“It hurts,” she moans after another contraction ends. There’s a sheen of sweat on her face and her lips are so dry they’re turning white.
I rub an ice chip over her mouth and lean down to kiss her temple. “I know, darlin’. But it’ll all be over soon.”
I’m lying. Four more hours pass before she dilates to five centimeters, and then another three before she’s at six. That brings the tally to fifteen hours, and I can see Sabrina’s energy beginning to drain. Plus, the pain is getting worse. Her latest contraction has her gripping my hand so tight I feel the bones shift.
When it ends, she collapses against the bed in a sweaty mess and announces, “I want the epidural. Fuck, I’ll even take the forceps of doom. Just get this baby out of my body!”
“Okay.” I smooth her damp hair away from her forehead. “We’ll tell Doctor Laura when she comes back to—”
“Now!” Sabrina yells. “Go tell her now.”
“She’ll be here any minute, baby. And the contractions are three minutes apart. We still have time before the next—”
Before I can finish, there’s a lethal little hand bunching up my shirt. Sabrina hisses like a cornered jungle cat and murders me with her eyes.
“I swear to God, Tucker, if you don’t go find her right now, I will rip your stupid head off your stupid neck and FEED IT TO THE BABY!”
Nodding calmly, I pry her fingers off my collar and drop a kiss on her forehead. Then I get the fuck out of there and look for the doctor.
*
The tallies keep racking up.
Time in labor: 19 hours.
Time between contractions: 60 seconds.
Number of times Sabrina has threatened to kill me: 38.
Number of broken bones in my hand: who knows.
The good thing is, we’re finally at the finish line. Despite getting the epidural, Sabrina is still suffering. Her face is flushed a deep crimson and she’s been in tears ever since Doctor Laura instructed her to start pushing. She’s not a screamer, though. In bed? Yes. In childbirth, nope. The only sounds she makes are anguished moans and low grunts.
My woman’s a trooper.
A few hours ago I was able to duck out of the room to take a leak and text my mother and my friends, but since the hard part began, Sabrina hasn’t let me leave her side. That’s fine, because I’m not going anywhere until our baby girl is safe and sound in our arms.
“All right, Sabrina, one more push,” Doctor Laura orders from between Sabrina’s legs. “I can see the head. One more push and you’ll get to meet your daughter.”
“I can’t,” Sabrina moans.
“Yes, you can,” I say gently, tucking her hair behind her ears. “You’ve got this. One more push, that’s all. You can do it.”
When she starts crying again, I cup her chin and meet her hazy eyes. “You’ve got this,” I repeat. “You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met. You worked your way through college, worked your butt off to get to law school, and now you’re going to work a teeny bit harder and deliver this baby. Right?”
She takes a breath, fortitude hardening her features. “Right.”
And then, after nearly twenty hours of huffing and puffing and blowing the house down, Sabrina delivers a healthy baby girl.
After the tiny, slimy infant drops into Doctor Laura’s hands, there’s one split second of silence, and then a high-pitched wail fills the delivery room.
“Well, lungs seem healthy,” the doctor remarks with a smile. She turns to me. “You want to cut the cord, Daddy?”
“Fuck. Yes.”
“Don’t swear,” Sabrina chides, while Doctor Laura chuckles.
My heart is in my throat as I cut the cord that’s tethering my daughter to her mother. I catch a fleeting glimpse of a red gooey thing, but a nurse sweeps her out of sight so fast that I croak out a protest. But they’re just weighing her, and while they do, the doc does some discreet stitching between Sabrina’s legs.
I ache for everything she’s gone through, but Sabrina looks more serene than I’ve ever seen her.
“Seven pounds, three ounces,” the nurse announces as she gently places the baby in Sabrina’s arms.
My heart expands to triple its size.
“Oh my gosh,” Sabrina whispers, staring down at our daughter. “She’s perfect.”
She is. She’s so frickin’ perfect that I’m near tears. I can’t take my eyes off her tiny face and the tuft of auburn hair on her tiny head. She’s no longer crying, and she’s got big blue eyes that stare up at us, curious and unblinking. Her lips are red and her cheeks are rosy. And her fingers are so damn small.
