by Susan Wiggs
Sophie pulled out of the parking lot and headed down the road, the tires spitting gravel and dust. Greg looked back just in time to see Max. He walked over to Nina. She didn’t hesitate, but pulled him into a fierce hug. Then a cloud of dust obscured the small knot of family and wedding guests. Daisy half lay across the seat in her now-ruined bridesmaid’s dress, her hands braced against the seat. “It’ll be all right, baby,” he said to her. “We’ll be at the hospital soon.”
She went rigid with pain and fear. Her face glowed moon-white and her breath came in shallow pants. When a pain hit, he noted the time on his cell phone and guided her through the breathing they’d learned in their classes.
“It’s…bad,” she said. “I…can’t…can’t…” A wild fright gleamed in her eyes.
He realized the classes could only go so far to prepare them for what was to come. They hadn’t addressed the bone-deep fear he saw in her, or his own supreme sense of helplessness. “We’ll be there soon,” he said inanely. “The doc will give you something.”
“It hurts now. I can’t stand it.” A note of hysteria tightened her voice.
He glanced at Sophie. She kept her eyes glued to the road and drove with grim competence, her hands clutching the steering wheel. A streak of sweat trickled down her temple, and he realized she wasn’t grim at all, but terrified, every bit as scared as Daisy was.
“Daddy, help me, make it stop, make it stop.” Daisy breathed the chanted plea through her clenched teeth.
If there was a definition of hell on earth, it was this—being powerless to keep your child from hurting when she was begging you to make it stop.
“Soon, honey,” he said. “Hang in there.”
“I can’t…I…have to—”
He saw it coming a split second before she erupted. Instinctively he scrambled back, plastering himself against the door, but there was nowhere to go. She spewed up everything she’d consumed at the wedding reception. He didn’t freak. He didn’t gross out. He handed her a wad of tea towels he’d grabbed from the caterer and said, “It’s okay, Daze. Take it easy.”
She miserably wiped her face with one of the linen napkins. “I was starving at the reception. I ate everything in sight.”
No kidding, thought Greg, using a towel on his trousers and shoes. He told Sophie, “The road gets bumpy up ahead. It’s another quarter mile to the paved highway.”
“Let me concentrate on driving, Greg. You look after Daisy,” she muttered. The moment her cell phone beeped, indicating it had found a signal as they approached town, she snatched it up. Without taking her eyes off the road, she put in the number of the hospital.
That was Sophie, he observed. Super-competent when it came to things like dialing a phone from touch memory. She said Daisy was all right, except that she’d thrown up, gave an estimate of their arrival time, then rang off.
“They’ve already heard from your Grandma Jane,” she said to Daisy. “We’ll be there soon, I promise.”
It was highly unlikely that Daisy heard this, since she was in the grip of another pain.
“Breathe, honey,” he coached her, exactly the way they’d learned in the class, but the one thing he couldn’t do was take her pain away. She clutched Greg’s hand and squeezed, and it was as though she was squeezing his heart. He ached for his little girl, so frightened and in such agony. He knew then that he would not let her leave, despite what she’d said earlier. He wanted—needed—to keep her safe with him.
Sophie brought the car to a stop under the covered walkway at the hospital entrance. Greg jumped out and ran around to help Daisy. Between contractions, she wore a benumbed look of confusion. The doors whooshed open, yet there didn’t seem to be anyone around. Sophie rolled down the window. “Why don’t you wait here, and I’ll go get someone with a gurney or wheelchair?”
Daisy moaned a little. Greg wasn’t waiting another second. “Just park the goddamned car, Sophie,” he barked, and swept Daisy up as though she was five years old again, carrying her through the door.
Someone—an orderly or nurse—showed Greg where to clean up and don a set of scrubs. He changed in a hurry, stuffing his wedding clothes in a bin marked Biohazard. They were, he rationalized. He should have known better than to wear that tux. It was freaking bad luck, that was for sure. Good riddance.
