hurried in and sat down beside me, putting a hand on the top of my head. I reached for him, my chest starting to rise and fall with increasing vigor.
“It’s been a long road to get here,” he said. He was very pale. “Can you believe these are the last few minutes that it will be just us, ever again?”
I shook my head as much as I could. “It’s too soon,” I said, strained. “They’re too small. This shouldn’t be happening.”
He met my eyes. “I know. I’m scared, too.” Then he leaned down and whispered, “When I went to call Cilla, my hands were shaking so hard that I hit ‘Clive’ instead. Hung up in a flash, but that was quite a jolt.”
I giggled in spite of myself. “Oh God. That would be all we needed.”
“I know,” he said. “One more big scoop for our old friend, eh?”
I heard a bustling on the other side of the curtain, and then my obstetrician’s head appeared along with a face I didn’t recognize.
“Right, my dear, well, this is not the last time your children are going to ignore your best-laid plans,” he said. “Consider it their first tantrum, eh?”
“First of many,” Nick said, and I could hear the tightness of his throat.
We waited. The doctors worked. Nick smiled at me, tight-lipped. I could tell that he was frightened but trying to remain calm for me. I felt a little pressure, and nothing else. It was mostly silent until Brenda bent down and narrated, “She’s out.”
“She?” Nick and I looked at each other. “It’s a girl?”
Still silent.
“Why can’t I hear her?” I asked.
No one answered. I held my breath. The quiet was deep and it was suffocating and it was shredding me into a thousand pieces. It’s too soon. They’re not ready. I’d thought that about us when we got pregnant the first time, by accident, and now here I was freaking out about timing all over again. And with a life on the line. Again.
Then, there it was, a pitchy yelp, followed by a flood of tears as my body released everything I’d held in since my water broke. The rest came in a blur: Her little bruised face was brought onto my shoulder for a split second before she was whisked away; then, another cry, and a laugh when her sister apparently urinated all over the table. And suddenly Nick was pulled away to accompany our daughters to the neonatal unit, and I was left being stitched up by two doctors who chatted casually, calmly, with each other and with me about what a surprise this all was. Whatever muscles I could still feel, I clenched, wondering how my children’s little lungs were working, whether their hearts were strong, whether they or Nick needed me. I found out later there had been twenty people in the delivery room that I couldn’t see, one full team for each baby, ready for the worst.
When the last stitch was done, Brenda took me into recovery, where I waited in agony for Nick to come back to me. He finally did after about fifteen minutes, glowing with glee and adrenaline.
“That Baby A is a cracker,” he said, leaning down and giving me an enthusiastic kiss. “Tiny as a doll, but she ripped out her feeding tube two seconds after they got it in. We’re in trouble.”
I made as if to sit up, but Brenda glared at me, so I stayed put. “And she’s okay?” I asked.
“She’s perfect,” Nick crowed. “They both are. Baby B needs a bit of oxygen, but they’re not worried. They’re feisty and wrinkly and a bit red, and Baby A is bruised from your pelvis, but it’s already started to come down. I’ve taken loads of photos already.” He sat down hard. “They’re real,” he said, reaching out and taking my hand. “They’re here. They’re wonderful, Bex.”
I burst into tears. “I thought I’d messed it all up again,” I sobbed.
Nick scooted toward me and brushed the hair off my forehead. “You never messed up anything,” he said. “And you grew two strong little girls. Maybe you also made them nosy, like their mother, and they decided they were too bored to stay in there. But they’re fighters, and I’m so proud of them. And of you.”
“I need to see them,” I said. “And not in a picture. I don’t think I’ll feel okay until I see them with my own eyes.”
I could swear I heard Brenda, her back to me, sniffle.