Brioche in the Oven

by Victoria Brownlee

“Which hospital should I call?” Clotilde was holding her phone and waiting patiently.

  “It’s in Chinon,” I said.

  “If you’re in labor, you probably aren’t going to make it home to Chinon,” she said seriously.

  “But I have to. They have my file.”

  “Leave it to me,” she said.

  As I slipped into another haze of painful cramps, I heard Clotilde speaking with the hospital in Chinon and asking them about real labor versus fake labor. She was cool-headed, stopping the conversation only to ask me the timing of my current contractions before relaying them to the person on the other end of the line. A look of concern slowly came over her face before she asked which hospital she should call in Paris. I started to worry. Oh God, this is it, I thought. I’ve ruined everything by running off to Paris. I was angry with myself, but there wasn’t any time to dwell on it.

  “Get your things ready,” Clotilde said after hanging up. “It sounds like you might be having this baby tonight.”

  I groaned.

  “Another contraction?” she asked.

  “No, I’ve just really messed everything up with Serge.”

  “No time to worry about that now,” she said in an effort to comfort me. “Let’s head to the hospital and get you checked out. You can call him on the way.”

  I grabbed my handbag.

  “I’m ready.”

  “Right. I forgot you don’t have any of your things.”

  She ordered an Uber and then ran into her room and threw some clothes and toiletries into a bag. Shortly after, we were zipping through the empty streets of Paris. It was eerily peaceful in the early hours, and I found myself appreciating the city in its pre-dawn state despite worrying about everything that was about to happen.

  “Serge, it’s me,” I said.

  “Ella, are you OK? What’s going on?” he asked, sleepily.

  “I don’t want you to worry,” I said, realizing as I did that these words tend to immediately instill some sort of concern. “But,” I continued quickly, “I’m just off to the hospital for a quick check.”

  “You’re what!?” he yelled, obviously very awake now.

  “I’ve been having some contractions. They might blow over, but Clotilde was worried,” I said, giving her an apologetic look. “She’s forcing me to go in.”

  “Should I come now? Which hospital are you going to?” he asked.

  I was on the verge of another contraction and didn’t want him to hear the strain in my voice.

  “Don’t worry, Serge. I’ll call you back when I know more,” I said.

  “I’ll wait by the phone,” he replied. “Do I need to call Michel to help me collect our car from the train station and to look after things on the farm?” He sounded about as anxious as I felt.

  “I’ll let you know.”

  We walked into the labor and delivery ward, and it was strangely quiet. I wasn’t sure what I’d expected, but from all the hospital dramas I’d watched on TV, I think I’d imagined seeing a woman giving birth in a stairwell while hundreds of people were piled into any available space following a volcano eruption or a bridge collapse or some other unlikely natural phenomenon that was both dramatic and involved a sudden influx of unwell people.

  It seemed like I was the only patient bothering to have a baby that night.

  We walked up to the reception desk and I suddenly lost all my French words. I panicked, mouth agape, trying to figure out how to say, “I think I’m in labor.” Thankfully, Clotilde stepped in and did the explaining. She ran the receptionist through the fact that I was visiting from the country and had been directed here by my doctor in Chinon.

  The receptionist asked Clotilde if she was my partner and Clotilde nodded. “It’s the only way they’d let me in with you,” she whispered afterward.

  We were sent up to the delivery floor so I could be checked out. As I lay on the bed, I relaxed somewhat, despite having faced a barrage of questions and an internal exam; I knew that I was in good hands.

  “Well, you’re certainly in labor,” a midwife said in French after my waters broke.

  I breathed a quick sigh of relief that I hadn’t just wet myself.

  “When did you say you were due?” she asked.

  “Not for another few weeks.”

  “Well, you’re quite dilated already. Four fingers. We’ll get you hooked up to the heart rate monitor and make sure the baby is OK. Then we’ll get you the epidural.”

  All notions of a natural birth had drifted out the window with each contraction that I’d already endured. The thought of things getting worse had sealed the deal for pain management in my mind.