With his feet covered by disposable booties, he skidded along a marked hallway, making his way to labor and delivery. The efficient staff had already helped Daisy change into a hospital gown, and someone assured him the doctor and anaesthesiologist were on the way. Daisy looked small and weak, imprisoned by the barred bed and all the monitoring equipment. She still had wilted flowers in her hair from the wedding, which now seemed as though it had taken place a hundred years ago. Greg wedged himself between a monitor on a cart and the head of the bed. He touched her shoulder. “How you doing, Daze?”
Before long, the doctor arrived. It wasn’t Daisy’s regular doctor but the woman on night duty, yet she seemed calm and efficient as she examined the chart and checked a computer screen. “You the father?” she asked Greg.
“Yeah,” he said, “I mean, no, I’m—uh—Daisy’s father. The patient’s father.”
“He’s my dad,” Daisy said, “and birth coach.”
All the same, Greg stepped outside while the doctor did an assessment. While he was waiting, Sophie arrived, now also clad in scrubs, her face porcelain pale in contrast to the greenish fabric.
“So far so good, I think,” he told her.
“When can we go in?” she asked.
“It won’t be long.”
She nodded, studied the gleaming tiled floor. Watching her, he felt a gentle nudge of regret. “Pretty amazing driving, Soph,” he told her. “I didn’t get a chance to tell you that. And you even knew the way.”
“I memorized the route.”
Of course she had.
He cleared his throat. “And, uh, about what I said before…I didn’t mean to yell at you about parking the car.”
She nodded again, which didn’t exactly signify forgiveness or understanding. It probably signified, “But you still yelled at me.”
“All things considered,” he said with forced heartiness, “we make a pretty good team.”
She stared at him. “No,” she said. “We don’t. But we’re both on Daisy’s side, and I assume that’s what she needs from us.”
The door opened, and they went inside. The doctor gave them a rundown. Things were progressing. The baby was in position, his vital signs normal, and Daisy would be getting an epidural. “Could be a long night,” the doctor said.
Greg positioned himself on one side of the bed, Sophie on the other. They regarded each other across their laboring daughter, bound for the time being by wordless solidarity.
The minutes dragged into hours. Greg offered ice chips and cool cloths. Personnel came in and out, checking on Daisy. An epidural was administered. Sophie stepped out occasionally to phone Max, reassuring him that everything was fine. Daisy slept a little, cried a little, and spent most of her time staring straight ahead at a photograph of Ayers Rock, which hung incongruously on the wall opposite the bed. At some point in the middle of the night, the doctor declared that it was time to push. The bed was repositioned, the lower half rolled away, handles and foot rests raised.
Daisy nodded. She grabbed Greg’s hand, and at last, he saw, the fear and the pain were gone. She wore an expression of steely determination, and for a moment she looked so much like Sophie that he thought he was seeing things.
“Let’s go, Daddy-O,” she said.
“You got it, Daisy-O,” he replied.
She pushed like a champ, coordinating her efforts with the contractions, just like they’d been taught. Greg’s world shrank to the expression on his daughter’s face—red and scrunched, teeth gritted, tears squeezing from her eyes, sweat soaking her hair. It broke his heart to watch her, but he didn’t waver; he murmured encouragement. He heard the doctor narrating the progress, and fina
lly, when it seemed Daisy was about to give out from exertion, a collective gasp went up. “And here he is,” the doctor announced. There was a gurgling suction sound, followed by a thin, vibrato cry. “He looks gorgeous.”
Sophie began to sob, a sound so alien to Greg that at first he didn’t know what it was. Then he saw her pull the mask from her face so she could bend and kiss Daisy’s forehead.
A blood-streaked bundle lay atop Daisy. For the shadow of a second, stark terror shone in her eyes. Then her arms went around the little bundle in a powerful embrace. “Hello, baby,” she whispered. “Hello, my precious little baby.”
Greg’s knees felt weak. He felt weak all over as he stared in wonder. Someone put an instrument in his hands.
“You want to do the honor?”
He looked down at his trembling hand. Oh, yeah. Oh, shit, he had to cut the cord. He gritted his teeth, forced his hand to stop shaking and stepped forward. Someone held the tied-off cord between two gloved hands. Steady as a rock, he severed it with a decisive clip.
