BASTARD EPILOGUE
Bennett
Tonight
Our driver met my eyes in the rearview mirror, apologizing silently for the fact that we seemed to be hitting
every
goddamn
red
light
in
Manhattan.
“Hhee-hhee-hhee,” I prompted, reminding Chloe how to breathe the way we’d learned.
Chloe’s eyes were wide, pleadingly fixed on mine as she nodded frantically, as if I were the life preserver thrown overboard in this goddamn biological farce called My Wife Gives Birth to a Melon Through a Straw.
“Did you text Max?” she cried, squeezing her eyes shut.
I watched as a drop of sweat rolled down her temple. “Yes.”
I have so many fucking questions. Not the least of which: how in the hell is this supposed to work?
Faced with the reality of this giant kid coming out of my wife, I was suddenly less confident that history can offer any statistical conclusion about women successfully giving birth.
“Will? Hanna?”
“Yes.”
She bent over, letting out a growl that turned into a scream. And then she sucked in a huge breath, squeaking out: “George and Will P.?”
“Sara called George,” I told her. “Breathe, Chlo. Worry about this, not them.”
I’ve seen her body up close, and I’ve seen that kid on the 4-D ultrasound. I’m no expert in physics, but I just don’t see this happening the way they tell us it’s going to happen.
“Are you sure you don’t want an epidural as soon as we get there?” I asked as the town car hit a pothole and Chloe cried out in pain.
She shook her head quickly, continuing to breathe with cheeks puffing and her hand a vise around mine. “No. No. No. No.”
It became a chant, and I thought back to the estate planning we’d done, the living wills and power of attorney documents we’d signed. Had there been a provision in there for me taking over all health care decisions in the event of sudden and terrifying childbirth? Could I choose for her to have a C-section as soon as we pulled up to the hospital, to spare her the pain she was about to endure?
“Good breathing, Chlo. You’re perfect.”
“How are you so calm?” she asked, breathless, forehead damp with sweat. “You’re so calm. It’s freaking me out.”
I smiled tightly. “Because you’ve got this.”
I do not have a fucking clue what the fuck I am supposed to do.
“I love you,” she gasped.
She looks like she might be dying.
“Love you, too.”
Is this normal?
My hand itched to reach into my pocket, pull out my phone, and call Max.
What does it mean that she’s screaming every minute? Only a half hour ago her contractions were ten minutes apart. Is it possible she might break my hand in her grip? She said she’s hungry but the doctor suggested I not give her anything to eat . . . and yet, I’m a little afraid of her. She’s smiling—but she looks terrifying.
Another contraction hit her and her grip tightened again, painfully. I’d let her break every bone in my hand if that’s what she needed, but it made it hard for me to count how long this one lasted.
Gasping, Chloe whispered to me, or to herself, “It’s okay, I’m okay. It’s okay, I’m okay. It’s okay, I’m okay.”
I watched her struggle through it and then her face relaxed and she slumped back against the seat, her hands clutching her stomach.
Instinctually, I felt like she should be glaring at me, or picking a fight with me to distract herself, or something—anything—quintessentially bitchlike, but she still treated me so gently.
I appreciated it, but I wasn’t sure I liked it.
I liked the rough edges.
I’d fallen in love with that steel spine.
I wondered, for the millionth time, whether something had been changed irrevocably in her. And if it had, how would I feel about that?
Her breathing picked up as another contraction hit.
“Almost there, Chlo. Almost there.”
She clenched her jaw, managing a tight, “Thanks, sweetie.”
I took a deep breath, struggling to remain calm in the face of Chloe’s ironclad desire to remain sweet, and gentle, and reasonable.
We hit another pothole and her fist hit the door at her side.
I heard her inhale.
And then I heard the words come tearing out of her throat: “CAN YOU GET US TO THE MOTHERFUCKING HOSPITAL SOMETIME TODAY, KYLE? FUCK ME!”
This last word turned into a long screeching wail, and up front, my driver stifled a laugh—meeting my eyes again knowingly. It was like puncturing a balloon, the way all the tension seemed to leave me.
“That’s right, Chlo,” I said, laughing. “What the fuck, Kyle!”
He hit the gas, maneuvering around a car and taking two wheels up onto the sidewalk to get around a bike messenger who had stopped to fuck with his phone. Laying on his horn, Kyle leaned out the window, yelling, “I’ve got a woman having a baby in here! Move, you assholes!”
Chloe rolled down her window, leaning out. “Get out of the fucking way, for fuck’s sake!”
Cars around us began to honk, and a few pulled aside to let us through and into the clear stretch ahead of us down Madison Avenue.
Kyle grinned, pulling ahead and out of traffic before hitting the gas with enthusiasm.
I reached over, putting my hand on Chloe’s arm. “We’re only five—”
“Don’t touch me,” she growled, in the best impression I’ve ever heard of the demon from The Exorcist. Reaching out in a flash that took me by surprise, she grabbed my collar, bunching it in her fist. “You did this.”
I grinned, giddy with relief. “You bet your ass I fucking did.”
