Necessary Secrets

by Barbara Phinney

  Yes! The truck was parked askew in front, but—his heart leaped to his throat—the driver door stood open. And, he blinked, snow had already drifted in onto the seat.

  How long had it been there? Where was Sylvie?

  Another squall swallowed up the truck again.

  Something had gone wrong. Something was really, really wrong.

  Soaring over the far edge, Jon braced himself for the impact of his low-riding sports car hitting the hard ground.

  It wasn’t any less than he expected. He slammed into the steering wheel. Damn, he’d forgotten to buckle his seat belt. Gearing up, he pushed the engine harder through the swirling snow.

  The truck appeared abruptly, way too close. Too late, Jon rammed his foot on the brakes. “Holy f—”

  He was going to broadside Sylvie’s truck.

  At sixty kilometers per hour.

  Chapter 19

  Groggily Jon sat up, tasting blood in his mouth from where he’d slammed into the steering wheel.

  He blinked away the brain fog, squinted away the memory of the crushing metal and breaking glass that still rang in his head.

  Sylvie!

  Scrambling out of the car, he screamed out her name. He tore around the truck and slipped once, nearly losing his footing as he struggled to reach the door.

  He threw it open.

  “Sylvie!”

  She lay on the bench, her eyes shut, her jacket shed and wrapped around her abdomen. Beside her was the come-along hook. The air was still, a scent he couldn’t recognize lingering over the fading odor of burning wood.

  Inside the door was a pool of water, now crusting over with ice. He ground the tiny shards underfoot as he stalked over to her.

  “Sylvie!”

  Her eyelids pressed tightly shut, as her brows knitted together. She drew a deep hiss in between clenched teeth. In the dim light, he could see her face redden.

  “Jon?”

  He grabbed her hand. “It’s me. Open your eyes. Tell me what’s happening.”

  She opened her eyes and glared at him as she bit down on the words, “I’m having the freaking baby!”

  Jon froze, a curse caught in his throat as shock chilled his muscles.

  He threw off the fear as he scanned the shack. “We’ve got to get you out of here.” He did a quick survey. She didn’t seem hurt, but her pants were soaking. Her water had broken. “Sylvie, you’ve got to sit up. Remember what the nurse said? You shouldn’t lie down. It cuts off the blood flow.”

  She nodded, gripping his arm as he helped her sit up. Once she’d stopped weaving, he turned around and grabbed a large log. He shoved in behind her and covered it with his coat. She eased out of the way, so he could use the bottom hem to pad her buttocks.

  Knees fallen open, she sat forward, humped over her swollen belly. She’d grown big since he left.

  Oh, boy. He had to get her out of here.

  In what?

  With a glance to the door, he did a quick mental calculation. He’d investigated enough traffic accidents to know that slamming into her truck with his car had made both vehicles useless.

  Dread washed over him.

  He leaned behind the startled Sylvie and grabbed his cell phone from his coat pocket. “Honey, I’ll have to call 911.”

  She flung her head back and pressed her hands on her abdomen. “Gee, Sherlock, you went to the police academy for that? Argg!”

  The cell phone slipped from his hands and dropped to the floor. Cursing, he picked it up. “I’m afraid I just smashed both of our vehicles up. I have to call for help, okay?”

  “Don’t bother with 911, Jon,” she gritted out. “The ambulance in town won’t make it here and they wouldn’t know where to go, anyway.”

  “Let them make that decision, okay?”

  She grabbed his hand, her fingers digging into the ten-dons at his wrist. “They won’t get here in time!”

  Jon stared at her. Was she right? How the hell were they going to get help, then? Damn, he wished he’d listened more carefully to Lawrence’s long lessons on childbirth. Instead, he’d been wrapped up in searching for answers—answers that didn’t matter one blasted iota anymore.

  “Wait!” He straightened the phone and dialed a number, praying he had it right after all these months.

  Sylvie looked up. “Who are you calling?”

  “Major Tirouski.”

  “Are you nuts? What’s he going to do? Look, Jon, we’re having this baby here. I don’t want—”

  “Major?” He hated to cut her off midsentence, but damn it, the major was their only hope.