  “Parfait,” I told the midwife, suddenly appreciating the French love of medicalized births.

  Clotilde and the midwife talked for a few more minutes while I suffered another mind-melting contraction. I wriggled aimlessly, trying to find some relief, listening to Clotilde ask something about how long we had left. Then the midwife was gone.

  “Is everything OK?” I asked Clotilde when the wave of pain had passed.

  “Just great, Ella. Don’t you worry about a thing. I’m just going to pop outside and give Serge a quick call. Probably best that he sets off now. I’m guessing he won’t want to miss the show,” she said with a wink.

  It suddenly dawned on me that I was going to be leaving Paris with a baby, that I was only hours away from meeting my baby. I started to panic. What if Serge is still angry with me? What if he’s just waiting until the baby is born to break it all off? What if, once again, I’ve ruined—

  Another contraction put a sharp halt to any more open-ended questions. I focused on my breathing while praying that the epidural wasn’t far off.

  Minutes passed, and outside it started to rain. I wondered if it was a bad omen. It’d been raining when Paul told me he was leaving. My mind wandered back to that night back in Australia, the night I’d thought I would start my family with him. Looking around the French hospital room, I suddenly felt very alone.

  Thankfully, Clotilde reappeared before I spiraled too far into a pit of anxiety, and told me that Serge was on the way. I wanted to confirm how long he would take to drive to Paris, but the midwife bustled in and told me it was time to head to the delivery room. I was about to tell her she was mistaken, that we needed to wait for my actual partner. But Clotilde was gathering up her bag and nodding. Oh God, I thought. Here we go!

  The windowless delivery room felt cold. It was bigger than I had imagined and was filled with medical equipment. It was a daunting space. A small crib sat in the corner of the room, symbolizing both an end and a beginning. Every emotion I was feeling was amplified. I wished Serge could be by my side.

  The midwife held me still while the epidural was administered and things calmed down slightly. I rested and waited for Serge, praying that he’d arrive in time. I was beginning to get the urge to push, but I resisted as long as possible.

  And then the midwife told me it was time.

  When I was pregnant, I’d tried to imagine what labor would feel like, but even in my most vivid imagination I hadn’t expected it to be so wildly painful. Thank God our memories are flawed and we can forget pain, because what followed over the next hour or so does not bear remembering. And, if it weren’t for the end result, would never bear repeating.

  Chapter

  29

  “IL EST PARFAIT,” SAID THE midwife, as soon as it was all over.

  “What do you mean, ‘He’s perfect’? She’s a girl, non?” I asked, aghast.

  “Not from this angle,” she confirmed, placing the tiny, foreign creature on my chest. “It’s definitely a boy. Congratulations! You did a great job.”

  I looked at Clotilde, wide-eyed, as if pleading with her to confirm that I hadn’t mistranslated the sex of my own baby. What the hell was going on?

  “Ella, it’s a baby boy,” she said.

  “But the ultrasound . . .,” I tried to expl
ain.

  “There must have been a mistake.”

  I should have known better than to trust old Doctor Gerard, I thought.

  I looked down at my little baby boy, all pink and squishy, grasping, and gasping as he tried to make sense of the sudden change of scenery, and I did the same.

  “Clotilde, can you call Serge for me?” I asked.

  “Of course,” she said, only then letting go of my hand to get her phone. She’d been the most wonderful, if not slightly unexpected, birthing partner, massaging my back through the labor and scooping my shoulders up to assist with the pushing. Despite being squeamish, she didn’t react when I’d vomited on her mid-contraction, or when the midwife had suggested that we reach down and feel the baby’s head. She had maintained her usual, glamorous sense of composure until the end.

  “A quick selfie of ‘team baby’ before I do,” she said, snapping a photo of the three of us, both baby and me looking like we’d just been through labor, and Clotilde looking like she’d just walked off a set somewhere glamorous.

  “Serge!” I said when he finally picked up.

  “I’ve just pulled over. Is everything OK?” he asked desperately.