“You think you’re cute?” she asked in a hiss. “You think this was a good goddamn idea?”
Elation ripped through me. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”
“This thing is going to tear me in half,” she moaned. “And you’re going to have to push your ripped-in-half wife around in a wheelchair for the rest of her life because her legs won’t work together because HER GODDAMN SPINE HAS BEEN SHREDDED BY THIS GODDAMN BABY COMING OUT OF HER VAGINA IN A MOTHERFUCKING CAR, BENNETT! HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO SELL THE LANGLEY ACCOUNT LIKE THAT!” She let go of my shirt. “KYLE!” Chloe leaned forward, slapping the back of his seat. “ARE YOU HEARING ME?”
“Yes, Mrs. Ryan.”
“IT’S MRS. MILLS FROM NOW ON! AND THE GAS PEDAL IS THE SKINNY ONE ON THE RIGHT—ARE YOU FUCKING FLINTSTONING US TO THE HOSPITAL?”
Kyle guffawed, steering us around a delivery truck. Chloe gripped my hand in both of hers, grinding the bones together.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” she moaned.
“It’s okay.”
She turned, glaring at me with clenched teeth. “But I want to fucking kill you right now.”
“I know, baby. I know.”
“Don’t you fucking ‘baby’ me. You don’t know. Next time, you have the child and I’ll sit there laughing about the fact that you’re being ripped in half.”
I bent, kissing her clammy forehead. “I’m not laughing at you. I just missed you so much. We’re almost there.”
Chloe’s birth plan had been very specific: no epidural, no food restrictions, the option of a water birth in the suite. Honestly, there had been three pages of notes, and she’d worked on it meticulously over the past few weeks. Her hospital bag had been packed, unpacked, repacked. Lather, rinse, repeat.
As it turned out, our child had a double nuchal cord, meaning the umbilical cord was wrapped twice around the neck. Not uncommon, we were told. But in our situation, not great.
“After you have a contraction,” Dr. Bryant explained to us, her hand on Chloe’s shoulder and the steady beep-beep-beep of monitors all around us, “the baby’s heart rate isn’t going back up.” She looked over at me, smiling calmly. “If she was already pushing, we’d just work to get the baby out quickly. But here, the baby is still too high.” She looked back to Chloe. “And you’re only at five centimeters.”
“Can you check again?” Chloe groaned. “Because, I’m serious, it feels like twenty.”
“I know,” Dr. Bryant said, laughing. “And I know how adamant you are about having a natural birth, but guys, this is one of the situations where I need to play my veto card.”
Chloe didn’t even get to push before she was taken in to surgery.
Drugged and distraught over her perfect plan falling apart, she stared up at me, her hair held back in a sterile yellow cap, her face splotchy and makeup free.
She had honestly never looked more beautiful.
“It doesn’t matter how it happens,” I reminded her. “At the end, we get a baby.”
She nodded. “I know.”
I stared down at her in surprise. “You’re okay?”
“I’m disappointed,” she said, and swallowed back a clear wave of emotion, “but I just want everything to be fine.”
“Everything will be,” Dr. Bryant said, hands sterile and gloved, smiling behind her mask. “Ready?”
The nurse pulled the drape up, hiding Chloe’s midsection from view. I stayed up near her head, wearing a surgical gown, cap, and gloves of my own.
I knew Dr. Bryant was immediately getting to work. Knew, at least in theory, what was happening on the other side of the yellow barrier. There was antiseptic, and a scalpel, and all manner of surgical tools. I knew they’d started, knew they were hurrying.
But no pain registered on Chloe’s face. She simply stared up at me. “I love you.”
Smiling, I told her, “I love you, too.”
“Are you disappointed?” she asked.
“Not even a little.”
“Is it weird?” she whispered.
I chuckled, kissing her nose. “This whole . . . moment?”
She nodded, giving me a wobbly smile.
“A little.”
“Here we go,” Dr. Bryant said, and then murmured to the nurse, “Here, no—the retractor . . .”
Chloe’s eyes brimmed, and she bit her lip in anticipation.
“Congratulations, Chloe,” Dr. Bryant said, and a sharp cry burst into the room. “Bennett. You have a daughter.”
And then there was a warm, crying bundle in my arms and, with shaking hands, I placed her on Chloe’s chest.
She had a tiny nose, and a sweet kiss of a mouth, and wide, startled eyes.
She was more beautiful than anything I knew.
“Hey,” Chloe whispered, staring down at her. Finally, her tears spilled over. “We’ve waited a long time for you.”
In an instant, my world crumbled and was rebuilt into a fortress around my two girls.
“Oh, for fu—fudge sake,” Chloe growled, laughing. “Isn’t this supposed to be instinct?”
I propped our daughter’s head in my hand and tried to get the angle right. “I thought so, but . . .”
“It’s like, I’m the cow, you’re the farmer, and she’s the bucket,” she said.
The nurse walked in, checking Chloe’s incision, checking her chart, helping us position the baby. “Have you agreed on a name?”
“No,” we said in unison.
The nurse slid our chart back into the shelf on the wall. “You have an army of people here. Do you want me to let them in?”