  A few minutes later, after he’d turned away from Sylvie, he hung up.

  She shifted to get more comfortable. “What did he say?”

  Jon sat beside her, taking her hand and brushing the strand of wayward hair from her eyes. “He said he’s sending the local militia’s doctor out in the ‘box-amb.’ Whatever that is.”

  Sylvie nodded. “It’s a four-wheel-drive ambulance. Actually, I think it’ll work. The driver should know where we are. They come out here and cross our land all summer long.” She was breathing heavily.

  He brushed her face with his hand. “Hang in there, hon. They’ll be here soon.”

  She shook her head. She tried to laugh, but it came out in a heavy, short burst. “They won’t make it in time, Jon.” Another contraction hit. “Ohh! Talk to me. Take my mind off these contractions, please.”

  He stood. “I will, hon. First up, I’ll fix that fire. Then we have to get you ready.” Holy mother, how could he sound so calm?

  “Jon!”

  He turned. She was rocking herself, her face blotchy and pinched.

  “Why are you here?”

  He stopped crumpling the newspaper. “Because I love you. I was hurt by what you’d told me about Rick, and I had to leave right away before I did something really stupid.” He checked his panic. He was a cop. He could handle the tough stuff. “But…lately I’ve come to see that you were coping the only way you knew how, both in the truck that night and, you know, this past summer. You’d been traumatized and well…you managed. He scrunched up the paper again. “Look, I’d lost a brother, but you believed you’d killed him.”

  Tears streamed down her face and he stopped his talking to quickly stoke the fire, pour what water had melted from the plastic jug into the pot and set it on top to boil. When the fire caught, he returned to her side. “You didn’t kill Rick. And it took my father’s friend to force me to face the real issues. Yes, I was angry at you because you lived and Rick didn’t. It tore me apart because, damn it, I was beginning to care for you. But that’s not all.”

  She swallowed and stared up at him, her misty eyes wide with sympathy.

  Outside, the wind died slightly. He took advantage of the relative quiet around them to finish saying what he needed to say. “Carter forced me to realize that I hadn’t dealt with the end of my marriage and especially not with Rick’s death. Mostly because I couldn’t fight back like I had by being a police officer in the city that killed my father. Like I had when I came here. I bulldozed my way into your life and tried to make you talk. Those were things I could do. But with Rick’s death, I couldn’t correct the mistakes made. When you told me you’d killed Rick, I knew then that I couldn’t fight you because I love you.”

  His stomach clenched. “My father’s friend said I was too scared to read the autopsy report. He was right. I hadn’t looked at it yet.”

  She stared at him, panting lightly, and he was at least thankful his miserable explanation was taking her mind off the contractions. He continued, “The final autopsy report was clear. Rick died from a blood clot, not shock. Not loss of blood. Not sex. Not anything you did. The doctor in Bosnia had done everything he could. You’d done everything right, too. But a small blood clot must have broken loose and traveled to his brain. It can happen, even in nonlife-threatening injuries.” He cleared his throat to stop his voice from cracking. “He didn’t suffer.”

&nbs
p; A small noise escaped from Sylvie’s mouth. “I’m sorry.”

  He couldn’t stop himself from talking. “I still blamed you and that got me thinking. That friend of my father’s, his partner, didn’t kill Dad. A stoned drug pusher did.”

  She was crying openly now, the tears streaming down her heated cheeks, one slipping around her bottom lip before sliding down her chin.

  He held her. “You taught me how to cope, did you know that? You had tried to let go of your regrets. I thought I needed to know how Rick died to find some kind of closure, so you risked whatever peace you’d found so I could have it.”

  He pressed his hand on her abdomen, feeling it tighten to a hard mass in one undulating, painful wave. “Breathe, Sylvie, like we learned. In, one, two, three…” He counted for her, as she followed his instructions.

  Finally she whispered, “I knew I had to tell you the truth. I couldn’t stand to see you suffer anymore. You’re right. I was a coward and I was scared. But I did everything I could. I’m just hoping that we’re not going to lose this baby like we lost Rick. It’s too soon.”

