CHAPTER FIVE
OLIVIA
IN JANUARY, PILES OF ICY SNOW line the downtown sidewalks, and the lake has become a skating rink surrounded by white-covered mountains. Hot-chocolate booths sit on the edges of the lake, which resembles a child’s spinning toy with all the skaters gliding in circles. Allie has banned me from the café—a dictate I didn’t protest with much fervor since I’m inclined to stick close to home these days.
I’m almost two weeks late. According to Dr. Nolan, I’m one centimeter dilated. She’s had me monitored for two non-stress tests, which have indicated the baby is responding fine and the heartbeat is normal. She told me to try some home induction techniques and, if still nothing has happened in a few days, then we’d talk about medical intervention.
I’m anxious. Not really nervous—at least, not as much as I was during childbirth classes—but I’m ready to have this pregnancy over and done with. Dean and I go for a walk around the indoor gym first thing in the morning. I’ve been exercising regularly throughout the pregnancy, but walking is also supposed to jumpstart labor. The other day Dean brought home two pineapples, claiming he read that there’s some enzyme in pineapple that’s supposed to “ripen” the cervix.
Dr. Nolan also told us sex can induce labor, as apparently semen helps the cervix ripen, and an orgasm can start contractions. Dean is game to give this a try, but at the moment even the idea of sex exhausts me. I do agree to let him try nipple stimulation—mostly because all I have to do is sit on the sofa with my shirt and bra off.
“The book says to roll the nipples between two fingers.” He reaches for his reading glasses, then pages through one of the many books on pregnancy and childbirth we’ve bought. “Though I read a few things on the internet about different techniques, like stimulating one nipple at a time at certain intervals.”
“Dean. I’m sure one technique is as good as another.”
“Okay, let’s try.” He puts the book aside and rubs his forefinger around my nipple. “The book says to pinch and roll them.”
“Well, you are a pro at that.”
He starts tweaking one of my nipples as if he’s turning a radio dial.
Needless to say, I do not find this particularly arousing.
He peers at the open book again, then reaches for my other breast and begins tweaking that nipple too. This continues for about three minutes. I watch him—a crease of concentration between his eyebrows, his dark hair brushing his forehead, his eyes focused behind his glasses.
“Are you getting turned on?” I ask.
“Not at the moment, no.”
“Good. Because that would be weird.”
“Yes, it would.”
Tweak, tweak, tweak.
“Do you feel anything?” Dean asks.
“Nothing labor related.”
Roll, rub, tweak.
“So, uh, this book says you can also try sucking them,” Dean says.
“I most certainly cannot try sucking them.”
“I mean, I can suck them.” He glances at me. “Or will that freak you out?”
“Not if it doesn’t freak you out.”
“Actually, it might turn me on.”
“Well, that’s okay, I guess.”
He moves closer to me. We shift around to get into an optimal position before he puts one hand over my left breast and lowers his head to my right. Then he hesitates.
“Dean, you’ve sucked them before,” I say, as if he needs reminding.
“Okay, so… you know, stop me if this gets uncomfortable.”
Turns out it’s not uncomfortable at all because his mouth is warm and wet, his tongue circling my areola, his teeth biting gently. I don’t become a quivering mass of urgency like I usually do when he licks my nipples, nor do I experience even the slightest hint of a contraction, but it’s very pleasant and his hair is thick and soft against my chest, his hand resting protectively on my belly.
After a few minutes, he lifts his head. “Anything?”
“No.” I glance at his crotch. “You?”
“Uh…”
I can’t help smiling. Nice to know I can still get the man aroused, even being over forty weeks pregnant and thirty pounds heavier. Oh, yeah, and almost two bra cup sizes bigger.
Ahem.
I put my hand over Dean’s fly, which is starting to swell. I’m still not up for anything acrobatic, but there are certain things I can do that don’t require much exertion at all.
His throat works with a swallow. “Liv, you don’t have to…”
“I know I don’t.” But I want to because he’s so freaking adorable with his reading glasses on and his hair disheveled and him all concerned about finding the right method of stimulating my nipples.
I squirm around trying to find a good position, but I can’t lean over him with my belly in the way. “You might have to…”
“You really want to do this?” he asks.
“Sure. As long as you don’t feel like you have to return the favor.”
