Garth flings the bedroom door open and crosses the short distance to the kitchen. He is the most stunning man ever to put on a dress, and he’s going to thank the man who performs the thankless tasks that keep this building humming along every day. He’s going to acknowledge him and demand to be acknowledged in return.
He hears Jimenez mumbling to himself.
As Garth rounds the corner of the cabinetry, he sees Jimenez sitting cross-legged with his head under the sink. It is both cliché and a truth that Garth’s eyes are drawn first to the crack, exposed through the gap where his shirt has lifted and his pants have dropped. And, like a burly, hairy man in a dress has to accept, Garth thinks it is wonderfully endearing and uniquely human to simply be how one has to be.
And this is how it will be, he thinks, right now.
“Gracias por arreglar el lavamanos,” Garth says, his voice rolling smooth and deep.
Jimenez jumps and bangs his head on the underside of the sink. He backs out and sits on the linoleum, his flashlight on the floor under one knee. A wrench in one hand and the other rubbing the back of his head.
“No hay de qué,” Jimenez says, then looks up at Garth.
42
In Which Petunia Delilah Reminisces About How She and Danny Fell in Love During the Zombie Apocalypse
Petunia Delilah drags the boy into the apartment by his leg. He’s dead weight, a limp and gangly burden of boy who thankfully doesn’t weigh too much. She lets go when he’s past the doorjamb, then takes two more steps and leans against the wall. She can’t help but let out a squeal as a contraction ripples through her body, and when it has passed, she slides down the wall to the linoleum. That position is uncomfortable, so she jiggles and shifts until she lies flat on her back. The floor is cool against her skin; the feeling through her sweat-soaked nightgown is a relief because she feels like every inch of her flesh is on fire.
Claire tries to close the door, but it jams halfway when it bumps against the side of the boy’s head. He mumbles and his eyes roll under his eyelids. She uses the toe of her fuzzy slipper to ease his head out of the way and quickly closes the door. Claire raises trembling fingers and locks the dead bolt before sliding the chain back into place.
Petunia Delilah crooks her neck and watches the woman look down at the boy crammed, his limbs loose like a marionette’s, in the corner near her closet. He’s breathing slowly, and his features are pacified by unconsciousness. She envies him his peace in light of the confusion and panic she feels. She wishes she could be unconscious through this. Then Claire spins to look at her lying on her floor, beside the island.
“What can I do?” Claire asks. Her face is sheer terror, and her words are fast and quavering with apprehension. “What can I do to help?”
“Call Kimmy,” Petunia Delilah says. “My midwife.”
Claire hops over the boy and dashes to the kitchen. She takes the long way around to ensure she maintains the maximum distance from Petunia Delilah. She snatches the headset from beside the computer and puts it on. Petunia Delilah recites the numbers, and she types them into the calling program.
Over the whoosh of blood pulsing in her ears, Petunia Delilah hears Claire ask for Kimmy. She says a few other things too, but Petunia Delilah can’t concentrate. A sharp, piercing pain strikes her stiff, and a ringing blots all other sounds from her ears. She lets out a guttural wail and, as it fades, is aware of Claire by her side, not touching her but holding her hands near her shoulder and her forehead as if she really means to.
“Kimmy isn’t home,” Claire says. “Mel said she went to the market and won’t be back for an hour or so. Mel said Kimmy doesn’t have a cell phone. She says Kimmy thinks that they cause brain cancer. Who doesn’t have a cell phone? Especially in this day and—”
“Call my boyfriend,” Petunia Delilah gasps through clenched teeth. “Call Danny.”
She’s sweating profusely. She feels it cascading down her face and tastes the salt on her lips. She needs to hear Danny, needs to hear his voice say that it will all work out. She needs him with her, holding her hand and rubbing her back. Then, once this is all over, when there’s a beautiful little baby in her arms, she needs him to get her a fucking ice cream sandwich.
“Call him now.” She grunts out the numbers, and Claire leaves her side to dial them into the computer.
