifted from one foot to the other, unable to think of a thing to say. The doctor is spectacular at a distance but standing this close to him was downright unnerving. Even his earlobes are good-looking.
“I’ve seen a lot,” Dr. Reynolds muttered, “but this takes the cake.”
“I’ve worked with Mr. and Mrs. Summers for some time. I didn’t suspect we’d have any issues. Of course, Mr. Summers never appeared to be paying attention but…”
He looked at me intently, his mesmerizing eyes boring into mine. “You don’t mind working with him? He’s a case.”
“I’m all about whatever the mother needs. If she needs someone to babysit her husband, so be it.” I felt a little short of breath in close proximity with this man. Maybe I’m allergic to him, I thought wildly. I hope that’s it.
“Maybe there is one decent reason to have a doula in a birthing room,” he commented under his breath, a statement obviously not meant for my ears.
I suppose I should have been happy that he’d found anything good at all about my profession, but it was the most backhanded compliment I’ve ever heard.
“Do you think she’s had time to convince him?” I glanced at my watch.
“She’d better have. That baby isn’t going to wait for her husband to make up his mind.” He squared his shoulders. “Neither am I.”
One would have thought it was Randall who was about to give birth. By the time we returned to the room, he’d opened the collar of his shirt and was holding a plastic glass full of ice chips to his forehead. The ice chips did nothing to help the fact that he was hyperventilating and his eyes were beginning to bulge.
I dove for my canvas shoulder bag and took out a small paper bag. “Here, blow into this.”
I opened the bag and helped Mr. Summers put it over his nose and mouth. Gradually, as carbon dioxide returned to his system, his breathing slowed.
His eyes grew wide over the paper bag. “It works,” he mumbled and the paper bag crinkled. His knees buckled and he grabbed my arm to steady himself.
“Why don’t you and I sit down over here, out of the doctor’s way?” I nudged him gently toward a large leather recliner. “You need to rest. You’ve been under a lot of strain.”
“I have been, haven’t I?” He melted like chocolate in my palm.
“You’ll be a new father soon. You need to be calm and strong for Ellen and the baby.”
“Calm and strong…” As the wind came out of his sails, the skittish blowhard disappeared and his more vulnerable side emerged. The poor man was a mass of twitching nerves.
“Focus on your breathing. Inhale…exhale… That’s right….”
Ellen gave me a thumbs-up.
From the corner of my eye I saw Dr. Reynolds look at me with a mixture of relief and disbelief before he turned back to his patient. For an instant I felt an unsaintly smugness. There are horse whisperers, and there is a reason Tony calls me a “father whisperer” in the birthing room.
“That’s right, Mr. Summers. Just let your eyes focus on something on the other side of the room and concentrate on your breath….”
There is nothing, absolutely nothing, like being a part of escorting a new soul into the world. In this case it was Marie Constance Summers, named after her two grandmothers and the apple of her parents’ eyes before she’d even emerged.
I stayed with Ellen and Randall until they had counted Marie’s fingers and toes, decided she had Randall’s ears and Ellen’s lips. When Ellen was ready for me to leave, I stowed my things in the back of my car and headed for the hospital cafeteria where Tony was waiting for me.
He had a piece of strawberry shortcake, a pork chop and a pile of sauerkraut on the plate in front of him.
“Why are you eating?” I dropped into the seat beside his.
“I couldn’t very well sit in the cafeteria and not eat, could I? It’s impolite.”
“Tell that to everyone in here who is just drinking coffee.”
“Someone has to support this hospital. This is my small way of keeping Bradshaw solvent.”
“You’re a saint, Tony.”
“Thank you.” He dug into his sauerkraut. “How was the birth?”
“At the last moment Dr. Reynolds stepped in for Dr. Lannard.”
His dark eyebrows shot up toward his hairline. “How’d it go?”
“Could have been worse.” I picked up the spoon on his tray. “Can I have a piece of that shortcake?”
“I thought we were going out to eat.”
“You’re eating an entire meal. How can you go out for dinner?”
“I’ll use one of my other stomachs.”
“When did you become a ruminant?”
“Okay, I’ll get a to-go box. This will be my midnight snack.” Tony jumped to his feet and trotted toward the counter. Narrow hipped and broad shouldered, he was oblivious to the three women staring at him with yearning in their eyes. If he could ever figure out how to bottle his charisma, the man would be a millionaire. Women would pour it into their husbands’ breakfast cereal by the gallon.
He returned with two small boxes, loaded them with cake, pork and sauerkraut and stacked them one on top of the other.
“Maybe I should put this in the refrigerator in the staff room. I can have it for a snack tomorrow,” he suggested. “Let’s run upstairs right now.”
I trailed behind him as Tony led the way, greeting every single person on the staff by name.
“You are a social butterfly,” I commented. I can be exceptionally outgoing, but next to Tony, I’m a hermit.
“Actually, I’m more of a social hummingbird,” he corrected as we entered the break room. “I like to take pleasure in a flower and move on.” His white grin flashed in his sun-bronzed face.
“And I’m the flower of the moment? What? A dandelion?”
He touched my red hair. “A tiger lily, red, fierce and beautiful.”
