Virgin River (Virgin River #1)(44)

“Arrrgggghhhh,” Polly answered, grabbing her belly and leaning forward. There was a slightly muffled sound that preceded the soft dripping of amniotic fluids onto the floor.

“Oh, Polly!” Darryl exclaimed. He looked suddenly stricken. Embarrassed.

“Well,” Mel said, looking over her shoulder. “That should speed things up. Just stay put until the bed’s ready and I can help you change.”

A half hour later Polly sat up in the hospital bed, not terribly comfortable on a couple of towels, her green hospital gown stretched over her belly. Mel had changed into a pair of scrubs and Nikes she’d packed for just such an event. If this were L.A., the anesthesiologist would be on his way to check her and discuss the epidural, but this was the country, no anesthesia here. Doc came around right after Mel had given Polly a pelvic to see how far she had dilated, and then upon noting Darryl’s pallor, he said,

“Young man—let’s you and me wander across the street and have a drop of courage.”

“Darryl, don’t leave me!” Polly begged.

“He’ll be right back, and I won’t leave you,” Mel promised. “But sweetheart, you’re only at four centimeters—it’s going to be a while.”

Good to her word, Mel stayed at her side. She wasn’t sure what she had expected the situation to be like, but was admittedly surprised by a few things. One—Doc Mullins stayed out of her way and let her have the case even though Polly had been his patient. Two, he took on the job of watching Darryl in case it became necessary to take the lad out of the room. Doc was staying up long after his usual bedtime. And, the few times Mel wandered out of the patient’s room through the night to fetch supplies or a fresh cup of coffee, she looked across the street to see the lights were on and the Open sign lit at Jack’s. He kept the bar open all night.

Polly’s labor intensified slowly as the hours ticked by, but she remained stable and progressed normally. Mel had her up walking, squatting, getting gravity on their side. She had Darryl hold her forward while she rocked her h*ps side to side and at threethirty in the morning, Polly began to push. The girl was most comfortable on her side, so Darryl and Mel joined forces to help her deliver in that position. Mel had Polly lie on her side in the fetal position, the leg beneath her tucked up and under while Polly and Darryl together lifted the upper leg to clear the field of birth. It was a big first baby and Polly couldn’t have managed that position, pushing for so long, without a good assistant. It was important that the mother have whatever control she could, trusting her body; it made the whole experience so much more beautiful. Darryl held up pretty well despite the fact that it was difficult to watch his young wife in pain, and the sight of blood, even though he’d slaughtered his share of pigs, was clearly tough on him.

At four-thirty Polly’s baby emerged after an hour of pushing. Mel cut the cord, wrapped the baby and passed him to his father. “Mr. Fishburn,” she said to Darryl,

“there is another Mr. Fishburn in the family. Please help Polly get your son situated on her breast—it’ll help her deliver the placenta and slow the bleeding.”

This was so much more like a scene from Gone With The Wind than the type of midwifery Mel had known in a large, well-equipped city hospital. While Doc checked over the newborn, Mel cleaned up the mother with soap and water and changed her sheets and bedclothes.

By six-thirty in the morning, physically exhausted but wired on caffeine, Mel’s work was done. The baby would reside in the room with Polly, and Darryl could have the other bed if he wanted it. It took them both about sixty seconds to fall into a deep sleep. Mel washed her face, rinsed her mouth with a little mouthwash, let her hair out of the clip that had held it on top of her head and went looking for Doc.

“Go to bed, Doc,” she said. “It was a long night. I’ll keep the office open.”

“No, sir,” he said. “I don’t sleep in daylight, and you did all the work. I’ll keep an eye on the Fishburns. Go to your place.”

“I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll go take a nap and come back in early afternoon to spell you.”

“That’ll do,” he said. Then, peering over his glasses, added, “Not bad. For a city girl.”

The sun was just peeking over the mountains, bathing the little town in pinkish beige rays. The April air was cold. She pulled her wool jacket around herself and sat on Doc’s front porch, feeling exhilarated, and perhaps a little too wound up for sleep right away.

Polly had done well, for a mere girl. No Lamaze training for those two, and no drugs. There had been some powerful grunting, groaning and straining; Darryl had grunted along with his wife with such sincerity, it was lucky he didn’t mess his pants. Nice, big, eight-pound country baby. There was nothing in this world like pulling a squalling infant from its mother’s womb; no panacea for a breaking heart could do more. This didn’t throw Mel into a stupor of longing or depression because this was her life’s work—what she loved. And she loved it so much more when the couple was happy and excited, the baby robust and healthy. Holding the baby she had just delivered, handing it to its mother and watching it suckle hungrily—it was like seeing God before you.

She heard a loud thwack. And another. She had no idea what time Jack’s usually opened. It was only six-thirty. Another loud thwack, coming from his place. She went down the porch stairs and across the street. Behind the bar there was a big brick barbecue. Wearing boots, jeans and a flannel shirt, and hefting a heavy ax, Jack was splitting logs on a tree stump. She just stood there watching him for a moment. Thwack, thwack, thwack.