“Here,” Claire says after a few seconds of touching her finger to the earpiece. She puts the headset on Petunia Delilah. “It’s ringing.”
Petunia Delilah needs Danny’s voice. She needs his love, and she needs him here. She needs to hear those words that make her fall in love with him every time he talks. He always has almost the right thing to say. She thinks it so sweet, his talent for getting so close to saying the right thing all the time.
The phone rings.
Petunia Delilah loves it when he says those almost romantic things. Like after their first date: He had taken her to a movie and was so embarrassed when he realized he had forgotten his wallet and she had to pay for the tickets. He was even more embarrassed when she had to pay for his popcorn and soda at the concession as well. After watching that movie, the one in which the undead overran the world, he said, “Baby, if it were just you and me to survive the zombie apocalypse and we were trapped in a sporting goods store and they were breaking down the door and busting through the windows to eat us alive and we had a gun with just one bullet left, I would use that last bullet on you.”
It was so sweet. She knew they belonged together.
The phone rings.
And that’s just how he is, all the time. He would save her from suffering the ravenous horde of undead and die by gruesome disemboweling in her stead. With his last breaths, he would rather watch creatures eat his own entrails than let her suffer for a second. But in that particular case, Petunia Delilah had reasoned, the sporting goods store would probably have more ammunition at the hunting counter that they could use, so it was an unnecessary act of chivalry.
But that’s just how he is, passionate to the point of being illogical. That is how his love works, and it belongs to her. Petunia Delilah didn’t want to ruin the moment by pointing out there would probably be lots of ammo around.
The phone rings.
And Danny always has something almost romantic to whisper in her ear or tell her when they snuggle in bed. Like, “Baby, of all the women I’ve had in this bed, you’re the most beautiful. Ever,” he told her. “Of all of them.”
He’d say things like, “I like how you are so soft and squishy all over, way nicer than those skinny girls,” and, “That new haircut is so hot, it makes you look ten years younger. It makes me want to do you right now.”
Petunia Delilah is only twenty-six, but she didn’t think it an odd thing for him to say. She knew what he meant to say but didn’t seem capable. He would say all these things with a smile, his eyebrows raised and his head nodding as if he were giving her a gift and he was so excited to see her open it.
There’s a burst of noise on the other end of the line.
Danny shouts, “Hello?”
“Danny, the baby’s coming,” Petunia Delilah says.
“What?” Danny’s voice is drowned out by loud music and noise from a crowded space. “Who’s this?”
“Danny, the baby’s coming,” Petunia Delilah shouts into the mouthpiece.
“What? No.” Danny’s voice rises with excitement. “Yes. Holy shit. I’m having a baby,” he shouts. There were some drunken cheers in response. “I’m having a baby.” More cheers, this time from a larger group of people.
“Danny,” Petunia Delilah says into the receiver. “Danny,” she says louder when there is no response.
“Yeah, baby? The guys are really excited too.” He laughs. “They say I have to buy them a round.”
“Danny, you aren’t having a baby. I am. Right now. On a floor in some lady’s apartment. Apartment 805.”
“Holy shit. Yeah. Okay. I’m on my way right now,” Danny says. “I just ordered ano
ther beer, but I’ll chug it. And I’ll get my burger to go. I’ll be there in a few minutes.” He hangs up.
The boy lets out a moan from where he lies. He wriggles a bit, and his eyes flutter open. He doesn’t move for a few moments but then slowly rolls onto his side. His body convulses with a retch, but nothing comes out of his mouth. Slowly, he pushes himself to a seated position, gags once more, and starts huffing deep breaths into his lungs. After a few moments, he looks around with bleary, uncomprehending eyes.
Petunia Delilah clenches again and lets out a harsh growl.
“We need help,” Claire says to her. “Real help. Now.”
Claire makes to snatch the headset from Petunia Delilah but stops short when she sees it tangled in her sweaty hair. She glances at how close the mouthpiece is to Petunia Delilah’s mouth and a look of revulsion spreads across her face. Claire runs back to the kitchen and picks up the receiver from her personal phone.
