by Julia Kent
Gus reads my mind. “Hey, bud, it’s bad enough I put my job on the line here, you can’t just–”
I skirt past everyone, shrugging out of my tux jacket, and look at the edge of the elevator shaft. All I see is the top of the elevator, a face peering back at me in shock.
It’s Steve.
Where the hell is my wife?
Over yells and shouts behind me, I grab the cable and take a step out, bracing my legs to distribute my weight evenly. Crouching, I grab the edges of the opening.
“MOVE!” I shout down to Steve, who looks up at me dumbly. I can see Shannon, curled on her side, her body tense, belly a hard ball, low between her legs.
“What are you–?”
I jump, ignoring Steve’s question.
He makes a nice landing cushion.
Girlish screams fill the air, mingling with my wife’s low moans.
“Shut up, Steve,” I order, his piercing whine making my ears ring. I stand, trying not to touch him, and slip on something wet. Looking down, I see a pool of fluid under Shannon’s legs, her body up on hands and knees now, her back bent impossibly low as she groans, the sound digging into my bones. Acting on instinct, I place my palms on her hips and squeeze, hard.
Her entire body roils, like I’ve pushed on a huge muscle and it’s just rolled over.
“Oh,” she gasps. “More.” Words are clearly hard for her in whatever state she’s in, the small space hot and stuffy now, scented with a strange musk that must be amniotic fluid.
And Steve Raleigh.
“You can’t just break into a broken elevator like that and jump on me, Declan! Just because you’re a billionaire and married my girlfriend doesn’t mean–”
I don’t plan it.
I don’t.
But I don’t regret it, either, when my elbow pulls back and I give him an uppercut that snaps his teeth shut like a nutcracker. As he goes down, I slide my arms around his ribs, ready to wrestle him into a corner and make him shut the hell up, but he’s unconscious, a soft sack of potatoes I let fall, shoving the sole of my shoe against his thigh until he’s as far away from Shannon as possible.
Which isn’t far. The elevator is tiny.
“Declan?” Alex’s very muffled voice comes from the other side of the elevator doors. “I’m down here. They’re about to pry these open. Stand back.”
I inch toward Shannon, hands on her hips again, as she shudders like a horse in a stable after a long, hard ride. Heat pours off her, her hair long and loose around her head, the sides of her belly taut. I can almost see the outline of the baby.
Metal scrapes and suddenly, an inch of bright light pours in, the cool, fresh air shallow but welcome.
Alex’s eye peers in. “Is she–”
“Ahhhhh,” Shannon intones, the sound long and vibrant, her belly going impossibly tight as she rocks, Alex watching intently.
“We can’t get no further,” Gus says behind Alex. “It’s gonna be a while.”
“You have to!” I shout.
“Dec,” Shannon moans.
“Look at me. Declan! Look. At. Me,” Alex orders. I do. I see eyes that know I shouldn’t have to do this. No man should deliver his own child in a broken elevator.
But I also see eyes that tell me I can do it.
And that’s a man I can trust.
“Get her in whatever position is best for having visibility. You are going to have to go by how her belly looks and feels. At this point, don’t touch her vagina or vulva until the very end, when the baby starts to crown. I’ll be right here the entire time, talking you through this.”
Shannon’s panting behind me, crying and sniffling, her breath ragged.
“You think the baby’s coming now?” I ask him.
“Oh, God,” Shannon moans, body going tight again, the low groan turning louder and more intense, one hand scraping against the ground, fingernails breaking as she tries to grab something, anything, to get through it.
“Yes,” Alex declares. “Absolutely. And you’re going to catch your son.”
My son.
“I’ve never delivered a baby,” I start, the words coming out before I can think.
“That’s not a statement you’ll ever make again,” Alex informs me, almost cheerful, until his eyes go dark with determination. “Now do exactly as I say.”
