“Mr. Barnett, come and take a look at your baby’s head,” the doctor said.
“Brock!” Mara exploded. “I hate…hate…hate…”
“Don’t worry,” the nurse told him. “This kind of outburst is very common in the transition between the stages of contractions and pushing. She’s not completely aware of what she’s saying.”
But Mara was aware. It was him. Brock Barnett. She watched him walking to the end of the gurney. He couldn’t be here! She didn’t want him!
“Can you see the baby’s head?” The doctor showed Brock where to look.
“Oh, wow! Mara!” Brock leaped to her side and grabbed her hand again. “I saw the baby! It’s right there, the head!”
“Really?” Mara heard her own voice filled with tired elation. A baby! That’s what this was all about, wasn’t it? The contraction had faded a little, and she wondered who she’d been barking at. This man in the blue mask? But he was so wonderful…standing there with her, holding her hand, helping her through. “How much can you see?”
“A circle about the size of a dime. And hair. Blond hair!”
“My baby has hair. I feel so…ohhh…”
“It’s another contraction,” Brock announced as he focused on the monitor’s rising line. “Help her, doc!”
“Why don’t you help her, Brock?” The doctor laid a hand on his shoulder. “Help Mara maintain the rhythm of her breathing.”
“I have to push,” Mara puffed. The sensation came over her like a rush of floodwater from a broken dam. And it felt wonderful to turn the contraction into something productive!
“Push!” she groaned.
“Not yet, Mara,” Dr. Fielding warned. “Try to hold back for me.”
“Hold back?” Her voice came out in a squeak of dismay.
“We need just a minute to get ready for the delivery.” As he spoke, a nurse wheeled a cart of silver bowls and instruments beside the doctor. An anesthesiologist wrapped a cuff around Mara’s upper arm to read her blood pressure.
Mara flung her arm out toward Brock, her hand open wide. A tear squeezed out of the corner of her eye and slipped down her cheek and onto her earlobe. “Brock,” she moaned.
He hesitated briefly, then he leaned forward and dabbed the tear with his finger. “It’s okay, Mara,” he murmured. “You can push in a minute.”
The words swirled around inside her head as she fought the flood tide urging her forward. She had to push! There was absolutely no way to hold back. A warm hand brushed the side of her cheek. It was Brock’s hand, and she was so thankful for it. She turned her face into his palm and pressed her lips to the callused flesh.
“We’re ready for delivery,” he was whispering against her ear. “You’ll be fine.”
“I’m scared. Please don’t leave me, Brock.”
“I won’t. I’ll stay right with you, Mara. You can do this.”
“Oh, Brock, I’m so…ohhh…”
The nurse flipped on a light above the gurney. “It’s okay to push now, Mara,” she said gently.
Mara hardly needed permission. Gripping the hand-holds at her sides, she summoned more strength than she had ever known she possessed. The core of her body seemed to glow as she strained toward it. The room around her vanished, all but the ultimate focused urge to push.
And then the contraction waned. Her head fell back, and she drank in a breath. She stared at the end of the gurney, at her legs draped in a green sheet. But before she could even begin to relax, another wave began. Brock stood at her side, holding her hand as she poured her energy into the effort.
“Brock,” she whispered through panting breaths. “Don’t go away.”
“Never, Mara.”
“Stay with me.”
“I’m right here.”
She felt as though her face were about to explode. The skin over her knuckles went white as she drove all her energy into the push. At this moment, she could move a mountain.
“Mara, look up into the mirror,” Dr. Fielding instructed. “Brock! Come see!”
“I’ll be right back,” Brock told Mara.
At the foot of the gurney, he let out a cry. “Mara—it’s the forehead! Tiny eyes…a little nose…two ears…a mouth. It’s a—a baby….”
“Once more, Mara,” the doctor told her. “Let’s get this little one out into the world.”
She watched in the overhead mirror as Dr. Fielding cradled the precious life. She pushed again. A shoulder emerged, then another, so small and delicate they hardly seemed real. And she pushed again. The infant slid into the world, a perfect jewel.
