from under the sink and stuffing detritus of an earlier examination and treatment into the white plastic bag. He grabbed the full one from the garbage can and dragged them both to the back door. No time to haul them out to the Dumpster, and the pile was growing.
He found a paper cover for the bed and was tugging it into place as Esther ushered Ansel and Beth in. They helped Beth up onto the table and set her feet into the stirrups.
“Is that you, Harold?” the quavering voice asked.
Beth groaned. “The baby is coming. I can’t…”
“Well, don’t cross your legs and try to hold it back. We’re ready.” Esther snapped her gloves into place; Ben noted she was wearing the extra-large nitrile gloves, too, and her fingers weren’t as long as his. The flappy finger ends stuck out even farther. “Ben, there should be an OB kit on the top shelf over there.”
He opened the cabinets in turn, exploring top shelves, pulled down and wagged a package about a foot long. “This?”
“That’s it.”
Beth made a weird wailing noise.
Esther announced, “The head is presenting. Beth, remember to breathe.”
Remember to breathe? Ben tore open the pouch. “Hey, here’s a pair of rubber gloves! We can use ’em. Towelettes. Absorbent pads. In fact, we can use most of this stuff.”
“Slip one of those big pads under her.”
He did so. And watched with something akin to awe. Esther was massaging the area around the tiny emerging head, keeping the perineum from tearing, working the opening larger, pressing. How could she do that in those oversize gloves, with those nitrile bobbles on the ends of her fingers constantly getting in the way? The baby’s head popped out suddenly and flopped down.
“Suction.”
Ben handed her the suction bulb from the kit. Expertly she drew the fluid from the tiny mouth, the minuscule nostrils.
“The shoulders are giving us a bit of trouble.” She cupped one hand around the head, manipulated the area. The baby slid out, simply slid right into her hands like paste from a toothpaste tube. “Thank you, God. Someone? The exact time.”
Ben and Ansel both glanced at their watches. “One twenty-eight.” “One twenty-seven,” they reported simultaneously.
“Close enough, I guess.” She carefully gripped the tiny ankles between her fingers and raised the baby high, head down. This was a little boy. Wow, was he, with oversize purple equipment that, Ben knew, would turn right-size and normal shortly. Ben expected Esther to spank the little bottom, but she just rubbed the small of the baby’s back, tapped the soles of his feet.
A gurgle, a cough; the little one filled his lungs with his first air and let out a wail. Beth pressed both hands over her mouth and she was sobbing; Ben realized it was joy, not sorrow in her weeping. Was there such a thing as real joy anymore? Beth thought so. And look at Ansel’s face glow, way past just grinning.
Esther placed the infant facedown across his mother’s bare chest, his head draped downward. “Ansel, lay your shirt on him, keep him warm.”
Ansel did so instantly.
Ben would have cut the cord next, but Esther did not. Was she so weary she was starting to slip? He kept his mouth shut. Wiping her forehead with the back of her hand, she kneaded Beth’s abdomen the way Allie used to knead a lump of bread dough. Allie. Ben’s memories sabotaged him at weirdest times. Like a huge, most unappealing blue-black-gray sea worm of some sort, the afterbirth slid onto the paper.
“Scalpel.” Esther held out her hand. “Then the clamps.”
Scrambling, Ben found the scalpel in the OB kit and slapped it in her open palm with the sterile wrap still on; his hands were dirty. She popped it out of the paper as Ben found the clamps.
She handed the scalpel to Ansel. “This baby has been all Mommy’s for nine months. Now, Ansel, it is appropriate for the father to cut the cord; provide your son with the first step of separation.” She stroked the
He found a paper cover for the bed and was tugging it into place as Esther ushered Ansel and Beth in. They helped Beth up onto the table and set her feet into the stirrups.
“Is that you, Harold?” the quavering voice asked.
Beth groaned. “The baby is coming. I can’t…”
“Well, don’t cross your legs and try to hold it back. We’re ready.” Esther snapped her gloves into place; Ben noted she was wearing the extra-large nitrile gloves, too, and her fingers weren’t as long as his. The flappy finger ends stuck out even farther. “Ben, there should be an OB kit on the top shelf over there.”
He opened the cabinets in turn, exploring top shelves, pulled down and wagged a package about a foot long. “This?”
“That’s it.”
Beth made a weird wailing noise.
Esther announced, “The head is presenting. Beth, remember to breathe.”
Remember to breathe? Ben tore open the pouch. “Hey, here’s a pair of rubber gloves! We can use ’em. Towelettes. Absorbent pads. In fact, we can use most of this stuff.”
“Slip one of those big pads under her.”
He did so. And watched with something akin to awe. Esther was massaging the area around the tiny emerging head, keeping the perineum from tearing, working the opening larger, pressing. How could she do that in those oversize gloves, with those nitrile bobbles on the ends of her fingers constantly getting in the way? The baby’s head popped out suddenly and flopped down.
“Suction.”
Ben handed her the suction bulb from the kit. Expertly she drew the fluid from the tiny mouth, the minuscule nostrils.
“The shoulders are giving us a bit of trouble.” She cupped one hand around the head, manipulated the area. The baby slid out, simply slid right into her hands like paste from a toothpaste tube. “Thank you, God. Someone? The exact time.”
Ben and Ansel both glanced at their watches. “One twenty-eight.” “One twenty-seven,” they reported simultaneously.
“Close enough, I guess.” She carefully gripped the tiny ankles between her fingers and raised the baby high, head down. This was a little boy. Wow, was he, with oversize purple equipment that, Ben knew, would turn right-size and normal shortly. Ben expected Esther to spank the little bottom, but she just rubbed the small of the baby’s back, tapped the soles of his feet.
A gurgle, a cough; the little one filled his lungs with his first air and let out a wail. Beth pressed both hands over her mouth and she was sobbing; Ben realized it was joy, not sorrow in her weeping. Was there such a thing as real joy anymore? Beth thought so. And look at Ansel’s face glow, way past just grinning.
Esther placed the infant facedown across his mother’s bare chest, his head draped downward. “Ansel, lay your shirt on him, keep him warm.”
Ansel did so instantly.
Ben would have cut the cord next, but Esther did not. Was she so weary she was starting to slip? He kept his mouth shut. Wiping her forehead with the back of her hand, she kneaded Beth’s abdomen the way Allie used to knead a lump of bread dough. Allie. Ben’s memories sabotaged him at weirdest times. Like a huge, most unappealing blue-black-gray sea worm of some sort, the afterbirth slid onto the paper.
“Scalpel.” Esther held out her hand. “Then the clamps.”
Scrambling, Ben found the scalpel in the OB kit and slapped it in her open palm with the sterile wrap still on; his hands were dirty. She popped it out of the paper as Ben found the clamps.
She handed the scalpel to Ansel. “This baby has been all Mommy’s for nine months. Now, Ansel, it is appropriate for the father to cut the cord; provide your son with the first step of separation.” She stroked the
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