“Shannon, honey? We need to get you in a position where I can see the baby.” I move her ball gown skirt up, so her belly is exposed, the slip of underwear light and unobtrusive. I snap it off. She’s wearing tennis shoes I made fun of an hour and a half ago, but now I’m grateful. Thigh highs, but not full pantyhose. No obstacles.
“Do I move her on her back?” I ask Alex as Shannon grabs my hand and clenches so hard, I feel pinkie bones pop. Enduring this is nothing compared to what she’s going through. If the transference of some of her pain into me is helping, I’ll take it all.
“No. Women will give birth in whatever position the body naturally moves them into. You’re not in a hospital. Your focus is twofold: Shannon’s comfort and visibility. You need to be able to see the baby as he comes out.”
Shannon lets out an enormous groan of pain, her thighs swelling as she flexes them, the baby moving under her skin in a decisive downward stretch, more fluid leaking down her legs.
“I think the baby’s coming!” I shout.
“Get visibility. You need to look.”
I do. No baby yet, but my empathy for my wife just skyrocketed. Ouch.
Alex shoves a thin, white blanket through the inches-wide crack in the door. “Here. For the baby. And another one to get under Shannon.” I take the cloths and spread one under her, setting another aside.
Steve Raleigh lets out a snore.
“I can’t do this, Declan! I can’t. I can’t do this. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.” Chanting low and from a place of pure panic, Shannon says the words until they’re a well-worn groove in my head, the earworm no one wants in a crisis.
“You are doing it.”
“I’m dying,” she moans as another contraction takes over. I can watch its power, her ribs sucking in, the long muscles of her uterus pushing down, the skin over her mons swelling like a balloon.
“You’re not dying.” I won’t let you, I think, my brain racing as Shannon’s body seems to convulse, then go rigid, every muscle tight and hard, her belly condensing down as the baby’s head comes into view.
The baby.
My baby.
My son.
Emotion is useless in times of crisis. Evolutionarily, we’re designed to push it aside, shove it away, when our lives are threatened. Survival instincts keep us alive.
“If something happens, save the baby,” she groans.
“I will save you both.”
“I mean it, Dec–” Her words cut off with a low groan that shifts into a high scream as blood pools between her legs, the trickle turning the knee of my tuxedo pants from black to sinister. The wetness doesn’t register, but the sight of dark, thick, wet hair emerging from my wife’s body sure as hell does.
He’s here.
And then he isn’t, Shannon panting hard, her shoulders falling back as she makes whimpering sounds.
“ALEX!” I shout. “There’s blood! Too much! The baby was here but went back in! The head was there and now it’s gone.”
I will save you both.
I move to her head, to check on her. Shannon’s eyes have gone glassy and she’s in another world. I have no role here other than guide. My job is to clear obstacles. To prevent harm. But there is no active duty I can fulfill. I’m a creature of circumstance, only allowed to react, never to plan.
I am here to witness.
I am here to lead.
“Perfectly normal,” Alex says in that calm tone I know too well. He’s talking me down. “I am watching and the amount of blood is fine. Just wait.”
“Just wait? Just wait? He was here, his forehead was right there, and–”
“Declan, it’s fin
e. With each contraction, more of the baby will emerge. This is part of the process. When his neck comes, watch for a cord. That’s the next concern. It’s unfolding as it is meant to be.”
As it is meant to be.
I look at Shannon’s face, craning around her body. She’s both here and gone, turned so far inward, it’s as if she’s absent. Her pain is my pain, except I cannot allow myself to feel it. To feel anything right now would be dangerous. Unsafe.
Potentially fatal.
I can face my own death. I cannot–will not–face one of theirs.
I will save you both.
Shannon’s beyond using words now, my hand on her belly telling me before she makes a sound that the baby is trying to come again. Biochemistry is a complex series of very simple processes. Muscles need to stretch. Chemicals need to send signals to systems. The baby is on his own trajectory, the process already destined, the fate unsure.
A low rumbling sound, a vibration like a bass instrument from an ancient culture, makes its way from my wife’s mouth, her breastbone, her soul. As she pushes she grabs my hand, crushing it, and I feel pleasure. Finally, the pleasure of progress, of being able to absorb some of her pain, to take whatever I can off her overworked system as Shannon–and her body, alone–brings new life into the world.