  Tears sprang into his own eyes. “We won’t. The doctor will come soon.”

  The phone burred in the quiet shack. He let go of Sylvie gently to pick it up where he’d dropped it. “Hello?”

  “Jon Cahill? This is Captain McInnis. I’m a doctor with the First Lethbridge Regiment. I’m on my way. Can you give me the mother’s status?”

  Jon blinked at Sylvie. “Um. She’s having hard contractions every few minutes. But she’s not due until…?”

  “December seventeenth,” Sylvie finished for him.

  “December seventeenth,” he told the doctor. “And her water broke a while ago.” He caught Sylvie’s stricken look. “When?”

  “A couple of hours ago. Maybe more.” She tightened. “I want to push!”

  “Don’t let her push, Jon!” the doctor ordered him. “Not yet. Get her pants off. I want you to tell me if you can see the baby.”

  See the baby? What? “Damn it, Doc, can’t you just get here?”

  “I’ll be there, Jon, but listen, I’m still half an hour away, so you’re going to have to help. I hear you’re a police officer. Haven’t you ever helped deliver a baby?”

  “No! Do you know how many hospitals there are in Toronto? I’ve always managed to get the mom to one in time.”

  The doctor chuckled. “Take off her pants and see if you can see the baby’s head.”

  With Sylvie’s help, he managed to pull her pants free. She settled back against the log, her legs splayed open and Jon swallowed hard.

  They were going to have to go this alone. And he’d refused to look at all those pictures Lawrence had found of baby’s heads and crowning and deliveries.

  “Jon?” The doctor interrupted his growing horror. “Jon, feel her abdomen. Can you indent the skin above the navel any during a contraction?”

  He did as he was asked. “No.”

  “Okay. Look down at the labia, Jon. That’s where the baby will come out. Can you see the top of the head?”

  He couldn’t. That had to be a good sign. “No.”

  “Okay. Do you have latex gloves? Can you wash up?”

  He had a first-aid kit in the car. After racing out to retrieve it, he returned. Sylvie was panting hard through another contraction.

  “Jon?” The doctor’s tinny voice hit him.

  He grabbed the phone. “Yeah?”

  “Got the gloves on?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is it warm in there?”

  “I’m sweating.” He’d tried to make a joke, but it didn’t work.

  “The important thing to remember is to keep the baby warm, should it come before we get there. A coat, shirt, anything, even tin foil if you have it. Keep the baby’s head covered, but not its face.”

  Sylvie groaned. Wiping his face on his shoulder, Jon looked down. There had been a distinctive change down there. Rounded like. With tufts of soft dark hair.

  “The head is coming, Doc! Hurry up!”

  “Okay. Tell her to pant, not to push through her next contraction. Let’s let the head deliver between the contractions. This will help her not to tear. Be prepared to support the head. I want you to push gently on the skin below where the head is coming. Gently but firmly.”

  Kneeling down, Jon cradled the phone between his cheek and shoulder. With a deep breath, he reached forward. The skin below a bloodied tuft of dark hair felt hot and tight, stretched beyond what was humanly possible. “I’ve never delivered a baby before, Doc,” he reminded him. “It was always a point of pride to know I was five minutes away from a hospital, anywhere in Toronto.”

  “Guess what, Dorothy, you aren’t in Kansas anymore. Okay, how’s the mum?”

  He looked up at Sylvie. “Okay?”

  “I’m going to push, damn it! Right now!”

  The doctor heard her. “Tell her to hold and pant! Tell her to wait until the contraction is done and then she can give it a good push. Tell her, Jon!”

  He told her. Her furious panting cut through the still air like a hot knife through butter.

  With one hand on her hard abdomen, and the other at the ready, he waited until the contraction passed. “Now,” he told her.

  “Arrgg!”

  A tiny bloodied head slipped through and into his hand. He dropped the phone. “It’s here, Doc! The head!”

  “Good!” the doctor yelled out. “Pick up the phone, Jon! And hold the baby’s head up. Nice and gently.”

  He did.

  “Can you see the cord?”

  He searched gingerly. “No.”

