She has another contraction on the way to the hospital. Her water breaks. Bud blubbers like an idiot to a blue uniform at the emergency entrance. Luckily, Dr. Evans is on duty, the obstetrician Shannon described as a liver-spotted curmudgeon from Tennessee with small supple hands. Nicki looks relieved to see Shannon, a Certified Nurse Midwife, arrive to assist. These two handle all the natural childbirths for the hospital. Bud tries to shake his hand, but the doctor holds his gloved hands high, “Sterile,” he says over his shoulder as he walks past into the labor room. Bud waits at the door for only a minute before the doctor comes out with Shannon. “She’s yours for a while yet. Give her an IV with the usual cocktail. Get her prepped. When she gets to seven, bring her to delivery. Start an epidural and give me a page.”
“But—” Shannon starts to object.
“But hell. She hasn’t even started dilating and she’s already begging. Let’s skip all the drama this time. Start it at seven.”
Bud tries to catch his arm, explain it’s too soon, that they planned a natural childbirth.
“Sorry. No time to talk. Full moon you know. Busy night.” And then he is gone around a corner.
≈≈≈
“It’s taking too long,” Evans says to his nurse. “Is the sun up yet?”
“How would I know?” Shannon retorts.
Evans looks at the nurse, the black hollows above her mask, then bends back to look at Nicki, the part of her jacked up in stirrups, the crown of a head, then above the sheet at her sweat-drenched face, mouth a slit, eyelids clenched shut.
“She’s done. We’ll have to do some cut’n. Set me up for an episiotomy.”
“Doctor Evans, if you don’t improve your bedside manner, somebody’s going to use one of these scalpels on you,” the nurse says walking to the door.
Bud, sitting by the door resting his chin on his fists, enduring the groans, hears distant thunder in his ears and jumps to his feet. “No!”
The doctor looks over his shoulder as if he had forgotten Bud was in the room, then shuffles in place to face him. The edges of his mask are soaked with sweat, his eyes sunken, old, too old, too worn out. The mask moves atop the gray stubble—a smile maybe, a gesture of sympathy, or impatience.
“My call, Bud. You don’t get a vote on this one. You can stay if you want, but I don’t recommend it.”
Bud goes to her side, looks down at the pink stripes across her forehead left by the elastic cap, the green squiggles of the heart monitor reflecting off her red-splotched cheeks, eyes still shut as if she no longer cares. When he drags the back of his fingers across her cold, clammy lips, her eyelids jerk but don’t open. Gravity increases ten-fold pushing him toward the floor; he loses his balance.
“Bud—” The doctor catches his arm. “Let’s me and you have a conference.” Evans leads him into an adjacent room and pulls his mask down around his throat.
“We’re fixin’ to have us a baby, Bud. A healthy one, I can tell already.”
“It’s premature. This should be easier.”
“Premature? Don’t think so. A little over-baked if anything. Seven and a half, I’m betting. You should wait in here.”
“But I promised—”
“Understand, and all that. I won’t stop you, but you’ve got to stay in that chair, no matter what. You don’t want to see up close anyway. Like sausage—don’t need to know how it’s made. Recovery will take a little longer, but she’ll be back in working order in a couple or three months.”
Bud wants to strangle him, get the smirk off his face. The doctor strips off his rubber gloves and pulls a fresh pair from a dispenser.
“If you choose to watch, it will take you longer to recover than her. You’ll get a flashback every time you see her naked. You’ll be limp as a dishrag.”
Evans pushes open the swinging door with his elbow, stops and lets it swing back against his toe, looks at Bud over his shoulder. “How do you want it? Couple extra stitches and she’ll be tight as a virgin.” His grin slides away and he continues through the door. “Lighten up, Bud. Just delivery room humor.”
Bud leans back against the exam table, trembling, weak after the jolt of adrenaline, the seething anger. He tests his wobbly legs, slips through the delivery room door, and plops into his chair. Evans’ back is to him, bent between Nicki’s legs. Then he stands to full height, stretches his elbows back like a hen fluttering her wings, a scalpel in his blood-smeared hand. The nurse holds the forceps as the doctor threads his blue-gloved fingers into the handles. Bud sees past him, the thick purple blood oozing onto the glare of stainless steel. He rushes back into the exam room and hangs over the deep sink, eyes watering as he gags. He hates these people hurting Nicki: this redneck doctor, the lying nurse—a baby wails from next door—the baby most of all.
≈≈≈