Among her friends and family, Daisy temporarily achieved the status of minor celebrity. By the next evening, nearly everyone they knew had stopped by with flowers or a gift, leaving good wishes. At the hospital’s birthing center, patients weren’t treated as though they were sick. Visitors were allowed to come and go at will, instructed to scrub with disinfectant and take their cue from the new mother.
Greg and Sophie took turns sitting with their daughter. Emile Charles Bellamy was declared perfect and healthy, and was allowed to room in with his mother. He’d been examined, inoculated, bathed and swaddled and now he slept in a clear Lucite bassinet on a rolling cart, his tiny head covered by a pale blue cap. A fine fringe of reddish peach-fuzz hair peeked out from beneath the cap. The sight of it came as something of a shock to everyone who saw the baby. It was the first concrete evidence of something the Bellamys hadn’t really thought much about—somewhere, the baby had a father. With red hair.
Sophie went back to her hotel to shower and change, and Max arrived with Greg’s parents. All three of them stood by the bassinet, staring as though frozen in an enchantment. Finally Greg’s mother, Jane, looked up, beaming and crying at the same time. “He’s just glorious.”
Max concurred. “Pretty cute,” he said.
Daisy grinned. “You think?”
“Totally. When’s he going to wake up?”
“I think he’s supposed to sleep for a while. We had a long night.”
To Greg it felt surreal, standing there and watching his kids converse—rather than bicker—like adults. His heart felt enormous, as though it had grown too big for his chest. He was wrung out; he could barely even look at his parents. If he did, he was worried he might break down like everyone else around here.
“Do me a favor,” Daisy said to Max. “Tell Olivia I’m sorry I disrupted her wedding.”
“Are you kidding? She’s totally happy for you. Said she can’t wait to come and see you. She and Connor want to stop in and see the baby before they take off for St. Croix.”
“Oh, I hope they do.”
“So can we wake him up?” Max asked.
“Don’t you dare,” Daisy said. “But…hand him to me, will you? I just feel like holding him.”
Max reached into the bassinet, then stepped back. “I don’t really know how to pick him up.”
Greg patted him on the shoulder. “Same way you do everything for a baby. Really, really gently.” He bent down and curled his hands under the soft bundle. Warmth seeped into his bones as he passed the baby to Max. “Easy now,” he said. “You’ll be amazed at how light he feels.”
“Nine pounds isn’t so light,” Greg’s mother said. “Dear, we’re very happy for you, aren’t we, Charles.”
“Proudest great-grandparents in the world,” Greg’s father agreed.
Max held the baby awkwardly, and shuffled over to the bed as though carrying a stick of dynamite. “Here you go,” he said to Daisy.
“Here we go,” she said, settling the blanket into the crook of her arm. The baby stirred, stretching his head back and emitting a puppylike sound, but he didn’t wake up. His tiny red fists clutched the edge of the blanket. Daisy gazed down at him, smiling. One minute, she looked as vulnerable as the baby, and the next, as fierce and protective as a mother bear.
Her grandparents kissed her and the baby, and took Max to the cafeteria to get something to eat. Greg lingered, stealing glances at the baby. With each passing minute, he felt something growing in his heart—a peculiar kind of joy, the kind that lifted him up off the floor, made everything suddenly seem effortless. Daisy seemed to be feeling it, too. She held the swaddled bundle, gazing down with an expression on her face that reminded Greg of every Christmas morning they’d ever shared, all rolled into one.
Then she lifted her eyes, and the smile disappeared as she looked at something over his shoulder. He turned to see a stranger in the doorway.
“Logan,” Daisy said.
Greg stiffened. So this was Logan O’Donnell. Al O’Donnell’s boy. He had the look of his father—broad and handsome, blue-eyed, with a shock of flame-colored hair. A sharp sense of protectiveness seized Greg.
“Logan, this is my dad,” Daisy said.
“Mr. Bellamy.” Logan held out his hand.
