Twisted(62)

She snorts. “Easy for you to say. Your part was fun. And over. Females got royally screwed in this deal.”

She’s not wrong. But women are stronger than men. No, really, I’m being serious. Sure, we can outdo them in upper-body strength, but in every other way—psychologically, emotionally, cardiovascularly, genetically—women come out on top.


“That’s because God is wise. He knew if we had to go through this shit, the human race would’ve died the f*ck out with Adam.”

She chuckles.

Then a voice comes from the doorway. “How are we doing this evening?”

“Hi, Bobbie.”

“Hey, Roberta.”

Yes—I only use her full name. Post-traumatic stress? Possibly. All I know is that hearing the name Bob? Pretty much makes me want to slit my wrists open with a box cutter.

Roberta checks the chart at the end of the bed. “Everything looks good. You’re about three centimeters dilated, Kate, so we’ve still got a while to go. Do you have any questions for me?”

Kate looks hopeful. “Epidural?”

Here’s some advice—don’t be a masochist. Get the epidural.

I’ll repeat that in case you missed it: GET THE EPIDURAL.

According to my sister, it’s a miracle drug. She’d gladly jerk off the guy who invented it—and Steven would probably let her. Would you get a tooth pulled without novocaine? Would you get your appendix removed without anesthesia? Of course not.

And don’t give me that bullshit about having the “full experience” of childbirth. Pain is pain—there’s nothing “wondrous” about it.

It just f*cking hurts.

Roberta smiles soothingly. “I’ll get it set up right away.” She makes a few notes on the clipboard, then returns it to its hanging place. “I’ll come back in a little while to check on you. Have the nurses page me if you need anything.”

“Okay. Thanks, Roberta.”

Once she’s out the door, I stand up and grab my cell phone.

“I’m going to go call your mom—I can’t get any reception in here. Will you be all right till I get back?”

She waves her hand. “Sure. Not going anywhere. We’ll be right here.”

I bend over and kiss Kate’s forehead. Then I lean down and kiss the hump, telling it, “Don’t start without me.”

Then I’m out the door—jogging to catch up with Kate’s doctor down the hall. “Hey, Roberta!”

She stops and turns. “Hi, Drew. How are you?”

“I’m good—good. I wanted to ask you about the baby’s heart rate. Isn’t one-fifty a little high?”

Roberta’s voice is tolerant, understanding. She’s used to this by now.

“It’s well within the normal range. It’s common to see some minor fluctuations in the fetal heart rate during labor.”

I nod. And go on. “And Kate’s blood pressure? Any sign of preeclampsia?”

Knowledge is power. The more you know, the more control you have over a situation. At least that’s what I’ve been telling myself for the last eight months.

“No, like I told you on the phone yesterday—and the day before that—Kate’s blood pressure is perfect. It’s been steady the entire pregnancy.”

I rub my chin and nod. “Have you ever actually delivered a baby with shoulder dystocia? Because you realize you won’t know it’s happening until the baby’s head is already—”

“Drew. I thought we agreed you were going to stop watching ER reruns?”

ER should come with a warning label. It’s disturbing. If you’re a mild hypochondriac or a parent to be, expect to lose a shitload of sleep after just one episode.

“I know, but—”

Roberta puts her hand up. “Look, I know how you feel—”

“Do you?” I ask sharply. “Have you ever taken your whole life and put it in someone else’s hands and asked them to take care of it for you? To bring it back to you in one piece? ’Cause that’s what I’m doing here.” I push a hand through my hair and look away. And when I speak again, my voice is shaky. “Kate and this baby . . . if anything ever . . .”

I can’t even finish the thought, let alone the sentence.

She puts her hand on my shoulder. “Drew, you have to trust me. I know it’s difficult, but try and focus on the positives. Kate is young and healthy—we have every reason to believe that this delivery will progress without any complications at all.”

I nod my head. And the logical part of my brain knows she’s right.

“Go back to Kate. Try and enjoy the time you have left. After tonight, it’s not going to be just the two of you anymore—not for a long time.”

I force myself to nod again. “Okay. Thanks.”

I turn and walk back toward the room. I stop in the doorway.

Can you see her?

Surrounded by pillows—buried under the puffy down comforter she insisted on bringing from home. She looks so tiny. Almost like a little girl hiding in her parents’ bed during a thunderstorm.

And I need to say the words—to make sure she knows.

“I love you, Kate. Everything that’s good in my life, anything that really matters, is only there because of you. If we hadn’t met? I’d be f*cking miserable—and probably too clueless to even realize it.”