“You did good, darlin’.” My voice is hoarse as I reach down to stroke Sabrina’s hair.
She peers up at me with a wondrous smile. “We did good.”
*
Hours later, we’re both lying in Sabrina’s hospital bed, marveling over the little creature we brought into the world. It’s been about twenty-four hours since Sabrina called to tell me she was in labor. She’s supposed to stay here for two nights so the doctors can monitor her and the baby, but both of them seem to be healthy.
A lactation expert stopped by an hour ago to teach Sabrina the proper techniques for breastfeeding, and our daughter has already proven how she’s better than every other baby alive, because she latched on right away and suckled happily at her mom’s breast while we both watched in pure wonder.
Now she’s full and sleepy and lying half in Sabrina’s arms, half in mine. Never in my life have I felt more at peace than in this very moment.
“I love you,” I whisper.
Sabrina stiffens slightly. She doesn’t respond.
I suddenly realize that she probably thinks I’m talking to the baby. So I add, “Both of you.”
“Tucker…” There’s a note of warning in her voice.
I instantly regret opening my mouth. And since I don’t particularly want to hear her say she doesn’t love me back or make excuses about why she can’t say it, I paste on a cheerful smile and change the subject.
“We really need to pick a name.”
Sabrina bites her lip. “I know.”
I tenderly run my thumb over our daughter’s perfect little mouth. She makes a sniffling noise and stirs in our arms. “Should we tackle the first name or the last name?”
I’m hoping she picks the former. We haven’t even discussed first names because we’ve been too busy arguing about the James-Tucker dilemma.
Sabrina surprises me by saying, “You know…I guess James-Tucker isn’t a terrible idea.”
My breath hitches. “James Tucker.”
“That’s what I said.”
“No, I mean, that should be her name—James Tucker.”
“Are you nuts? You want to name her James?”
“Yeah,” I say slowly. “Why not? We can call her Jamie. But the birth certificate will say James Tucker. That way she’s equal parts both of us, without the hyphen we both seem to hate.”
She laughs and leans in to kiss our baby’s perfect cheek. “Jamie… I like it.”
And that’s that.
33
Sabrina
Little James is in the back of the truck. The nurse waves to us from inside the foyer. I have a bag full of free shit sitting at my feet. Tucker’s hands are on the steering wheel. But we’re not moving.
“Why aren’t we moving?”
Tucker swings his bloodshot eyes toward the backseat. “We have a baby in this truck, Sabrina.”
“I know.”
He swallows hard. “This is fucked up. We shouldn’t be allowed to leave the hospital with a kid. I’ve never even had a pet before.”
I shouldn’t laugh at Tucker’s misery. In fact, it sort of hurts to do anything but sit in a still, slightly reclined position. But his frustrated, somewhat terrorized expression is so unlike him that I can’t stop a giggle from escaping. I cover my mouth to muffle the sound, having learned quickly in the forty-eight hours since the delivery that sleep is a precious and all-too-scarce commodity for new parents.
“I love that you’re the one freaking out. Start the car, Tuck. The family behind us wants to leave.”
He twists to peer through the back windshield. “They already have two kids. Let’s follow them home.”
“Let’s not.”
Gingerly, I reach over to Jamie’s car seat and tug the blanket down, because even though baby Jamie is sleeping and I should definitely not disturb her, I can’t help but want to stare into her beautiful, wrinkly face again. Her tiny baby mouth is slightly parted and her little baby fists are clenched tight by her side.
“Let’s go home,” I say firmly. “I want to hold her.”
My arms feel empty. Yes, Tuck and I are only twenty-two years old. Neither of us have steady jobs. I’m living at home with my angry nana and my asshole stepfather. Tucker’s living with a guy whose dream is to be an extra on the set of Entourage. And now we have a child together.
But looking at Jamie’s sweet face, all I can think of is how much I love her—and Tucker.
I ease back into my seat and watch as Tucker gets the truck into gear and pulls out slowly. I could walk faster than he’s moving the pickup along, but at least we’re leaving. Still, it takes us nearly forty-five minutes to make the drive home because Tucker maintains a steady speed of five miles under the speed limit.