  “You’re a papa,” I said.

  “I missed it? Is our girl OK? Is my girl OK?”

  “He’s perfect, and I’m fine,” I said, and then waited for the reveal to sink in.

  “I’ve been so worried. I’m just outside of Paris. I’ll be there in half an hour.”

  “I can’t wait for you to meet him,” I said.

  “Me neither. I will be there soon. I will hang up now so I can keep driving. Congratulations, Bella. I am sure you were perfect.”

  I looked at Clotilde. “He didn’t get it,” I said, disheartened.

  “Well, he won’t be able to miss it when he sees him,” Clotilde reassured me.

  Shortly after, her phone started buzzing.

  “It’s a boy?” Serge yelled down the line. “Are you joking with me?”

  I laughed. “Nope, Doctor Gerard got it wrong. Or perhaps he was just making sure to keep us on our toes.”

  “A boy?” It was as though Serge didn’t believe me. “And you are certain? They did not switch the babies?”

  “It’s been confirmed by multiple people,” I said.

  “This is wonderful news!” Serge said, his voice bursting with pride.

  I got wheeled down to my hospital room, where Clotilde made quick work of ordering some food. I was starving, Clotilde was starving, and I couldn’t imagine Serge would have stopped for food.

  “What do you feel like?” she asked, scrolling the Food To Go Go app on her phone.

  “Sushi. Raw beef. Soft-boiled eggs. CHEESE!” I rattled off everything that I’d missed eating since finding out I was pregnant.

  “Right,” she said. “And if you were to choose one dish?”

  “Let’s get some sushi,” I said. “Or a burger. God, I’m so hungry!”

  The tiny baby in the crib next to us cried out and reminded us of what an adventure we’d been on. I picked him up, and he immediately fell back asleep. It was surreal. Here I was with a baby, my baby, Serge’s baby. I’d never believed that newborns could smell so perfect, but my little boy did. I felt euphoric with exhaustion, with relief, and with love. Everything Serge and I had been fighting about felt insignificant now. I was desperate to have him by my side.

  Moments later, he walked in and threw a bag onto the ground with a loud thud. He kissed my forehead and then sat beside me on the bed, looking tentatively at the little bundle in my arms.

  “He looks like you,” he said to me.

  “Really?” I asked, disbelievingly.

  “No, but that is what people say, correct?”

  I laughed.

  “Here,” I said, handing him over to Serge, who apprehensively cradled him.

  I felt an overwhelming rush of love, and I burst into tears. Clotilde made some excuse about going to find the delivery guy, and Serge asked me what was wrong.

  “Nothing,” I said. “I’m just so sorry you missed the birth. It was so stupid coming to Paris like this on a whim. I should have stayed to work things out with you. I didn’t even mean half the things I said. I think I was just nervous about having this little guy.”

  He looked at me gently, his eyes letting me know he didn’t blame me for anything. Maybe holding a baby solves all problems and cures all disagreements? I thought.

  “We should wait until we’re out of the hospital to discuss everything properly,” he said as a nurse bustled in to check my blood pressure. I began to worry again.

  “What’s left to talk about?” I asked, as the nurse hooked me up to the machine.

  “Nothing that can’t wait,” he said. “We’ll work it all out.”

  The nurse asked a few questions, gave me some more painkillers, and hurried out. I was about to press Serge further on what was left to discuss, but he interrupted me.

  “For now, we need to think of a name,” he said, and then, looking down at the tiny boy in his arms: “What would you like to be called?”

  “I was thinking Noah,” I suggested tentatively. “After my grandfather.”

  “And we’ll go marching two by two?” Serge said, making me laugh. I hadn’t considered the biblical reference. “And it is raining,” he said, looking out the window.

  “You like it?”

  “I do. Noah Serge Marais,” he said. “It has a nice ring to it.”

  “It’s perfect,” I said.