He opened the refrigerator door and stashed his food in a corner. Then he turned around and put his hands on my shoulders. “For you, Molly, instead of being a hummingbird, I might consider becoming a parakeet in a gilded cage.”
“Caged? Is that your euphemism for marriage?”
“What do you think?”
“I think, Tony DeMatteo, that you are so full of blarney it’s a shame you aren’t Irish. I also think that the only reason you say these things to me is because you know perfectly well I’m not going to fall for them. You use me to practice your new pickup lines and sweet talk. And you are hoping to soften me up so much that I’ll offer to buy you dinner. Well, here’s the news flash. We’ll each pay our own way because you eat too much and I can’t afford you. I’m completely impervious to your flattery because I grew up with a bunch of Irishmen who have the patent on smooth-talking blather like this. And you know you’re safe with me because I’m not going to run out and subscribe to a bunch of bridal magazines and insist you go shopping with me for a white dress.”
“You look lovely in white,” Tony teased. “Almost as good as you look in green.”
“I’m onto you, Tony.”
He looked at me pensively. “What if I’m telling the truth?” He took my hand, trying to lure me in. “‘Truth is truth to the end of reckoning.’”
“Then I still wouldn’t believe you.”
“You see my problem, then, don’t you? If I do decide I want to marry you, you’ll just laugh me off.”
“Because it will be hilarious and you know it.”
“It’s why I love you, because you have a head as hard as a brick.”
“And I don’t let you get away with anything.”
“That, too.” Tony bent down and put a light kiss on my forehead.
Unfortunately Clay Reynolds chose that very moment to enter the staff room.
What my little tête-à-tête with Tony looked like to Clay, I had no idea, but I knew it couldn’t be good. If he doesn’t approve of doulas in the birthing rooms, he certainly doesn’t put a stamp of approval on doulas committing hanky-panky—or what looks like hanky-panky—in the break room.
The storm-cloud expression on his features made Tony and me hurry out of the room and toward the balmier climes of the Polynesian restaurant just down the street.
Chapter Seven
Louie’s Bamboo Hut isn’t exactly a Polynesian paradise, but we managed to get into the spirit of the islands anyway. Tony ordered the fresh mahi-mahi, and I decided on my standby, pad Thai with chicken. Louie personally took our order and brought us our favorite drinks—diet cola with extra ice for Tony, iced tea with an umbrella in it for me.
Even though the Bamboo Hut is just a hole-in-the-wall restaurant, I feel special that someone takes my preferences into account. Remembering the penchants and favorites of others has served me well as a doula. Mothers love the fact that I know exactly what they want almost before they do—banana Popsicles, ginger ale, fizzy raspberry-flavored water or a massage.
My mother maintains that what I do requires a servant’s heart. The more I think about it, the more I have to agree. The honor of being present at a child’s birth—and providing for their mothers during the amazing process—is astounding to me. I have the opportunity to witness a miracle every time I go to work.
“What are you thinking about?” Tony waved a paper-wrapped straw in front of my face. “You’re smiling like the Mona Lisa. Do you have a great secret you won’t tell?”
“Just something my mother said.” I told him about the servant’s-heart comment.
“She’s right.” One of Tony’s greatest charms is that he listens—really listens—to what I have to say. “You bring a nurturing touch to the birthing experience.” Another one of his attributes—he’s totally in touch with his sensitive side. “Everybody h
as gifts. This is one of yours.” He grinned. “That and painting gigantic pictures and knitting ridiculous hats.”
“What’s your gift, Tony?” Our conversations often broach subjects like this. We both come from families that believe that dinner is a forum for both children and adults to share their thoughts and to fill minds as well as stomachs. Tony and I can’t have food in front of us without solving a world problem or two.
He absently moved a big slice of pineapple off his salad as he considered the question. “I’m not sure. What do you think?”
“You are a peacemaker and a poet. I don’t know anyone who is better at making and keeping connections between people than you are. Look at all the women you’ve dated and how much they all still love you.”
“So I’m a lover, not a peacemaker?” A lock of black hair curled against his forehead and his eyes lit playfully at the thought.
“Your talent is keeping peace in difficult situations. I’ve never known anyone who could do it better,” I assured him, thinking of all the women who were crazy about Tony even after he broke up with them.
“If that’s the case,” he responded with a mischievous glint in his eye, “let’s see if I can keep the peace when Dr. Reynolds reads us the riot act about smooching in the break room.”
“We weren’t smooching. You kissed my forehead. You and I don’t smooch.”
“So sad,” Tony said blithely. “One of my biggest regrets. I think we should remedy that, don’t you?”
Before I could set him straight, Tony looked up and his gaze fixed on the front wall of the restaurant.
My back to the door, I couldn’t see why Tony was staring toward the entrance.
“And look who just walked in,” he commented. “The great Dr. Clay Reynolds, eating at Louie’s Bamboo Hut? How the mighty have fallen. I didn’t know you could eat at a place like this when you were born with a silver spoon in your mouth. Doesn’t the acid in the pineapple tarnish the silver or something?”
“Be nice.” I put a finger to my lip.
“He doesn’t appreciate you,” Tony pointed out. “Why should I be nice to him?”