“It’s a girl!” Brock shouted.
“A girl!” Mara’s echoing voice wavered between laughter and tears. “Thank You, God! Is she all right?”
A sudden piercing cry announced that Mara’s newborn daughter was indeed fine. Her vision swam with tears as Dr. Fielding handed Brock a pair of scissors to cut the umbilical cord. Mara had never seen anything in her life as beautiful as that tiny, precious baby.
“She’s a dandy,” the doctor remarked. The baby’s holler faded to a whimper as he laid her on Mara’s chest. Tears rolled down the new mother’s cheeks at the sweet, soft pressure of her daughter’s body against her own. She touched tiny arms and tinier fingers.
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” Mara whispered against the child’s delicate cheek. “Mama’s right here.”
“She’s a little early, but she’s plenty big enough,” the doctor said. “She’ll be fine.”
Mara tried to smile, but she couldn’t work her way past the tears. She was holding her baby! A daughter…a baby girl…She wanted to share this, wanted someone special….
“Brock,” she called.
“Mara.” He was instantly at her side. “She’s perfect, Mara.”
“She is, isn’t she?”
“So are you.”
“Brock, I miss Todd.”
“I know, Mara.”
“I love her so much. God gave her to me…but He took Todd away. Why? Oh, Brock…”
The nurse touched his arm. “We need to warm up your daughter now. And the doctor wants to finish with you, Mara.”
The baby was whisked away, and Mara felt the greatest emptiness she’d ever known. “Where is she?”
“They’ve put her in a warming bed,” Brock explained, still at Mara’s side. “They’re weighing her. Now they’re putting bands on her ankle and wrist. They’re stamping her foot with black ink.”
“She’s crying!”
“She doesn’t want anyone messing with her. She’s like her mama.”
Mara laughed. Brock took off his mask, and she could see the sparkle in his eyes. Well, it was done. She let out a deep breath—half in relief and half in trepidation.
“I’m a mother,” she murmured. “My baby has a mother.”
She studied the man whose hand she clasped. Your baby has a father, too, she could almost hear him thinking. But those were words she couldn’t bring herself to say. The child belonged to Todd. She always would.
The recovery room was small, with only a single bed. In delivery, Mara had been stitched and pushed and man-handled more than Brock thought was necessary, but what did he know? Now in the narrow bed, she was shivering like a puppy in an ice storm.
“All right, Mara,” the nurse said as she opened the door. “You can hold your daughter for a few minutes before we take her back to the nursery.”
Feeling superfluous, Brock stood to one side as the nurse laid the tiny blanketed bundle in Mara’s arms. He could barely see the top of the baby’s head, and that white cap covered all the skin. Mara cooed and clucked as her lips trembled with emotion.
In a moment, Dr. Fielding, the doctor who had delivered the baby, stepped into the room, followed by Mara’s physician, Dr. Meacham, who had finally arrived. Brock shoved his hands into his pockets and thought about heading outside to look for a snack machine as everyone laughed, offered congratulations, admired the baby. He edged toward the door.
&nbs
p; “And you must be Mara’s new husband!” Dr. Meacham, baby in his arms, swung around and gave Brock a warm smile. “This must have been quite an experience for you.”
“It sure was.” Brock tried to get a glimpse of the baby’s face. He could just see the tip of a small pink nose.
“Here, take a closer look.” Dr. Meacham held out the bundle. “Haven’t you held her yet?”
Brock took a step backward, his eyes darting to Mara. She was talking to a nurse. Brock looked at the physician again.
“Wouldn’t you like to hold her?” Dr. Meacham asked.
His mouth as dry as dust, Brock stared at the blanketed bundle. “I better not,” he mumbled.
“I think you’d better. Might as well get used to it now.”
The doctor set the baby against Brock’s chest. As he gazed down at the miniature face, Brock slipped his hands around the blanket. The baby’s weight, solid and undeniable, tightened his forearms. In the crook of his elbow, her round head nestled contentedly, her eyes shut tight and her pink lips making little O’s.