  We put aside whatever problems remained to be solved for the time being and we kissed. We hugged our little Noah and just generally marveled at what we had created. It was such a natural thing, but for some reason it felt so epic. Now that he was here, I got the feeling that everything would work out just fine.

  Clotilde came back in carrying trays of sushi. We sat around eating and laughing while Noah slept peacefully in the corner. As the sun rose, the nurse came in and, after we admitted that Clotilde wasn’t actually my partner, kicked her out. I hugged my dear friend and thanked her for everything.

  Over the next three nights in the hospital, which I’d quickly learned was the standard-length stay after giving birth in France, Serge and I tried to sleep, we learned how to look after a baby, and we made good use of the Food To Go Go app.

  It felt weird to be in Paris rather than Chinon, but it worked out well, because it meant that visitors kept rolling in. Chris brought coffee every morning and snuck a cuddle with Noah. He told me he was secretly rather enamored with babies, and I assured him that I was happy to trade flat whites for baby hugs whenever he needed. Clotilde’s friend Julie better watch out, I thought, watching him doting on Noah.

  Tim from Food To Go Go messaged to “reassure” me that things would get harder before they got easier. But he wasn’t all doom and gloom. He offered some food delivery discount codes to keep us going until we went back to the farm.

  Clotilde, too, came by every day to talk with the medical staff and make sure I was recovering properly. She’d transformed into a wonderful proxy-nurse. On the second day, she brought Papa Jean, who came armed with a bottle of chilled Champagne.

  “You’re my hero,” I told him, eying the condensation on the bottle. He poured me a little glass and as soon as the crisp bubbles hit my tongue I sighed. If ever a drink were well deserved, it was this one.

  “And this was Clotilde’s idea,” he said, handing over a large package.

  Similar to the experience when I’d first arrived in France, the smell hit me before I could see what was behind it. It was cheese. Gooey, unpasteurized, soft, and stinky cheese.

  A nurse walked in and, upon seeing our little hospital room party, said, “I’ll pretend I didn’t see this,” and then backed out of the room, adding, “I’ll be back in thirty minutes.”

  We opened the window and laid out the cheese on my hospital bed. Papa Jean proudly held Noah as we indulged, and I redisc
overed everything I loved about Brie, Roquefort, and Sainte-Maure de Touraine. I was still in pain, but it didn’t matter. Everything felt perfect. Cheese was the ideal medication.

  Mum and Ray arrived the next day, straight off the plane from Australia and horrified that they’d missed time with their grandchild. When I’d told Mum his name over the phone a few days earlier, she’d burst into tears. She told me that Grandpa would have been so proud of me living this adventure in France. I then burst into tears. Clearly emotions were running high.

  After Serge and I had introduced Mum and Ray to Noah, Ray offered to take Serge to wet the baby’s head.

  “We will not,” Serge said, aghast.

  “Might need to explain the expression, Ray,” I suggested.

  “Ah, righto. It’s simple really. We go for a drink and cheers to the new bub.”

  Serge nodded and looked relieved. “This I can do.”

  After the men left, I had Mum to myself.

  With all the visitors I’d had over the past few days, it was a relief to have her by my side.

  “Now, with everyone else gone, tell me how you really feel,” she said.

  I looked at her, relieved. She understood me so well. I didn’t need to pretend around her. “It all hurts so much,” I said.

  “You’ve been through a lot. It’ll get better in the coming days.”

  “And I’m terrified that something will go wrong,” I said.

  “That’s normal, too. All mothers go through a period of sleeping with one eye open.”

  “And the emotions. Is that all hormonal?” I asked.

  She looked at me with a knowing smile and rubbed my arm. “Everything will settle down soon. Now, are you going to tell me why you had the baby in Paris and not Chinon? Were you at risk?” Pragmatic Mum was back.

  “Not exactly,” I said. “Serge and I had had a disagreement, so I came to Paris to spend a couple days with Clotilde. I really didn’t think there was any chance I would go into labor early.”

  “Well, that was naïve,” she said.

  “But it’s worked out well,” I said, ignoring her disapproval.