Chloe nodded, pulling her gown back into place.
I could hear them coming down the hall. George’s laugh, Will Sumner’s deep voice, the curl of Max’s accent, and all three of the Stella kids’ squeals of excitement. And then they were there, bursting into the room, a tangle of bodies and gifts and words. Eleven smiling faces. At least eight pairs of crying eyes.
Max made his way over immediately, a magnet to the tiny, sweet bundle. Bending over the baby, asking, “May I?”
Chloe handed her off, eyes shining.
“Have you picked a name?” Sara asked, looking down at the baby in her husband’s arms.
“Maisie,” Chloe said at the same time I said, “Lillian.”
“That sounds about right,” George said, joining them in cooing over my daughter.
I looked up at Annabel and Iris, standing so quietly next to Will P., who had Ezra in his arms. I grinned over at Hanna and her Will, who were taking in the scene in the room with silent wonder.
Wait.
Eleven faces.
Will, Hanna, Max, Sara, Annabel, Iris, Ezra, Will, George . . .
I lifted my chin to Jensen, who stood at the periphery with his arm around Pippa.
“Congrats, guys,” he said, grinning as he looked around. “Everyone brought baby blankets or flowers. We . . . ah . . .”
“We brought booze,” Pippa finished with a salute, handing me a bottle of Patrón.
“Thanks,” I said, laughing as I crossed the room to shake Jensen’s hand and then bend, kissing Pippa’s cheek. “I will make use of both. So, this.” I waved a finger between them. “It’s a thing.”
He nodded. “It’s definitely a thing.”
Hanna smacked his arm. “They didn’t tell me it’s a thing.”
“I was going to,” her brother said, laughing, “and then you split to New York, so we followed you here!”
“I feel like I should apologize,” Chloe said from across the room.
The group stared at her, our collective brow furrow felt in the ringing, confused silence.
“Oh fudge off, glassholes,” she growled. “I feel like I should, but I’m not going to.”
“Oh, thank God,” Max said on an exhale.
“The bitch is back!” George crowed.
“You’re fired,” Chloe shot out.
“He works for me, sweetie,” Sara reminded her in her gentle refrain we’d all heard a hundred times.
“And be nice,” George told Chloe, reaching out with his left hand and dropping his fingers to show us a gleaming silver band. “Or you won’t be my monster of honor.”
“Your Best Bitch?” she asked in a reverent whisper.
“Right up there at my side,” George said, “reminding me I don’t deserve him.”
Apparently my wife wasn’t completely recovered from her delicate emotional state, because she burst into tears at the sight, waving George over so she could hug him.
“You too, Will Perkins,” she insisted, reaching out with her free arm.
Jokingly, Will Sumner leaned against the wall as if to steady himself from the rolling thunder of the world cracking wide open and eating us all. But, in fact, the room remained perfectly still. Chloe hugged George, George hugged Chloe, and—to all of our surprise and relief—the apocalypse never rained down.
I gazed at my wife, propped up in bed, beaming from ear to ear and talking to the two men about their upcoming wedding and the adventure of our daughter’s arrival. Sara stared hungrily at the baby in Max’s arms, and I wondered how desperate she was to be finished with what was clearly her most challenging pregnancy. Will and Hanna crouched on the floor, listening to Annabel tell them an elaborate story about a butterfly who lived in the flowers they brought. Pippa’s phone rang, and she and Jensen walked over to Max and Sara, letting Ruby and Niall meet my baby over FaceTime.
My parents burst into the room, Henry and family in tow, and even the large private suite became nearly too small to hold us all. They moved across the room in a sea of embraces to the new baby, taking turns holding her, smelling her, proclaiming her to be the most beautiful baby they’d ever seen.
My brother’s two children sat on the floor with Max and Sara’s kids, playing in the baskets of flowers. Normally I would have encouraged them to keep the petals from falling onto the floor and getting smashed into the linoleum but . . . oddly, that obsessive tightness was gone. “Tidy” was a minor battle, one not worth my time. The battles worth fighting were the ones that protected my family, the enormous daily battle of working to make our world a better place for everyone. The battles worth fighting were the ones that rested on my shoulders as the father of a daughter—raising her to be confident, and strong, and safe.
Make a fucking mess with those flowers, kids.
“Enough hogging her,” I said, pushing through the crowd and taking my daughter into my arms. She was such an odd paradox of small and substantial, with tiny, tight fists and wide, searching eyes. I sat on the bed next to Chloe, leaning against the pillows and feeling her head come to rest on my shoulder. We stared, in love, at the little girl.
“Maisie,” she whispered.
“Lillian.”
Chloe turned her face to me and shook her head, jaw set. “Maisie.”
What could I do but kiss her?
“To get the best woman in the world,” I whispered, “I had to start with the basics: Love her as she is, not as you want her to be. Become the person she can’t live without. Be her right-hand man. Learn what she needs, and she won’t give you up, not for anything in the world.”
I had become the person she couldn’t live without. I had become her right-hand man . . . and the father of her child. And it just so happened, every single day, I was the luckiest bastard alive.