Washington, D.C.
November 25, 1960
For the next two weeks, Jackie scarcely saw Jack as he flew around the country thanking everyone who had supported his campaign. She was due to give birth by Caesarean section in early December, and most of the time she stayed indoors at their Georgetown home, within reach of the hospital. Jack was midair on a flight to Florida on November 25 when Jackie felt a gush of warm liquid between her legs as she sat in the sitting room with her daughter and Maud Shaw, the nanny.
“Could you take Caroline upstairs?” she asked, keeping her voice level, nodding at the spreading stain on her skirt.
Mrs. Shaw understood immediately, and Jackie heard her call for the housekeeper as she led Caroline through the hall. Her chest was tight with fear. It’s too early, she thought. Only thirty-six weeks.
An ambulance was called and she lay silent, stiff with terror, as they rushed her to the hospital, siren wailing. The memories of the babies she had lost filled her thoughts. She couldn’t lose this one. This was the child of a president.
Her obstetrician was waiting when they arrived at the hospital, and he held her hand as they wheeled her to a private room.
“I can’t lose this baby,” she whispered, so that he knew.
“We’ll do all we can,” he promised. “Just stay calm.”
She lay back as medical staff buzzed around, peering and poking between her legs, talking in hushed voices. Outside, the sky was already dark. She remembered the comfort of Bobby being there when Arabella had died, but this time Bobby was with Jack and there was no one else she felt like calling.
“We’re going to operate,” the obstetrician told her. “This baby is ready to be born.”
“Jack’s on his way,” someone said.
It wasn’t often that Jackie prayed, but now she whispered, “Pleasegodpleasegod,” like a mantra.
WHEN SHE AWOKE, the room was dark but a nurse was nearby, her face illuminated in the glow of a monitor.
“What happened?” Jackie asked quickly.
“You have a little boy, Mrs. Kennedy,” the woman said in a Scottish burr. “He’s in an incubator but that’s just a precaution. He’s fine. He looks like his daddy.”
Jackie covered her face with her hands and cried tears of relief. He would be called John, after his daddy. John Junior.
“Och, dear,” the woman said, passing her a tissue. “Try to rest.”
Jack came rushing in as dawn was breaking the next day. Her nurse turned on the overhead light, and Jackie noticed tears rolling down his cheeks.
“I saw him through a glass window. He’s beautiful.” His voice cracked, and for a moment she thought he was going to sob out loud. He pressed his face against hers, then kissed her lips, before whispering, “No one has ever given me a gift as precious as this. I love you, Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy.”
She held his head in her hands, feeling the wetness of his tears on her cheek, his coarse hair between her fingers. This was what she had wanted in her marriage: to feel this loved. At last it felt as if their time had come.