Shelter Mountain (Virgin River #2)(99)

Jack went to the nursery and got the rocker, bringing it to her bedside and sitting up on the edge, leaning toward her. “Did you hit the tree?” he asked her, picking up a towel from the bed and wiping it gently across her sweating brow.

“A little bit. I had a contraction, the first really good one, and it distracted me, and there it was, right in the road.”

“So that didn’t make you go into labor?”

“No. I suspect I’ve been in labor all day and didn’t realize—it was all in my back. Killing me!”

“That’s why I’m here. That’s what Paige said happened to her.”

“God bless her, huh? Uh,” she said, grabbing her middle and going with another one. It seemed to go on forever. Finally, she relaxed against the pillows again, closed her eyes and caught her breath. “Oh, man, this is harder than it looks. At least he’s off my back.”

“God, I wish I could do this for you.”

“That makes two of us.” She closed her eyes for a moment. Two minutes later she was seized by another one. She panted through it. Jack went to the bathroom and wet a washcloth, going back to her to wipe her brow and neck. “That’s nice,” she said.

“You have to wait for John,” he said.

“I’m doing the best I can, Jack.”

He held her hand and wiped her brow through several more contractions, murmuring, “It’s okay, baby. It’s okay….”

And then she snapped, “I know it’s okay! Stop saying that!”

Oh, he had heard about this—when you’re doing whatever you can, but she hates you, anyway.

“Sorry,” she said. “That’s transition talking.”

“Transition?” he repeated.

“It’s getting closer.” When the next one passed she said, “Okay, something is a little different. I think he’s moving down. I feel like in a minute—” Before she could finish her sentence, she was nearly lifted off the bed by the urge to bear down. She seemed to catch herself, stop herself by panting. Two minutes is a long, long time when you’re going through that. When you’re watching someone go through that. When it passed, she collapsed back on the pillows and had trouble catching her breath.

“Jack,” she said breathlessly. “You’re going to have to take a look. Get the flashlight and shine it right on my pelvic floor. See if the birth canal is opening. Tell me if you see him coming.”

“How will I know what to look for?” he asked.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “It has hair,” she said in a very snotty tone.

“Okay, don’t get pissy, I don’t do this for a living.”

She lifted her knees and spread them while Jack held the flashlight on her. “Whoa,” he said. He looked over her knees at her face. He looked a little bit pale.

“Show me how much, like this,” she said, showing him a circle with her thumb and forefinger. He responded by showing her a circle, larger than hers. “Ho, boy,” she said.

He turned off the flashlight. “Melinda, I want you to wait for John….”

“I am sick to death of being told to wait for John!” she said meanly. “Jack, listen to me. I’m having this baby. Period. And you’re going to pay attention and help. Got that?”

“Aw, Melinda…”

She grabbed his wrist and dug her nails into him. “Do you think this is my first choice?”

He thought briefly about suggesting, again, that she try to hold off. But he knew he was not in the driver’s seat here, plus he was resisting the urge to look at his wrist to see if she’d drawn blood. It was going to be impossible to get her to listen to reason. He’d always been good at following orders—he’d do that again. “Gotcha,” he said.

“Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. Spread out a blanket at the foot of the bed, down there. A small blanket for the baby. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Okay, in my bag here, get out two clamps and a pair of scissors. The suction bulb. We’re going to need a basin for the placenta—a large bowl or saucepan will do. Then go into the bathroom, roll up your sleeves and scrub your hands up to the elbows with soap, lots of soap and the hottest water you can stand. Dry with a clean towel. When you get back, done with that, there’s going to be a bigger circle. Okay?”

“Okay.” He opened the bag. He had to hold up a couple of things before she confirmed he had a clamp. The suction bulb was a complete mystery. As this process was going on, she reared up again and with a loud and very primal grunt, was bearing down. She held on to her thighs and pushed until her face was red. He took the flashlight on instinct, shining it on her pelvic floor. Oh, Christ, he thought. That circle of hair that was his son’s head was indeed getting larger. He supposed there was no point in telling her to stop that. “How much time do we have?” he asked.

“Go. Wash. Don’t screw around.”

“Done,” he said. But it was awful, standing at the sink sudsing himself while she was in the bedroom, groaning and grunting and pushing his baby out of her. He wanted to yell at her to stop that, but he knew it would only piss her off. When he got back to the bed, he reached for the flashlight and she yelled, “No! Don’t touch that! Pick it up with a clean towel! Hand it to me!”