  The baby turned his head, gliding his squat nose along Sylvie’s glistening thigh.

  “Okay, Jon, listen. The baby will turn its head. I want you to support it. Ask Sylvie to hold her pushing through the next contraction, then push firmly, but not hard. The upper shoulder should come out first.”

  “It’s out.”

  “Good. Tilt the head up slightly. As soon as the lower shoulder’s out, the body will slip out really fast. Hold the head with one hand and get ready to hold the rest of the body with the other. Be careful, it’s going to be slippery. Get close and use your lap.”

  His nephew slipped out just as the doctor had said. An incredibly small, red and very angry little baby boy.

  “He’s out! Sylvie, it’s a boy!”

  “Jon, put him on his back and cover him with the cleanest thing you have.”

  Jon wrapped him in Sylvie’s jacket. “Doc, what do I do now?”

  “With a clean cloth, wipe his nose and mouth. Gently. Lift up his bum slightly to help drain his nose and mouth. Is he breathing?”

  “I don’t know.” Jon’s heart lodged in his throat. Come on, little Rickie, breathe. Breathe!

  “Rub his back, Jon, and keep his head lowered and slightly downward. He may not start to breathe on his own.”

  Jon rubbed his back. “Come on, breathe for Uncle Jon.”

  The baby let out a tiny little gasp and squawk. Relief washed through Jon, and he looked up at Sylvie. The phone slipped down his arm to hit the floor again. Sylvie laughed.

  The baby let out another squawk, followed by a louder, stronger and angrier cry.

  “Jon! Jon!”

  He retrieved the phone. “He’s angry, but he’s crying, Doc!”

  And so am I, he thought. Through his own tears, he looked up at Sylvie. She sank back, tired and sweating and glowing, with her own streams of tears glittering in the firelight. God, she looked great.

  “Good,” the doctor said. “Excellent. Wrap him up so only his face is exposed. Put him on Sylvie’s abdomen.”

  He did as the doctor ordered. “He’s perfect, Sylvie. Like his mother.” Jon leaned forward and kissed her firmly on the lips. “I love you. I want to be your husband and I want to be a father to this baby.”

  Sylvie wrapped one arm around the baby. She looked up at him. “You’re already his father, Jon.”

  The doctor
yelled out, “There’s going to be another hard contraction and having the baby on her abdomen will help. How’s the cord, Jon?”

  He scooped up his phone, finding it hard to hold while his hands were so wet and bloodied. “White and just lying there. It’s long.”

  “It should be.”

  “Do I have to cut it?”

  “No. Don’t cut it. I’ll be there soon. It’s messy, but it’s perfectly safe to keep the cord and placenta with the baby for several hours. Now find another cloth and get ready to guide the placenta out as it delivers. Don’t pull it! I want you to wrap it up in the cloth and lay it on top of the baby’s stomach. Get Sylvie to push through the next contraction.”

  Jon blinked and waited. And sweated. Above him, the baby cried and above the baby, Sylvie leaned forward. Her arms protecting the baby, she pushed hard.

  The doctor yelled out, “We’re here, Jon! I see the shack.”

  By the time Jon turned his head, the doctor was barreling in the door.

  Chapter 20

  “The clinic said you could have had the ceremony right there in the maternity ward, you know.” Lawrence grimaced as he loosened his buttoned-up collar. “It would have been good to have Rick, Jr., at your wedding.”

  Jon loosened his own tie. “Then you wouldn’t get to wear your good suit.”

  “Why do you think I suggested it?”

  Overhearing them, Sylvie walked up and looped her arm with Jon’s. “Rickie’s kind of busy right now, getting strong enough to leave that incubator.” She smiled up at Jon. “I promised the nurse I’d come straight back after the wedding. She wants me to try breast-feeding him again.”

  “Breast is best,” Lawrence quoted. “But for me, punch is best.” He peered into his empty glass.

  Sylvie watched Lawrence head toward the punch bowl, where her father and Andrea were chatting with Major Tirouski.

  She’d been a bit wary when she’d seen him standing at the back of the church, in his dress greens, closest to the aisle and the exit. But he nodded briefly, almost in approval.