“Well, the book does say that an orgasm will contract your uterus and remember when—”
I stop his words with a kiss. Even though I want to have this baby, I’m still not sure I can relax enough to have an orgasm.
And even though I don’t feel like having sex these days, I have never grown tired of kissing my husband. I love the way our lips part at the same time, the way his tongue explores my mouth and his teeth graze my lower lip. I squeeze his crotch, feeling his erection grow beneath the denim of his jeans.
“Stand up,” I say.
He does, moving in front of me so I can unbutton his jeans and push them over his hips. My heart speeds up at the sight of his shaft, all warm and rigid. I grasp the base in my hand and lick the tip.
“Ah, fuck, Liv…” Dean spears his hands into my hair and rocks his hips forward. “We were supposed to be stimulating you.”
“You, me, what’s the difference.” I run my tongue over the sinuous veins in the shaft and reach down to cup his heavy balls.
A pulse starts between my legs, but it’s mild and more in reaction to his arousal than a direct result of my own.
Maybe.
I curl my fingers into his hips when he starts to gently thrust. It’s pretty sexy after all, the sensation of his cock sliding in and out of my mouth, my breasts bare and my nipples decidedly simulated. The pulsing in my sex increases to a throb. A groan rumbles from his chest. I shift to try and rub myself against the sofa cushion.
Dean pauses in his thrusting and looks down at me. “You want more?”
I pull back with a gasp. “I don’t know.”
“Want me to try?”
I figure it can’t hurt. I nod and spread my hands over my breasts. My nipples poke against my palms.
“Should I…”
“Do this.” He lifts my breasts and presses them together.
He knows exactly how hot this makes me. My heart starts to pound hard as I feel him slide into the valley between my breasts, the path slick already with a combination of sweat and arousal.
A luscious, warm coil winds through my lower body as he pushes his cock into my cleavage, his hand gripping my hair, his breath coming fast. I love the sight of his erection pushing through the pillowy cushions of my breasts, love the way his fingers dig in tighter when his desire spikes.
He stops and slips away from me. I wiggle backward on the sofa so he can settle beside me, smoothing his hand over my belly down between my legs. I tense a little as he delves his fingers in the pleats of my sex, but his touch is so light and gentle that my anxiety melts away.
“All right?” he whispers.
I nod. He lowers his head to capture my mouth in a deep kiss that makes my blood spark. His tongue sweeps into my mouth. His chest rises and falls against mine, my nipples tingling from the brush of his taut skin. I can feel it, the spiral of arousal beginning to unwind slow and rich, but the shadow of pain lingers.
I put my hand on the side of Dean’s neck. His pulse beats hard against my palm. He lifts his head.
“I don’t think I—” I start.
“It’s okay.” He runs his thumb down my cleft, lowers his head to my breasts.
I let my eyes drift closed, even as I know that this desire is going to spin around inside me with nowhere to go, like an endless whirlpool. Even as my body surges, as shivers rain down my spine, I sense the blunt edge of unfulfilled lust.
“Oh, Dean, I’m sorry.”
His laugh is hoarse and hot against my breasts. “Ah, sweetie, you have no reason to be sorry.”
He pushes his hips against me, and his very stiff erection nudges my thigh. I get the message and grasp his shaft, sliding my hand up and down, rubbing my thumb across the crown. I squeeze my legs together, longing for the break in tension, the cascade into bliss.
When Dean mutters low against my throat and pumps his cock into my fist, I feel a responding surge deep in the pit of my stomach. One more pull on his shaft, and he comes between us with hard pulses, his semen spurting over my belly. I love the shuddering of his muscular body, the way he grips my waist, the rough groan vibrating against my skin.
He eases away to catch his breath, his mouth seeking mine as he slips his hand down my abdomen and into my cleft again. Again, his touch is so gentle that my body relaxes.
“Come on, beauty,” he whispers, threading his other hand through my hair, his breath warm against my lips. “Let me see you come.”
His deep voice settles in my core. With a muffled moan, I spread my legs wider. He slips his forefinger into my slit, his thumb stimulating my clit in slow, delicious circles. Fresh tension laces through me, that pull toward release that I crave and yet haven’t experienced in far too long.
“Oh, Dean.” I arch upward, pressing my breasts against him. “I feel it…”
“So fucking beautiful.” He lifts his head, his smoldering gaze on mine, his face flushed with heat. “Give it to me, nice and hard.”