“I’m calling 911,” she says.
43
In Which Claire the Shut-In Works Hard to Deliver Petunia Delilah’s Baby
Claire punches 911 on the phone. She watches Petunia Delilah writhe through another contraction on the floor. The leg projecting from between her legs wriggles a bit, and the two humps of the baby’s bum protrude from her vagina. The boy near the door kneels with his hands on his thighs and his elbows locked. His head hangs low toward his lap, and Claire thinks how she absolutely couldn’t stand it if he threw up on her floor.
“911,” a man’s voice comes through the receiver. “Where’s your emergency?”
“8111 Roxy Drive,” Claire says. “It’s the Seville on Roxy. Apartment 805.”
“Okay.” There’s a moment filled with the sound of typing. “What’s the nature of your emergency?”
“We need an ambulance. There’s a woman giving birth on my floor,” Claire says.
“Okay, please stay on the line with me,” the man says. “An ambulance is being dispatched.” The sound of more typing comes through the line. “Their ETA is four and a half minutes.”
Petunia Delilah screams. The veins on her neck stand out, and her skin flushes a sweaty purple as she pushes. The baby’s hips appear between her legs. One leg is still folded up inside her, and the other lies on the floor. The boy in the doorway jumps at the noise and then again at the scene in front of him. He quickly looks away and brings his forehead to rest against the door, his eyes clamped tightly, the skin wrinkled at the corners with tension.
“I don’t know if we can wait that long,” Claire says. “It’s already coming out. There’s a leg and a butt hanging out.”
“A leg and a butt?” the operator asks.
“Yes. A leg and a butt.”
“You’re right. This woman needs your help now. What’s your name?”
“Claire.”
“Okay, Claire. She’s having a footling breech birth and she can’t wait. I’m going to walk you through this. Can you see the umbilical cord? Has it prolapsed? It will be a blue-gray-colored cable looping out of the mother.”
Claire crosses the kitchen and examines Petunia Delilah sweating and straining on the linoleum.
“I don’t see it,” she says.
“Good, you’ll need some clean towels and gloves. Do you have those?”
Claire takes an instinctive, momentary offense at the question. Of course, her towels are clean. Any implication otherwise is an insult. Then, she reasons, no offense is implied by the question. This man on the phone doesn’t know her.
“I have those things,” she says.
“Okay, get them and lay them out under the mother. Wear gloves if you have them. Otherwise, wash your hands thoroughly for thirty seconds.”
Petunia Delilah shrieks, filling the apartment with the animal noise.
Claire panics, barking at the operator, “I know how to wash my fucking hands and there’s no way I’m touching that.”
“Excuse me?”
Claire takes a deep breath to calm herself.
“I’m not touching that woman or her baby,” she says, her voice quavering on the brink of crying.
“Claire, you have to. You have to help them.”
“I can’t,” Claire snaps and sobs. “I just can’t. It’s a long story.”
“Is there anyone else there with you?” the operator asks.
“There’s this boy here. He doesn’t look well either.” Claire replies, her voice cracking with hysteria. “All I did was open my door. I was making quiche—”
“Claire, I need you to focus,” the operator says. “Give the boy the towels and gloves and get him positioned to help with the baby. He needs to be able to manipulate it. I’ll help. I’ll talk you through it, but I can’t do it all. I need you. That woman needs you. The baby needs you right now.”
Claire sucks in another deep breath. The smell of quiche calms her. She pushes the air from her lungs. She nods to the phone.
“Okay,” she says. “I’m okay.”
Then she runs down the hall to the linen closet and pulls a stack of towels from the shelf. She returns to the kitchen and places the towels near Petunia Delilah. She jumps back when Petunia Delilah’s body clenches and she releases a hoarse bellow.
Someone in the next apartment over thumps on the wall a few times.
“You.” Claire points at the boy. “What’s your name?”