Greg hesitated. He felt a sharp spike of aversion. Then he remembered himself, eighteen years ago, a sudden father greeting Sophie’s parents for the first time. He took the proffered hand. “Logan.”
“Sir, I didn’t come to cause trouble,” Logan said. “I need to see Daisy and…the baby.”
“It’s okay, Dad,” Daisy said. “I called him.”
With leaden reluctance, he left them alone. As he turned to shut the door, he saw Logan approach the bed as though approaching a wild animal, slowly, his gaze never wavering. Daisy angled the baby toward him and said something, and he took a step closer, his face lit with reverence.
As Greg quietly closed the door, the joy he felt over the baby—his grandson—darkened as he felt Daisy being torn from him. She’d called Logan O’Donnell. She was already making her own decisions, her own connections, without consulting him. On the one hand, Greg understood that this was healthy, a necessary step away from him, from home. She needed to take control, make decisions on her own.
Just like Nina had told him. Oh, man. Nina. He was in agony as he paced the hospital corridor. He lost track of time, and was in thought when Logan came out of Daisy’s room. He looked chastened, his eyes damp. “I want you to know, Daisy and I are going to figure out a way to make this work,” he said. “I know you want what’s best for her. It’s what I want, too.”
Greg rubbed his jaw. He hadn’t shaved in a hundred years. “You’re saying the right things, Logan. I hope that means you’ll do the right thing.”
“I will,” the boy said. He glanced down at a handwritten list on a scrap of paper. “She wants a pizza.”
Greg nodded. “It’s a start.”
As soon as Logan left, Greg went back in to see Daisy. Her eyes were damp, too, but she looked calm. “I’m fine, Dad,” she said. “It’s going to be all right.”
“I hope so, Daze. Just, please. Don’t rush into anything.”
“I won’t. Logan and I haven’t decided anything yet. We need to do a lot more talking.” She hugged the sleeping baby closer. “At first, I thought I never wanted to see him again. I didn’t want him to have anything to do with Charlie.”
“Charlie?”
“Logan says people might mispronounce Emile.”
“You think?”
Her eyes misty, she leaned back against the pillows. “Anyway, Dad, you mean the world to me. I can’t imagine what my life would have been like without you, and so I started thinking, what about Emile? What if he needs Logan the way I’ve always needed you?”
Greg had to clear his throat. He prayed his voice wouldn’t break. “You know I’ll always be there for you, no matter what.”
“I do, Dad. And
…you can go, you know,” Daisy said to Greg.
“I know.” He stayed where he was.
“We’re going to be okay, this little guy and me.”
“I know that, too. I thought I’d wait until your mother gets back.”
“You don’t have to.” She toyed with a corner of the baby’s blanket. “I was so glad you were both with me last night,” she said.
“We’ll always be with you.”
“I thought, I don’t know, just for a minute I thought the baby and I would bring the two of you together, heal something.”
“We aren’t together,” he told her. “But something was healed.”
She smiled. “That’s good. And seriously, I want you to know, that even after everything that happened yesterday, I meant what I said to you and Mom before the wedding.”
“Daze, we don’t need to talk about that, not now.”
“Maybe not, but I don’t want you to forget or pretend it’s news to you that I want to be on my own.” He started to say something, but she stopped him with a look. “I know you. That’s what you do, you act like you never heard this before. I want to make sure this doesn’t get put on the back burner. It’s my life. I do love you, Daddy, and there are some things that are just so much easier when I’m with you. But that’s not living my life. That’s being your daughter. There’s a difference. I need to be my own person—for myself, and now for Emile.”
“I’m not opposed to that,” he said.
“Yes, you are. And you need to get used to it. And another thing. Don’t be all pissed at Nina for giving me advice.” She smiled with a peculiar female wisdom. “I know all about Nina.”
“No idea what you’re talking about,” he stated, although his stomach was churning. How the hell did she do it? He had a glass head.
“We both know. Listen, when you went out with other women, I couldn’t quite figure out why it was hard for me to like them. I thought it was probably because deep down, I only wanted you to be with Mom. Or by yourself. And now there’s Nina.”