He increases the pressure, lowering his head and taking my tight nipple between his teeth. One teasing tug, and a thousand sparks shoot to my core. Before I can stop it, I’m straining toward the crest of bliss.
“Dean, I’m going to come.” I grip his shoulders, bucking my hips up into his hand. “Oh, God… harder, I’m… oh!”
The tension breaks. With a shriek, I come, rapture flooding me in wave after wave of exquisite sensation. Dean’s murmurs of pleasure are a steady stream against my breasts as I quake and shudder beneath him. He continues working his fingers between my legs until the wave begins to recede, leaving me panting and sated.
“Oh.” I inhale a breath, wiping a trickle of sweat from my temple. “Oh my.”
Dean straightens and slides his hand over my damp belly. His hot gaze drifts over my naked body.
“Well,” he remarks, “we might not need the pineapple after all.”
January 25—3:28 a.m.
“Dean? Dean.” I reach across the bed and jostle his shoulder. “Dean!”
“Hmm?” He shifts and rolls toward me, locking his arm around my chest. “Are you having a sex dream? Because I’d be happy to—”
“I’m having a contraction.”
“What?” His eyes fly open.
I put a hand on my belly. “It’s not strong, but it’s definitely a contraction. The orgasm must have worked.”
“Really? I know I get you going, but—”
“Dean! It’s a contraction.”
He pushes up to one elbow and puts his hand on my stomach. Then he blinks. “Wait, what the hell am I doing? Where’s the stopwatch?”
He grabs the stopwatch from the nightstand drawer. “Hold on. Tell me when the next one starts.”
We wait. And wait. When I feel another one start, Dean times it to fifteen seconds. As it turns out, the next one is over half an hour later, so even Professor Neurotic realizes it makes no sense to time each one.
“Not yet, anyway,” he says.
Anxiety flutters inside me. I push back the bedcovers. Since I have no idea when we’ll need to leave for the hospital, I tell Dean I’m going to take a quick shower.
“Leave the bathroom door open.” He also gets out of bed. “Call if you need me. What time is it? Are you hungry? I’ll make sure everything’s ready for the hospital.”
I don’t bother reminding him that we’ve had everything ready for the past three weeks. Clearly the man needs something to do.
I stand under the shower for twenty minutes. The hot water pounding over my hair and skin dilutes some of my nervous tension. I put a hand over my belly when it starts to tighten again.
“Okay, baby,” I whisper. “Let’s do this.”
I get out of the shower and dress in stretchy maternity pants and a T-shirt. A thousands thoughts fly through my brain. How it seems like I’ve been waiting to meet this baby forever, and yet how quickly the past nine months have gone. I think about my childhood, remembering faces, names, places, emotions. For the first time in my life, those thoughts aren’t accompanied by bitterness or sorrow, but by a kind of complacency. A belonging.
“Five minutes.” Dean clicks the stopwatch. He’s been showered and dressed for the past two hours. “We should head for the hospital.”
It’s almost seven in the morning. My contractions hurt but not excessively so, and my water’s already broken. After an L&D triage check determines my membranes have ruptured and I’m two centimeters dilated, a nurse named Karen puts me into a birthing room and hooks me up to a fetal monitor. She consults with the doctor, who determines I should be admitted.
“There was a chance I could have been sent home?” I ask Karen.
“Well, sometimes people get a little anxious and come to the hospital too early,” she explains, then smiles at Dean. “You did the right thing.”
He beams back at her. “I have Liv’s birth plan all ready too.”
Oh, lord. The man is going to be a legend among Mirror Lake’s nurses before long.
Dean gets the plan out of my suitcase and shows it to Karen. They consult over it for a few minutes before she places it with my medical chart.
“So, uh, what do I do now?” I ask. I’ve changed into a hospital gown and am sitting propped up against the pillows.
“Relax and keep contracting,” Karen says cheerfully. “I’ll get all the forms from your file. Anything changed since your pre-admission interview?”
I shake my head.
“How’s the pain?”
“Bearable.” Of course, I have no idea how long it will stay that way.
“I’ll get an IV started, but you’ll still be able to move around,” Karen says. “Dr. Nolan is delivering twins down the hall. She’ll be in as soon as she’s available.”
After inserting the IV into my arm, she leaves. Dean pulls a chair up beside my bed and sits down. “You need anything?”