“H-Herman.” Herman takes his forehead from the door and looks at Claire.
“Herman,” Claire says. “Come here and help. You’re the hands here. I’m going to tell you what to do, and you’re going to do it. This woman and her baby need us.” She opens a cabinet and pulls out a box. She dangles two lemon-yellow rubber gloves in his direction. “Put these on.”
Herman looks from the gloves to Petunia Delilah lying, knees akimbo, on the floor and then back to Claire. He looks hesitant, pale and trapped. His eyes plead with her not to make him do this.
“Now,” Claire commands. “Put some towels under her. You’re going to take care of her through this.”
Herman hesitates and then crawls over, snatches the gloves from Claire, and pulls them on. He arranges a towel under Petunia Delilah’s buttocks and positions himself between her knees. His eyes don’t know where to settle. He glances from the baby’s bum and leg protruding from Petunia Delilah, to her knees, to the wall, to Claire, and finally he settles on Petunia Delilah’s face. That face spasms and screams suddenly. Herman scoots away in terror, his legs scrabbling, pushing himself backward until he winds up pressed against the door.
“The baby’s hips are out,” Claire says into the mouthpiece. “Only one leg though. The other is all folded up inside.”
“That’s okay,” the operator says. “It will come. Claire, I need some information from the mother.”
Claire listens and then asks Petunia Delilah, “Is this your first baby?”
Petunia Delilah pants that it is, and Claire relays the information.
“Are you full term?”
Petunia Delilah screams that she is supposed to be due in five days. Herman has moved back into position and is tentatively rubbing Petunia Delilah’s knee in a soothing manner.
Claire tells the operator this and then asks, “How long have you been in labor?”
“I don’t know. Five minutes?” Petunia Delilah screams. “Not fucking long. Holy fucking shit, it burns!”
Herman looks at Claire. The terrified expression on his face begs her for either direction or dismissal.
“I heard that,” the operator says evenly into Claire’s ear. “We can do this. There’s a lot working in our favor here. The cord is okay. The baby’s full term. Its hips are out, and they are going to dilate her as effectively as the head would. Both are the same diameter. Which way are the baby’s toes pointing?”
Claire peers at the baby’s leg and grimaces at the mess on her floor. “To the ceiling.”
“They need to be rotated to point to the floor. The baby’s bum needs to point to the ceiling. N
ow, the baby needs as much support as possible. Full hands on the baby, never just fingers. Rotate it gently but firmly.”
Claire relays the instructions to Herman. She watches the boy cup the baby between his palms and slowly twist it in one direction. When the hips are perpendicular to the floor, the other leg pops out of Petunia Delilah. With it comes a loop of umbilical cord. Herman flinches but does not let go. He continues the slow motion until the feet are pointing to the floor. When he’s done, he straightens both of its legs and sits back on his heels. He looks at Claire with less fear and more interest than before.
“The other leg came out,” Claire exclaims. “It’s a little girl. You’re having a little girl.” She laughs and moves closer to Petunia Delilah.
Petunia Delilah laughs and smiles. Her face glistens.
“Some umbilical cord came out too,” Claire tells the operator.
“Okay,” he replies, his words coming quickly to Claire’s ear. “That’s not good. The paramedics are still two minutes away. That’s too far. The umbilical cord needs to be untangled from the baby, and we have to get the baby out quickly. We have to do this fast. The cord is likely constricted, which will deplete the flow of oxygen. The longer this takes, the greater the chance the baby will suffer brain damage. Now, Claire, this is what we have to do.”
44
In Which Homeschooled Herman Holds a Life in His Hands and Sees a Life in His Mind
Every time he touches the baby, Herman feels his grip on consciousness fade. He fights hard to stay there in the room, to not go anywhere else. He feels the baby through the rubber gloves, warm and wet cupped in his hands. The tile is cool and slick under his knees. The towel under Petunia Delilah’s hips is soaked with viscous pink fluid.
Fishbowl: A Novel Page 19