“What do you think?” Dr. Meacham asked.
For a moment, Brock couldn’t speak as emotion flooded through him. He touched her tiny ear, stroked a finger across her petal-soft cheek, then kissed her forehead. The strangest emotion was tugging at his stomach and swelling his heart. He’d never been in love before, but he’d have sworn this must be the feeling. At the present moment, he would do anything for the baby he held. He’d lay down his life for her.
“She’s incredible,” he whispered.
Mara smiled at him as he settled the baby into her arms. He’d never seen anyone so beautiful as this woman looked to him right now. He told himself it was just the intensity of the moment, but he couldn’t deny a feeling he’d never known in his life. Somehow he had become attached to Mara. A thin silver thread connected them. It was a filament that might become tangled or frayed or stretched to the limit. But he didn’t think it would break.
Chapter Five
Mara had never seen such perfection. Maybe the infant in her arms was a little bit pink and wrinkly, and maybe her eyelids puffed out and her head was slightly lopsided. So what? She was the prettiest, sweetest little girl Mara had ever laid eyes on.
“You planning to let Daddy hold her one of these days?” the parent educator asked as she wheeled in a cart of supplies. Before Mara could protest, the woman swept the baby out of her arms and into Brock’s. “Now, Mrs. Barnett, you said you intended to nurse your daughter?”
Mara nodded. “I’m going to try.”
“You’ll be fine. It’s the most natural thing in the world.”
As the woman set out pamphlets and materials, Mara studied Brock. He was holding the baby as though she were a precious gem. His brown eyes had melted into pools of chocolate fudge, and the expression on his face spoke volumes. For the first time in his life, Brock looked…gentle.
How could that be?
Mara didn’t want such tenderness from him. It made her feel somehow connected to the man. True, Brock was her husband—but in name only. And he wasn’t the baby’s father. He really had no right to look at her daughter that way.
But he had helped through the birth. He had laid his money and his reputation—even his future—on the line for this child. He’d done it out of guilt. Mara had to remember that. Yet she had a sinking suspicion she couldn’t have gotten through the birth without him. She had wanted him. Needed him.
Did she want him now?
“All right,” the parent educator began. “Let’s get started.”
“I’d better go.” Brock held out the baby to any takers.
“No, it’s okay,” Mara said without thinking. “You can stay.” And before she could change her mind, the baby was lying in her arms, and Brock was seated on a chair in the corner while the nurse untied the strings of Mara’s gown.
“Now, you’ll want to find a comfortable position,” the woman said. “I recommend holding the baby at several different angles during each feeding.”
At the intimacy of the moment, Mara could feel the heat flush through her cheeks. She glanced over the nurse’s shoulder to see Brock, elbows on his knees and chin propped on his fist, staring at the floor between his boots.
“Now, first place the baby right here,” the nurse suggested, deftly tucking the little bundle into Mara’s lap. “All babies have a natural sucking instinct, so the moment you touch the side of her face, she’ll turn toward you.”
Again, Mara glanced at Brock. Head down, he was still intently concentrating on the floor. She focused on her baby. Tiny mouth pursed, the little one didn’t seem to have the slightest interest in nursing. Mara knew she would have to forget about the man in the room and concentrate.
“How can I get her to open her mouth?” she asked.
“Stroke her cheek with your finger,” the nurse said. “See? There you go. Oh, she’s hungry all right. Look at that!”
Mara smiled with satisfaction as her daughter settled comfortably. A sweet contentment filled Mara at the thought that she was nourishing her baby. In the past nine months, God had provided a precious bond between mother and child. To Mara’s joy, she realized that bond had not been severed by birth. In fact, she felt closer to her baby now that she could look into her daughter’s tiny face and could see she was actually giving a part of her physical self to sustain this tiny, amazing life.