“Not yet.” I shift around to get comfortable and glance at him. He’s staring at me.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.” He reaches out to push my hair away from my face. “Just… you know.”
“Yeah.” I squeeze his hand. “I know.”
We sit for a while. I tighten my grip on his hand when another contraction clenches hard. The nurse comes in to ask questions, we fill out a few more forms and continue to wait.
After another hour, Dr. Nolan comes in to check on me. She announces that I’m still only three centimeters dilated, even though my first contractions started over five hours ago, and suggests that we do some walking to try and speed things along.
I’m not all that thrilled about walking up and down the hospital corridors, but Dean’s already helping me into a pair of slippers before I can protest. He holds my arm and we head out to walk. The hallways are surprisingly quiet—a few doctors and nurses go from room to room, family members returning with cups of coffee, but overall it’s calm.
I try and breathe through another contraction. Dean stops. I realize I’m gripping him so hard my fingernails are digging into his arm. He uses his shirtsleeve to wipe sweat off my forehead.
“Want to go back?” he asks.
I suck in air and shake my head. I don’t think I’ll be able to walk much longer, so I might as well do what I can now. We make a few more laps up and down the hallway, pausing for another contraction, before returning to the room.
I’m not feeling good. I’m sweating, and nausea is starting to roil in the pit of my stomach.
Dr. Nolan comes in for another check. “Still only three centimeters,” she says.
The announcement makes me want to cry, especially when another contraction tightens around me like an iron band.
“Can you give her something for the pain?” Dean asks.
“I’ll try and get the anesthesiologist in here. Last I checked, he was in surgery.” Dr. Nolan glances at the birth plan, then nods. “Sit tight, both of you.”
She leaves. I grip my husband’s hand, my lifeline, and breathe.
I can’t tell if tears or sweat are running down my face. I feel like I’m about to burst out of my own skin. My body is hard as stone, totally foreign. My spine is about to break in two. The hospital gown is sticky and heavy.
I’m vaguely aware of Dean prowling beside my bed. Aware of his hand smoothing my hair back, pressing a wet cloth to my forehead. Aware of the rumble of his voice, deep and soothing against my ear. Aware of the unbreakable grip of his fingers as I seize his hand through the pain. Aware of the fear he’s trying to keep contained.
I close my eyes and float on a wave of agony. I can’t even swallow. When another contraction yanks a scream from my throat, Dean lets me clutch at him until the pain eases, and then he pulls away and curves my fingers around the bedrail.
“I’m getting the doctor.” His tone is rough, but lined with that implacability I know so well. He brushes a kiss against my forehead. “Be right back.”
I sink against the pillows and concentrate on breathing. A palpable relief curls through me because I sense some sort of end to this. I know my husband won’t let up until he gets someone in here who can ease this horrible pain.
I’ve lost track of how much time has passed. I hear faint music in the background, but the sound grates against my ears.
Dean’s hand touches my hair. “Liv, the anesthesiologist is here.”
Oh, thank God.
There’s a flurry of activity around me as the anesthesiologist introduces himself, explains the procedure, and instructs me to sit up and hunch over a pillow. Another contraction clutches me. I bury my face in the pillow and breathe through it.
I’m able to answer the anesthesiologist’s questions as he preps my back and inserts the needle. The procedure is quick and painless. After the catheter is in place and the medicine given, the nurse and Dean help me lie back down. Already a delicious numbness spreads through me.
“There’s another one.” Karen consults the monitor after another few minutes. “How do you feel?”
“Okay.” There’s still a mild pain, but nothing like what it was before. The relief gives me a renewed burst of courage.
“Try and rest now,” Karen suggests. “You’ll need your strength when it’s time to push.”
I close my eyes. My chest feels looser, making it easier to breathe, and my body no longer feels like something alien.
“Is that better?” Dean looks at the monitor as he pulls a chair back up beside my bed.
“Yes. God.” I push a swath of damp hair away from my forehead. “This is insane.”
“Now maybe it’ll be a little easier.” He looks more stressed out than I’ve ever seen him before, but when he catches me watching him, he manages a smile. “I’d offer you ice cream, but you’re not supposed to eat anything.”
“Yeah. That sucks. I think I’m hungry.”
I know I’m exhausted. I slip my hand into Dean’s, for comfort this time rather than the back-breaking need to get through the pain, and lean against the pillows.
