Virgin River (Virgin River #1)(45)

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 hips side to side and at three-thirty 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 bed-clothes.

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 mouth-wash, 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.

He looked up from his chore to see her leaning against the side of the building, pulling her jacket tight over turquoise scrubs. She had no idea that what made him grin at her was the huge toothy smile she wore. “Well?” he said, leaning the ax against the tree stump.

“Baby boy. Big baby boy.”

“Congratulations,” he said. “Everyone is okay?”

She walked toward him. “They’re better than okay. Polly did great, the baby is strong, healthy, and Darryl is expected to recover.” And then she laughed, throwing her head back. Nothing, nothing was more satisfying than coming out of a delivery with one-hundred-percent success. “My first country birth. Harder on Mom than on me. In the city, it’s always an option to just roll over, bare your spine, and labor in comfort from an epidural. Women out here are made of steel.”

“I’ve heard that,” he said with a laugh.

“Know what Doc said? ‘Not bad for a city girl.’” She reached for his hand. “Did you stay open all night?”

He shrugged. “I nodded off by the fire a couple of times. But you never know when someone might need something. Boiling water. Ice. A stiff drink. You want some coffee?”

“God, I think it would make me barf. I’ve had enough coffee to jangle even the nerves of a caffeine junkie.” Uncharacteristically, she wrapped her arms around his waist and hugged him. This man had become her closest friend. “Jack, it was wonderful. I had forgotten how wonderful. I haven’t delivered a baby in, gee, almost a year, I think.” She looked up into his eyes. “Damn, we did a good piece of work. Me, Mom and Dad. Damn.”