In a recent Bible study, Mara had learned the names God gave Himself through the ages. One name—El Shaddai—referred to a nursing mother’s breast. God saw Himself as nourisher, sustainer, fulfiller, the teacher had explained. And Mara now saw that in somewhat the same way as God cared for His people, she was tending to her child. The realization made her feel closer to her Lord, and to her baby, as well.
“This liquid is called colostrum,” the nurse spoke up. “It’s the first, most nourishing fluid. The colostrum helps provide natural immunities for your baby.”
“What about milk?”
“Your milk will come in by tomorrow, I imagine,” the woman answered. “But you want your daughter to take as much colostrum as possible.”
“This feels…all right.”
“Today it does. But tomorrow may be a different story. Most women experience quite a bit of soreness in the first days of nursing. I’m going to give you some special cream. I recommend you rub this in several times a day. Maybe your husband could do it for you?”
The nurse swung around to look at Brock, who jerked his attention from Mara to the window. He appeared to be fascinated with a tree that still had a few golden leaves clinging to it.
“I don’t think so,” Mara whispered to the nurse. The baby had dropped off to sleep, her eyelids as delicate as rose petals.
“Whatever is most comfortable for you. I’m going to take her back to the nursery now, Mara, but I’ll come around later in the day to see if you need help again.”
“Thank you.” Mara pulled her gown together and tied the strings. “I’d really like to keep her here with me.”
Mara heard the longing in her voice as the baby was lifted from her arms.
“She needs to be warmed up again. It won’t be long before you’re in your own room, and you can spend all the time you want with her.”
As the nurse walked toward the door with the baby, Mara turned toward Brock. At this moment of loneliness, she couldn’t help wishing for her husband. Then she remembered she had Brock Barnett. He certainly wasn’t Todd, but he was all she had. He would have to do.
“Stay?” she asked him, suddenly exhausted again.
He nodded.
“By the way,” the nurse asked. “What’s your daughter’s name, Mara?”
“Abigail,” Mara said softly. “I’ll call her Abby.”
“That’s a beautiful name.”
As the door shut, Mara studied her hands as they lay limply across the empty space where her baby had nestled. The wedding ring Todd had given her circled a pale finger. She felt tired and alone.<
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“Abby,” she repeated, lifting her focus to the small window. “It means, ‘Her father was joy.’”
Brock nodded, his face solemn. “Todd would like that.”
For the next three days, the hospital became the whole world as Mara adjusted to motherhood while little Abby got used to life outside the womb. Neither transition was easy. Mara’s milk did begin to flow, but it took Abby quite a while to figure out how to nurse effectively. In the meantime, Mara grew tender and sore, and she seemed to have either too much or not enough milk.
The hospital room itself was pleasant enough, pale blue walls with a pastel border around the ceiling. A window looked out on the streets of Las Cruces, placid and cold for the Thanksgiving holiday. A clean bathroom provided a warm shower. A sofa catered to the guests who came to visit—her pastor and his wife, neighbors from the apartment complex, Mara’s former coworkers at the private academy where she had taught some years earlier, members of her Bible study group. Bouquets of pink carnations and white roses jostled for space on the wall shelf, while boxes of tiny ruffled dresses gathered in a corner. Mara couldn’t imagine her baby getting big enough to wear them.
Little Abby hated bath time and diaper changes, and Mara wasn’t crazy about them, either. Her stitches and tired body made movement difficult, though she spent a good bit of time walking the floors of the neonatal unit. She showered and changed into a gown Brock brought in a suitcase, and once or twice she almost felt normal again. Then she would begin to ache or her chair would require a doughnut-shaped cushion, and Mara remembered that she had changed forever.
Her entire life felt new, different, and in some ways, unpleasant. When Sherry had arrived breathless and apologetic an hour too late for the delivery, Mara was basking in the afterglow of Abby’s birth. But two days later when her friend breezed into the room with a meal of leftover turkey, a spoonful of stuffing and a bowl of cranberry sauce, Mara stared at the paper plate as if it were the saddest thing she’d ever seen.
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