I spend the next few hours dozing, but I’m unable to sink into a deep sleep. The nurse lowers the lights. I sense her and another nurse coming in and out, the machine beeping, the remnants of pain.
Fuzzy images that make no sense cascade through my mind—green apples, a needle and thread, the towers of a cathedral, a spiral staircase, an ant and a grasshopper. I remember that I was supposed to finish the café payroll. I have the irrational thought that we left the coffeepot on. I’m worried that Dean has to get to the university for office hours.
I drag my eyes open. The room is quiet, dim. Dean is still beside my bed, his dark gaze on my face. He shifts, leans closer.
“Hey,” he whispers. “How are you?”
“Will I ever have this baby?”
He strokes my hair. “You will. I promise.”
I let my eyes close again. He never tells me something unless he means it. Unless he knows it.
I doze again. When I wake, my mouth is parched, and I have a horrible combination of hunger and nausea. I suck on ice chips and imagine a chocolate milkshake.
Dean sits beside the bed, paces the floor, and only leaves the room to get a cup of coffee. Dr. Nolan stops by intermittently to check on my progress. Twelve hours after I was first admitted, she looks up from another dilation check and smiles.
“Are you ready to have your baby, Liv?”
Dean is at my side in a flash. I tighten my hand on his and nod.
“I’m ready.”
Our son comes into the world after both months and a second. One minute ago, our family was me and Dean, and then—despite the months of pregnancy, the hours of labor that seemed endless, and the final flurry of activity—our boy arrives in what seems like no time at all.
The epidural continues to work its magic as I do everything I’m supposed to do. Even though I obey the nurses’ instructions about when to push, when to stop, when to breathe, it feels like part of me is floating above the bed, separate from the mechanics of giving birth but utterly secure in the knowledge that I’m doing everything right.
As always, Dean is a constant, steady presence at my side, his deep voice a stream of love and encouragement in my ear. He leaves me only to check on the progress of things between my legs, and he is as fascinated with that event as he has been with everything else.
My body strains with pressure, work, tension. I strain, sweat, grit my teeth, and push, push, push. Then, when I can hardly inhale another breath, Dr. Nolan looks up at me.
“One more, Liv,” she says. “That should do it.”
I close my eyes and push. My heart pounds. The pressure releases, a sudden lifting, and then a baby’s cry fills the air, my heart, my soul.
I open my eyes. Dr. Nolan holds up a damp, squirming baby boy, the umbilical cord still attaching him to me, and my breath stops in my throat. I stare at the baby, stunned, and then my son opens his eyes and looks right at me with eyes as black as night.
In that instant, I’m both lost and forever found.
I sink back against the pillows. Dr. Nolan hands the baby to one of the nurses, who says something about me needing to breastfeed right away, and there’s another bustle of activity and movement before Nicholas is wrapped in a blanket and placed in my arms.
He’s both weightless and heavy, like an anchor securing me to the earth. A brilliant, golden streamer of love and hope unfurls, hugging us both in a warm, protective embrace. Not until this moment have I more clearly understood the meaning of the word wonder.
“Shift him a little toward you.” Karen moves to my side, helping me get Nicholas to latch onto my breast. When he does, his eyes drift closed.
There’s a movement at my side. I turn to where Dean is sitting beside the bed, his gaze on Nicholas’s face. For a moment, I stare at my husband. His eyes are red-rimmed and bloodshot, stubble covers his jaw, and his hair is a mess. He has never looked more beautiful.
Dean shifts his gaze to mine.
“Hi,” I whisper past the tightness in my throat.
He leans forward and puts a gentle hand on my head, pressing his lips to my forehead.
“I love you so much, Liv.” His voice is rough.
“I love you too, Dean.”
The words will never be enough to encompass everything we are to each other, but he and I both know all the secret nuances and intricacies that belong to us alone. And the rest of the world fades into the distance.
Dean and I look at the baby together. Nicholas’s face is pink and scrunched, his eyelashes long and dark against his cheeks, his little hands balled into fists. A sweet, fragrant scent wafts from him. A tuft of dark hair covers his head. As we watch, he starts to squirm. His eyes flutter open to reveal his midnight eyes.
“Hello, Nicholas,” I say softly.
He yawns. I glance at Dean with a smile. He’s looking at our son as if he’s never seen a baby before. His eyes are damp. He shifts his gaze to mine.
And then there just aren’t any words at all.