Georgie, All Along (84)
When I get to the kitchen counter, though, I see the screen lit up with Bel’s name. I should’ve expected that—not only is it close to the time yesterday’s I’M ALREADY BORED text came through, it’s also the morning after Levi and I left very suddenly from a double date that had, up to that unexpected Fanning family reunion, been going great. She’s either looking for company or for a full debrief, or both, and when I swipe to answer, I expect her to start yelling at me before I have the chance to say hello.
Instead, her voice comes through small and scared. “Georgie?”
“What’s wrong?” My heart’s already pounding.
“Okay, well,” she says, sounding out of breath. “The thing is, I’m in labor.”
*
IF EVER THERE was a time where my high tolerance for chaos comes in handy, it’s in the closest local hospital, where, barely an hour after she first called me, Bel and I arrive with one not-so-neatly packed bag and two not-so-well-hidden expressions of shock. In fairness to me, Bel—she of the many “I can pack for a three-day business trip in a single compact carry-on” boasts over the years—not having a perfectly arranged go bag packed for her labor is a pretty shocking development, which I’m definitely going to ask her about later. But in fairness to her, the harsh reality of having to actually push a baby out of one’s vagina seems pretty shocking, no matter how much time you’ve had to prepare for it.
Also, her water broke all over the passenger seat of my Prius.
Now that we’ve been here a while, though, I am in it—I handled the absurdly bureaucratic check-in with ease; I got Bel changed into the soft, loose nightgown we brought from home; I took out and refolded or laid out everything we’d stuffed into that go bag. I stood by Bel’s side when the labor and delivery nurse came to hook her up to a monitor; I took notes on my phone when the doctor on rounds came in to check her. I know that Bel is five centimeters dilated and that her blood pressure is still in a range the doctor is unconcerned about; I also know that it could still be hours before she has to push. I’ve memorized the names of every person at the nurse’s station, conveniently positioned only a few steps outside this room’s door, and I’ve also managed to find the perfect television volume to mostly drown out some very upsetting noises coming from down the hall.
The only problem is, Harry isn’t here.
And I can tell Bel isn’t okay.
It was only when we were halfway out her front door that she’d said, as casual-as-you-please, “I better call Harry,” and I’d shrieked my surprised “WHAT!” at her. It’d been bad enough to know that he wasn’t home; I’d had no idea she hadn’t even called him yet. She’d claimed she hadn’t wanted to until she was sure this was the real thing, and then—probably when she watched my eyebrows disappear into my hairline in disbelief, worse than when she told me the go bag wasn’t ready—she’d admitted that they’d had a fight.
And that she “didn’t want to talk about it.”
Then she’d had another contraction, right there on her front porch.
In the car—before the water breaking—she’d finally called him, her voice strangely, falsely calm, even as Harry grew more frantic. He was already two hours away, snarled in traffic on I-95 on his way to DC, and I’d had to press the back of my hand to my mouth to keep from blurting out ten thousand questions about why he’d go up there in the first place. Hadn’t he decided no more work trips, not since the last one he’d taken? Not when the due date was this close?
I know something’s happened between them, and I know—I know—she’s quietly freaking out about it.
From my spot on the chair I’ve pulled close beside her bed, I turn my head slightly and strain my ears to listen for any of those distressing-down-the-hall noises. When I don’t hear any, I lift the remote from the arm of my chair and lower the volume on the television.
“Do you want to talk about it yet?” I say.
“No,” she says, plucking at the white waffle-knit blanket covering her lap.
“You’re sure?”
She nods miserably, her eyes welling, and my stomach clenches. It’s been hard seeing Bel in physical pain over the last two hours, but this is worse, to know she’s hurting in this way, too. This isn’t how I want this to be for her—I want her filled up with anticipation, with love for the family she and Harry are about to expand.
“Tell me what happened with you and Levi last night,” she says, sniffling.
I know what she’s doing, know she wants a distraction, and I’d pretty much do anything she asked of me right now. Still, I hesitate. The story Levi told me last night isn’t one he’d want me to share, especially with someone he still doesn’t know very well. And beyond that—with the way Bel looks right now, I don’t know if a story about Levi and me fighting and making up is the best choice for distraction, since she’s still clearly waiting on the latter with Harry.
“Georgie, come on. Get my mind off of this. You’ve probably got six minutes before the next one.”
I scoot my chair closer, stilling Bel’s blanket-plucking hand with my own. I turn it, palm side up, and start massaging her wrist and fingers. Years ago, before I worked for Nadia, I had a boss who loved hand massages, but who also never had time to actually get them done by a professional. Five YouTube videos later and she’d proclaimed me “better than anyone she’d ever paid.” Bel sighs in relief.