Rescue - By Anita Shreve Page 0,32
the precious seconds waiting for the baby to pink up, the pointed heads the nurses always covered with caps shortly after the birth. The nurses said that the caps kept the babies warm. Webster thought it was because their pointed heads were ugly. He’d never seen a beautiful baby spring right out from the chute. Usually it wasn’t until the infants were a month old, when the mothers came in to Rescue to thank the medics, that he could attach the word cute.
He set his radio and belt on the table. He watched as Sheila caved inward and closed her eyes.
He waited until she came back.
“That’s not Braxton,” he said.
“No, probably not.”
“Your water break?”
She nodded.
“When?”
“Around two a.m.”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
Sheila shrugged.
Webster assessed her. He checked his watch and waited for another contraction. It came at four minutes, and this time she made hard fists to ward off the pain. He squatted in front of her.
“Do you remember about the breathing?” he asked.
“Of course I remember it. I just can’t do it.”
“You did fine in class,” he reminded her.
“Does this look like class?”
“Try to breathe while you’re having the contractions even if it isn’t the way they taught you. Can you get dressed?”
“Probably.”
“We’re going in.”
“To the hospital?”
“You bet,” he said, standing.
“Am I going to be one of those idiots they talked about in class? The woman who goes in too soon and then has to go home?”
“No,” Webster said. “Your water broke. You have to go in.”
She struggled to stand, and he helped her. “I hate it that you know more about this than I do,” she said.
“Why?” he asked. “If this baby comes in the car, it’s me you’re going to want with you.”
They dressed together in the bedroom, Webster unwilling to go into Mercy in his uniform. Sheila wasn’t his patient. She was his wife, and he was about to become a father. Still, he knew all the things that could go wrong: the breech, the stillbirth, the cord around the neck. He asked if he could feel her abdomen so that he could locate the baby’s head. “Don’t touch me,” she snapped when he moved toward her.
He took his utility belt, which had a pair of shears on it. He brought an armload of blankets. He carried her suitcase.
She leaned against the wall, breathless. “You really think it’s coming now?”
“No,” he said.
He helped her down the long flight of outside stairs. Stairs that were treacherous in winter, easy in September. The sun was up strong, and the leaves were translucent with color. Twenty-two years in Vermont, and it never got old.
Sheila had three hard ones in the car. She pushed one arm against the dashboard, the other against the door. They were coming fast. He took the cruiser up to sixty, which was all he dared. He never knew when some lost asshole tourist might bolt onto the highway.
“Oh, God,” she cried and looked at him. “I want to push.”
“Don’t,” Webster said firmly. “Whatever you do, don’t push. Breathe, Sheila. We’re only half a minute out. Do the breathing. Are you listening to me? Don’t push.”
“I can’t do the fucking breathing.”
Webster wanted his wife on a sterile bed, her legs in stirrups, the attending listening to the fetal monitor.
He watched her cave in to another contraction. Before, as an EMT witnessing a birth, Webster had wanted to know what the pain was like. Now he was glad that he’d never know it.
Webster skidded into the loading dock, opened the door, and was inside the ER in one motion. He signaled to the first nurse who looked familiar.
“Mary, your name is Mary, right? My wife wants to push.”
The nurse snagged a stretcher and ran toward the cruiser. She yanked the door open. Sheila, white-faced, lay back against the seat. “OK, hon,” Mary said. “Everything’s going to be fine. Can you stand?”
Sheila’s legs were wide apart. She shook her head no.
“We’re going to get you out now.”
Webster hooked his arms under Sheila’s armpits, turned her sideways, and pulled. Mary, who was surprisingly strong considering her small stature, caught the feet. They hoisted Sheila onto the stretcher.
In the ER cubicle, Mary swung the flower-print curtain closed. She and Webster sheeted Sheila onto the bed. Sheila began to make mewling sounds during the contractions. Mary whipped off the maternity trousers and underpants, spread Sheila’s legs, and put them into stirrups. Sheila still had on a purple batik maternity top with a peace sign in front.
“Crowning,” Mary said.
Webster stopped himself from saying