The Revised Fundamentals of Caregiving (31 page)

out of the frying pan

S
ir, I'm gonna need you to calm down, sir,” says the medic. He's a giant, maybe six foot seven, lightly stubbled, with a granite chin.

“Do you feel like you have to push?” he says to Peaches, flat on her back atop a space blanket with her knees in the air. She's panting, as the giant works her jeans over her ankles.

“I need you people to back off,” he says, over his shoulder.
Th
en, back to Peaches: “Do you feel like you have to poop?”

Before she can answer, she suddenly goes goggle-eyed with another contraction.

Th
e giant eyes his wristwatch, then checks her pelvis and sees that she's bulging already. “Game on,” he says. “We're not moving her.
Th
is kid's in a hurry. Are you full term?” he says to Peaches.

“She's due in eighteen days,” I say.

“You the father?”

“No.”

“Have you had prenatal?” he says to her.

“Yes,” she says, wide-eyed. “
Th
e last was at six months.”

“Is everything okay?” I say. “Is she all right?”

“Everything's fine, sir, under control.”

“She's gonna have the baby now?”

“Yessir.”

“Here?”

“Yessir. Could you hand me those blankets on the tailgate?”

“Isn't there someplace indoors we ca—”

“No time, sir. I'm gonna need you to calm down. Could you get me those blankets? And back these people off.”

I think he's just trying to get me out of the way, because the people are already backed off to a forty-foot radius, except for a guy in a Marlins hat who beats me to the blankets on the tailgate and streaks toward the giant with them. Trev's on the perimeter with Dot, looking paler than I've seen him in months.

Th
is is happening way too fast. Something must be wrong. Nobody has a baby this quickly. Piper was thirteen hours getting past the cervix—like she'd lost her nerve. Jodi was about half that, but every minute of it hard fought. Little Elton is a sprinter. Hardly have I knelt back down in the shadow of the giant before he's crowning.

Peaches is stoic. Or maybe this is easy for her. She's sweating like Sonny Liston after the twelfth round, but she doesn't look frightened or in pain as she clutches my hand fiercely and pushes with all her might.

“Keep pushing,” says the giant.

“Is everything—”

“Everything's fine.”

“You're sure?”

“Sir, I need you to calm down. What's your name, sweetheart?”

“Peaches,” she says.

“Peaches, I need you to push—I mean really push, okay? When I count to three, I want you to push.”

She bites her lip and nods.

“One, and two, and push!”

Peaches grits her teeth and pushes with all her might, but the baby makes no progress.

“Okay,” says the giant. “We're going to try it again, Peaches. Even harder this time, okay?”

“Push like you're angry, Peach. Scream when you do it.”

“Just like he says, honey—go ahead and scream. Okay now? Push as hard as you possibly can. One, and two, and . . .”

Again, she pushes, half grunting, half hollering, her face beet red with the effort, her knees trembling. But still the infant makes no progress.

“Okay, I need you to breathe, Peaches. Big breaths, okay, sweetheart?” I can see a glint of fear flash in his eyes. His wheels are spinning fast. He's talking faster. What if something goes wrong. What if he has to perform an emergency C-section with that puny kit of his?

“Big breaths now,” he says. “
Th
ird time is the charm.”

“C'mon, Peach, you can do it,” I say, hoping she can't hear the panic that's crept into my voice.
Th
at old familiar feeling of calamity is starting to take hold. Something is going terribly wrong here. I'm in the driveway all over again, looking for something to order, something to hold on to, something to keep me from being dragged down by the undertow of terrifying reality.

Peaches grunts and pushes a third time, and it is not the charm.
Th
e baby is still stalled crowning.
Th
e giant is talking faster than ever, beginning to sweat at the temples. Suddenly something in me snaps, and I'm on my feet again, pacing wildly like a confused accident victim. I look around at the crush of people, their figures a colorful smudge. I feel like rushing at them.

“Get away!” I yell, and they all shift back on their heels but only a single step. I look at my bandaged hands, both of them, and I don't know why, as dully another countdown rings in my ear. “One, and two, and . . .”

Suddenly, Peaches looses a great open-mouthed roar, and turning, I see baby Elton makes his appearance, a side presentation with a thick head of dark slick hair.

“
Th
at's it,” the giant says, reaching for the bulb syringe. “You're doing great, sweetie.”

With the force of a vacuum, the terror leaves my body all at once, and the ache of gratitude fills the breach. Again, I can feel my feet on the ground, discern individual faces. “You got it, Peach,” I say, tears streaming down my face. “Keep pushing! You're almost there!”

Little Elton's pinched red face is grimacing as he emerges.
Th
e giant continues to suction furiously with his right hand as Elton corkscrews his way out smoothly past the shoulders into the medic's guiding left hand.
Th
e instant he issues his first phlegmy cry, the crowd seems to draw in closer, and a few people ooh and aah. He's tiny, maybe six pounds, but ostensibly healthy in spite of a conical head that seems to regain its shape before my eyes.

“He's beautiful,” I lie.

Th
e giant clamps the cord a half foot from the baby's belly, then clamps it again an inch or two higher.

“You wanna cut the cord?” he says to me.