I cannot take one inch of the work away from her body, but I can give her my hand to squeeze.
“He’s coming!” I tell her, watching the marvel of my child’s head emerging.
“Declan, listen to me,” Alex says, commanding and firm.
“I see his head!”
“Which direction is he facing?”
“What?”
“Do you see his face or just scalp?”
“Scalp! And hair, oh my GOD he has so much hair!”
“He’s posterior. That’s why Shannon’s in so much pain. I want you to support Shannon’s perineum, and hold one hand under the–”
Before the rest of his sentence comes out, instinct makes me reach for the baby’s head like a catcher going for a grounder, and Shannon moves up on her knees, the baby slipping out like a seal into my hands, his butt on my forearm, my hands filled with jelly and the body–the precious body–of my child.
“He’s out! He’s out!” I shout, Shannon’s knees going wide, the cord draped out of her like the shoulder strap of a fashionable purse, curled lazily.
But purses don’t pulsate.
“Is he breathing?” Shannon begs, struggling to turn around, a wave of blood coming out of her.
“Wrap the baby in something warm! You need to keep him warm. Remember the blanket? We’re seconds away from getting the doors open,” Alex says. “Check for breaths. Is he breathing? How fast?”
I reach for the blanket, wrapping the slimy, bluish being in the cotton, curling his body into the crook of my arm, fingers touching his face.
His eyes meet mine and it’s like staring at every person who ever lived. Every damn last one of them. In two beautiful, deep-grey eyes.
A gasp. A cough. A choke.
“Declan! Is he alive?”
And then the most beautiful sound in the world.
My baby starts to wail.
“He is.”
Metal on metal, like the sound of bones crushing with a screech, makes the doors behind me turn into danger, a screaming baby in my arms, Shannon’s hands reaching for him, begging me to move closer. I can’t easily. Steve Raleigh’s stupidly unconscious body is in the way.
Light pours in, the doors opening just as I move to the right, paparazzi camera flashes going crazy taking pictures of poor Shannon’s legs spread, cord still attached to the baby. I move quickly, but I can’t cover her fast enough, the baby in my arms so fragile, so vulnerable, more important–for a split second–than my wife’s modesty.
Alex jumps in, big and brash, blocking the view with sheer size.
“Please! Let me hold him,” Shannon begs.
“Give me one second,” Alex says, compassionate yet professional, managing the umbilical cord. The placenta still hasn’t come out. “I just want to make sure his breathing is fine.” He looks at the baby, peeling back the blood-soaked blanket, his face changing with shock.
Shannon sees it, too. “What’s wrong? What’s wrong with him?”
A firefighter hands a warming blanket to Alex, who moves the baby closer to Shannon as he wraps him up. She looks shocked, too, then starts to laugh, the sound so tired.
“Make sure Shannon’s okay. She was bleeding heavily,” I insist, my arms around her as she tries to hold our son.
Paramedics appear with kits and a gurney, starting to touch Shannon, leaving Alex to manage–
“Oh! Oh!” Shannon cries as the baby is placed in her arms, tears rolling down her face like rivers. I look at her and there, too, I see eternity.
“He’s fine, right?”
Shannon starts to laugh. “Well, no.” Peeling back the blanket, she lifts him up.
He is a she.
I turn to Alex, dumbfounded. “It’s a girl?”
“Yes.”
“But that’s impossible.”
“Hard to deny it when the baby is in your wife’s arms. Congratulations.”
“We were told it was a boy!”
“Ultrasounds aren’t one hundred percent correct.”
“I have a daughter?”
“You do. Congratulations, Declan. And welcome to the world, baby...” A questioning look appears on his face. “What’s her name?”
“We don’t have a name for her. Her name is supposed to be Finn.”
“Finn could be a girl’s name.”
