Life and Other Inconveniences(48)

Ashley and he made their birth plan. They decided that it would just be the two of them in the delivery room; her mother would fret, her father would faint, and his mom had moved to Arizona after his father died. The thought of a crowd in the waiting room . . . it just wasn’t them.

Besides, it had been just the two of them for so long, always a little separate from everyone else, first because they’d gotten married the year after college, then because they truly liked each other more than they liked anyone else . . . and then by the sorrows of infertility.

So just the two of them it would be.

They went through the downloadable checklist for a happy birth, snorting over terms like squatting bar and hot therapy. “Sounds like how we made this baby,” Miller said, and Ashley laughed so hard she had to run to the bathroom.

Her death was not discussed. There was no check box for “Please choose if you would like to be in the room when your wife is given CPR.”

In the ninth month, however, as they were lying in bed—or, rather, as Miller was lying in bed and Ashley was stuffing pillows under her stomach, between her knees and against her chest, she suddenly stopped what she was doing and looked at him.

“Yes, my empress?” Miller said.

“If something goes wrong in there, I expect you to pick the baby over me.”

“You got it. I’ve had my eye on a younger, hotter wife anyway, so thanks for making it easy.”

“I’m serious, Miller. Promise me you will.”

“I’m not going to have to choose anyone, honey. Nothing will go wrong.” As if he had any right to say that. He had no knowledge, no authority, nothing. God, the fucking arrogance of that statement. “And even if there are complications,” he added, taking the old whistle-past-the-graveyard approach, “the odds are huge that you’ll both be fine.”

“I know,” she said cheerfully, and went back to punching her pillow. “Just wanted it out there.”

She went into labor at three fifteen on a Tuesday afternoon, a day after her due date, and called him right away. In a rush of adrenaline and fear and joy, Miller drove home, fast but not dangerously, and found her beaming and deep-breathing at the door. “No hurry to get to the hospital,” she said. “Why go there when I can torment you here? Oh, God, here comes a contraction! Honey! Feel!” She grabbed his hand and pressed it against her stomach, and Jesus God in heaven, it clenched like a rock, and Ashley’s expression became sharp and focused as she inhaled slowly, held her breath and then exhaled as the contraction released.

“Amazing, right?” she said.

“You are,” he agreed.

At first the contractions were erratic—every fifteen minutes, then every ten. After a couple of hours, they got stronger and more regular, though not closer together. But Ashley was sweating and making low moaning noises, so he called the doctor, was instructed to come in, and got the smaller suitcase, which had been packed for a month. For a second, he paused, touching the baby’s outfit. A little white fuzzy thing with lambs on it.

By the end of the day, his child would be in this world. The thought made his heart ache with love. His baby. His little girl. He already loved her so, so much.

“Let’s go meet our little one,” he said, and her beautiful eyes filled up with tears of happiness, and she gave a wobbly smile. He hugged her gently, breathing in the flowery smell of her shampoo, and kissed her neck.

It would be the last time he held her.

The ride to Westerly Hospital took fifteen minutes. Ashley’s contractions hadn’t changed much.

At the hospital, Dr. Dunn met them cheerfully, checked for dilation. Only three centimeters. “It’s gonna be a long night, kids,” she said. “Ashley, do you want anything for the pain?”

“I’m good,” she said.

“Okay. If you change your mind, there’s no shame in that. Anything that makes this easier on you is a win.”

There were terms discussed by the nurse and doctor: fetal monitoring, advanced maternal age (Ashley was thirty-seven), but Miller was locked in on his wife. She held his hand and stared into his eyes as she breathed and he counted, riding out the contractions, smiling when she could. She rolled on her side; he rubbed her lower back. When a few tears slipped out of her eyes, he brushed them away and kissed her forehead.

“You’re a superhero, you know,” he said. “I love you.”

Labor became more painful, the contractions stronger, and Ashley’s moans were low and guttural. Miller wondered why everyone was so calm, why his wife had to go through this, why it was taking so long. The soundtrack they’d made had played four times already. Every time her face whitened with pain, his heart felt like it was being pulled apart.

When Ashley dozed off around eleven p.m., Miller asked the doctor if everything was okay. If the baby was doing all right, stuck in there for so long.

Dr. Dunn laughed gently. “The baby is just fine. This is Ashley’s first delivery, so I’m not surprised it’s taking so long. No two babies come the same way,” she said, patting his arm. “It’s normal to worry.”

He was normal, then. Maybe he was just paranoid, but it felt like something was . . . off. That the baby wasn’t going to be okay, that the ultrasound has missed something, and even though the fetal monitor showed a fast, regular heart rhythm, a sense of doom had crept into Miller’s bone marrow.