And the next thing I know, I'm clutching the blue disposable cord scissors, looking down into Elton's face, with the scissors poised between the ligatures. He's the image of his father—the same beady eyes and weak chin. I wonder if he'll have his business acumen. I look at Peaches, dazed and a little green, smiling like someone who doesn't know any better.

“Go ahead,” says the giant.

I snip the cord.
Th
e giant sweeps the baby out from under me before I can even move the scissors, wraps him in a reflective blanket, and begins swaddling him in another. And just like that it's over. I look dazedly out at the crowd, which has already begun to disperse, shuffling in a herd toward the front of the viewing area—except for Trev, who whirs toward the center of the circle, with Dot beside him, just as the giant puts Baby Elton to Peaches's chest, then waves the ambulance through.

boxes

F
or a few minutes after the ambulance has parted the crowd, wending its way through the parking lot toward the main road, Trev and Dot and I stand in place, stunned, speechless. Checking my watch, I see that the delivery took just over an hour.

“Um . . . wow?” says Dot, finally.

“Didn't see that one coming,” says Trev, still a half shade paler than usual. “Did that just happen?”

“Seriously.”

“What now?” I say. “We follow her, right?”

“I guess I better call my dad first,” says Trev. “Let him know we're gonna be late.”

Trev whirs off in the direction of the visitor center. He stops about halfway, where he wrestles his phone out of his side pocket, arches his back, and hoists the phone to chest level. He pitches his head to one side and speed-dials Bob.

“You hungry?” I say to Dot.

“No.”

“Me neither. You wanna sit down?”

We make our way toward the benches in front of the visitor center, passing Trev, who nods when I signal our destination.

“You've got blood on your shirt,” Dot says.

Arriving at the nearest bench, we plop down shoulder to shoulder and fall silent, watching the newcomers file in from Nebraska, Ohio, Alaska, Saskatchewan. I have no idea when Old Faithful is due next, but the restlessness of the dense crowd gathering at the rail suggests she's due to blow soon.

“You talked to him, didn't you?” Dot says.

“Who?”

“C'mon,” she says, looking off in the other direction.

“Yeah. I did.”

She blows her bangs out of her eyes, proffers her last cigarette from her jean vest, and begins patting around for matches. “Now I suppose you're going to try to make me go with him, aren't you? You can't do that, you know. I'm an adult.”

“I know you are, and I'm not. It's none of my business. But I am gonna let him follow us, Dot.”

Unable to find a match, Dot contemplates her unlit cigarette for a few seconds. Suddenly, she snaps it in two. “Filthy habit, anyway,” she says, stuffing the pieces in her pocket. “So, what did he tell you?”

“Just who he was and why he was following.”

“Yeah? What else did he tell you? Did he tell you I tried to seduce his friend?”

“No.”

“Did he tell you I stole fifty bucks out of his wallet?”

“No.”

“Did he tell you the reason he's driving that piece of shit is because I totaled his Subaru?”

She begins scratching absently at her denim skirt, as though she were scraping dry ketchup off it. “And just so you know, I didn't really try to seduce his friend. I just made that up.”

“Good one.”

“
Th
at's because he doesn't have any friends. At least, he never sees them.
Th
ey're all married. Like normal people.”

Halfway across the clearing, Trev is still on the phone with Bob. He's actually smiling.

“So, what else did he tell you?” says Dot.

“Not much, really.”

“C'mon.”

“He told me that bracelet used to be your mom's.”

She looks away in the other direction again. “Yeah. So I lied.”

How badly I'd like to see a picture of her mom. How badly I'd like to have seen the two of them together. “I wouldn't call it a lie.”

We fall back into silence.
Th
e geyser is beginning to gush and splash a bit, showing signs of what the pamphlets call preplay. Dot scatters some loose tobacco with her toe.

“My dad died when I was in college. I was never very close to him, though.”

Dot's hands are fidgety, like she's wishing she had that last cigarette back. She's picking at her cuticles again.

“Looking back,” I say. “I wish I had been.”

“Been what?”

“Closer to him.”

“Mmph,” she says, turning her attention back to her feet, and tracing a squiggly line in the dirt with her toe. “So, what was your dad like, anyway?”

“Sort of a Ward Cleaver type.”

“Who's Ward Cleaver?”

“Never mind,” I say, waving it off. “I'm dating myself. Let's just say my dad wasn't a passionate guy. He liked to read the paper. He liked to pack things neatly in boxes and label them—that was his idea of a good time. He was kind of set in his ways.”

Fidgeting now with a tube of mascara, Dot spins it between her fingers, screwing and unscrewing the cap. “Not my dad,” she says. “I
wish
he'd set some ways for himself.”

“Part of your dad probably wishes that, too.”

“Yeah, maybe so.”

“It's not easy getting old, you know.
Th
ings become a lot less clear.”

“I guess I wouldn't know. I'll have to take your word for it.”

Th
en, in the ensuing silence, Dot does a strange thing. She reaches for my bandaged hand and presses it into her own and squeezes it. And she says something totally unexpected. I could hug her for saying it, even if she's just saying it to make me feel better.

“I'm sorry about what happened. Trev told me. I'll bet you were a good dad,” she says.