“No,” Shannon says softly as the baby is handed back to her, my eyes glued to both of them, my throat unable to make coherent sound. The beauty of them both is too much. “I know her name.”
“You do?”
“Dec,” she says, “her name is Elena.”
My mother’s name.
“We can’t–” I choke.
“We can. We will. Her face says it. I’m looking at little Elena.” Breathing hard, her exhales shaky with effort, Shannon meets my eyes. “I think after what I just went through,” she says, sobbing but happy, “I get naming rights.”
“You get whatever the hell you want, Shannon. I’ll go lasso the moon and drag it down to you right now.”
“I’d settle for a glass of water and some ibuprofen.” Alex takes her pulse, looks at her face, and starts gently probing her belly as Shannon gives me an expectant look.
“Ellie,” I whisper. “Elena is too big a name for such a tiny thing.”
“Ellie it is.”
I kiss them both on the forehead as the EMTs and Alex make it clear I need to get out of the way. “Elena McCormick,” I whisper. “Elena Marie McCormick.”
Shannon’s head snaps up in tearful wonder. “Really? You would do that?”
“We can’t honor one grandmother and not the other,” I tell her.
“It does flow. Elena Marie McCormick.”
“I guess we have a name, then,” a firefighter shouts. “Elena!”
“Ellie!” Declan calls back.
“BABY ELLIE!” someone outside the elevator shouts. A crowd cheers.
“There’s a crowd out there? That many people saw my–” Shannon gestures at her midsection.
I laugh, unable to stop, holding her hand as they offer me the baby and lift Shannon onto a stretcher. I place Ellie back in her arms, the rolling gurney moving as we make our way to the ambulance and I have to step back, Shannon completely engrossed in our baby.
As it should be.
“You go in the ambulance,” Alex tells me as I see Gerald run up, nodding to the Anterdec SUV limo.
“I’m good. Can you accompany her – them -- to the hospital? You’re the expert. And if something goes wrong...” I shake my head, unable to say the rest.
He flashes me a big grin and claps my shoulder. “Already there, bud.”
Emotion makes my chest go tight, eyes stinging
with tears. “Thank you, Alex. Sincerely.”
The EMTs are closing one door, so Alex runs off, climbing in, waving once before turning to give his full attention to Shannon and Ellie.
“Declan?” Gerald asks, his voice soothing. “Ready?”
On legs that feel like stilts, I pretend I am, walking to the Anterdec limo with my heart wrapped in a warming blanket, sitting in my wife’s lap.
In a vehicle we’re about to follow.
My wife.
My baby.
Who are both alive.
Both.
Chapter 23
Shannon
* * *
Arriving at the hospital with an already-born baby, in an ambulance, through the emergency room entrance, was definitely not on my list of imagined birth scenarios.
My son is a daughter.
Steve Raleigh was my doula.
Declan delivered my baby.
And my hoo haw is now getting more pictorial press coverage than Princess Kate’s latest hair bow.
But I did it. I had a baby.
A perfect baby.
I’ve spent the last two days in the postpartum maternity wing of the hospital, every nurse, nurse’s assistant, medical assistant, OB-in-training and lactation consultant finding a reason to come to my room.
But they are no match for my mother.
I’m about to be discharged, and Mom and Dad have been hanging out for hours. Mom knows she’s not invited to come back home with us. Dec and I want this to be special time for just the three of us.
The three of us.
Media coverage of my birth has gone down to a dull roar. James is in heaven as the “first grandchild of Anterdec founder James McCormick” gets so much free press, he’s ready to give us a stock grant as a thank you. Poor Amanda. Our father-in-law is already pressuring her to give birth in an even more outrageous place, which at this point means the Red Sox season opener, on the field and second base.
Grind It Fresh! got its share of publicity, too. My hoo haw is now featured on thousands of viral websites, and the flagship coffee shop saw a seventy percent increase in foot traffic these last two days, so while unmedicated childbirth in a broken elevator with my ex “helping” was never in the birth plan, it’s turned out to be good for business.