Twisted (27 page)

my hand on her shoulder.

“Should we call the doctor?”

“What? No . . . no, I’m sure it’s just . . . ugh . . .” She bends

over, holding her midsection. “Oh . . . ow . . .”

And a gush of water bursts from between her legs. Like ten

gallons’ worth.

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The two of us just stand there. Stupidly. Watching as droplets

fall from the edge of her nightgown onto the rug. And then, like a snake slithering in the grass, reality winds its way through our brains.

“Oh. My. God.”

“holy shit.”

Remember that water balloon I mentioned?

Yep—that sucker just popped.

Hee hee.

Whoo whoo.

Hee hee.

Whoo whoo.

When I was sixteen, my school’s basketball team was in a dead

heat for the State Championship. During the final game we were

down by one, with three seconds left on the clock. Guess who they

passed the ball to? Who sank the winning three-pointer?

Yep—that would be me. Because even back then, I was a rock.

Steady on the draw. I don’t get stressed. Fear? Panic? They’re for losers.

And I’m no loser.

So why are my hands shaking like an un-medicated Parkinson’s

patient?

Anyone ever tell you, you ask too many frigging questions?

My knuckles are white, wrapped in a death grip around the

steering wheel.

Kate is in the passenger seat—with a towel under her ass—

implementing every breathing technique those wacked-out, hippie

Lamaze instructors told us about.

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Hee hee.

Whoo whoo.

Hee hee.

Whoo
.

Then, mid-whoo, she screams. “Oh, no!”

I almost slam the car into a goddamn telephone pole. “What!

What’s wrong?”

“I forgot the sour apple lollipops!”

“The
what
?”

her voice is heavy with disappointment. “The sour apple lol-

lipops. Alexandra said they were the only thing that quenched her

thirst when she was in labor with Mackenzie. I was going to pick

some up this afternoon, but I forgot. Can we stop and get some?”

Okay. It seems that Kate’s common sense has gone bye-bye—

so it’s up to me to be the voice of reason. Which is pretty frigging frightening, considering I’m hanging on by a thread over here.

“No, we can’t fucking stop and get some! Are you out of your

mind?”

Kate’s big brown eyes immediately fill with tears. And I feel

like the world’s biggest dick.

“Please, Drew? I just want everything to be perfect . . . and

what if I want a lollipop during the delivery, and you go to get me one, and then I have the baby while you’re gone? You’ll miss it.”

Tears course down her cheeks like two little tributaries. “I couldn’t
bear
it if you missed it.”

Please
don’t let it be a girl. For God’s sake, please don’t let it be a girl. All this time, I’ve been praying for a healthy baby without specifying a sex.

Until now.

Because if I have a daughter, and her tears cut me off at the

knees like Kate’s do? I’m totally fucking screwed.

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“Okay, Kate. It’s all right, baby. Don’t cry—I’ll stop.”

She sniffles. And smiles. “Thank you.”

I jerk the wheel to the right, make an illegal U-turn, and pull

onto the curb in front of a 7-Eleven. Then, faster than a pit stop at the Indy 500, I’m back on the road, with the coveted sour apple lollipops rolling around in the backseat.

And Kate is back to her breathing.

Hee hee.

Whoo whoo.

Hee hee.

Until she’s not.

“Do you think the nurses will know we had sex?”

I look pointedly at her stomach. “Unless you plan on claiming

an immaculate conception, I think they’ll have a pretty good idea.”

Then I lean on the horn. “The gas is the one on the right,

grandma!” I swear to Christ, if your gray poufy hair is the only thing that can see over the dashboard? You’ve got no business driving.

Hee hee.

Whoo whoo.

“No—do you think they’ll know we had sex tonight?”

Kate is funny about things like this. Shy. Even with me some-

times. The other day, I happened to catch a passing glimpse of her sitting on the toilet and it was like the end of the world. Personally, I think it’s ridiculous. But I’m not about to argue the point with her now.

“It’s a maternity ward, Kate, not CSI. They’re not gonna to be

down there with a black light looking for my swimmers.”

Hee Hee.

Hee Hee.

“Yeah, you’re right. They won’t be able to tell.” She seems

calmed by the idea. Reassured.

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Whooooo.

And I’m happy for her. Now if I can just keep myself from

going into cardiac arrest, we’ll be in pretty good shape.

An hour later, Kate is settled into a private room at New York Pres-byterian, hooked up to more beeping contraptions then a ninety-

year-old on life support. I sit down in the chair next to the bed.

“Can I get you anything? Back rub? Ice chips? Narcotics?”

I know I could go for a glass of whiskey at the moment. Or a

whole bottle.

Kate takes my hand and holds it tight, like we’re on a plane

that’s about to take off. “No. Just—talk to me.” Then her voice

turns hushed. Small. “I’m scared, Drew.”

My chest tightens painfully. And I’ve never felt so helpless in

my life.

But I do my damnedest to hide it. “hey, this whole delivery

thing is a piece of cake. I mean, women have babies all the time.

I read this article once that said in the olden days, they’d pop a kid out right in the middle of the fields. Then they’d clean it off, put it in their backpack, and go right back to work. how hard

can it be?”

She snorts. “Easy for you to say. Your part was fun. And over.

Females got royally screwed in this deal.”

She’s not wrong. But women are stronger than men. No, really,

I’m being serious. Sure, we can outdo them in upper-body strength, but in every other way—psychologically, emotionally, cardiovascu-larly, genetically—women come out on top.

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“That’s because God is wise. he knew if we had to go through

this shit, the human race would’ve died the fuck out with Adam.”

She chuckles.

Then a voice comes from the doorway. “how are we doing this

evening?”

“hi, Bobbie.”

“hey, Roberta.”

Yes—I only use her full name. Post-traumatic stress? Possibly.

All I know is that hearing the name Bob? Pretty much makes me

want to slit my wrists open with a box cutter.

Roberta checks the chart at the end of the bed. “Everything

looks good. You’re about three centimeters dilated, Kate, so we’ve still got a while to go. Do you have any questions for me?”

Kate looks hopeful. “Epidural?”

here’s some advice—don’t be a masochist. Get the epidural.

I’ll repeat that in case you missed it: GET ThE EPIDURAL.

According to my sister, it’s a miracle drug. She’d gladly jerk

off the guy who invented it—and Steven would probably let

her. Would you get a tooth pulled without novocaine? Would

you get your appendix removed without anesthesia? Of course

not.

And don’t give me that bullshit about having the “full expe-

rience” of childbirth. Pain is pain—there’s nothing “wondrous”

about it.

It just fucking hurts.

Roberta smiles soothingly. “I’ll get it set up right away.” She

makes a few notes on the clipboard, then returns it to its hanging place. “I’ll come back in a little while to check on you. have the nurses page me if you need anything.”

“Okay. Thanks, Roberta.”

Once she’s out the door, I stand up and grab my cell phone.

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“I’m going to go call your mom—I can’t get any reception in

here. Will you be all right till I get back?”

She waves her hand. “Sure. Not going anywhere. We’ll be right

here.”

I bend over and kiss Kate’s forehead. Then I lean down and kiss

the hump, telling it, “Don’t start without me.”

Then I’m out the door—jogging to catch up with Kate’s doctor

down the hall. “hey, Roberta!”

She stops and turns. “hi, Drew. how are you?”

“I’m good—good. I wanted to ask you about the baby’s heart

rate. Isn’t one-fifty a little high?”

Roberta’s voice is tolerant, understanding. She’s used to this

by now.

“It’s well within the normal range. It’s common to see some

minor fluctuations in the fetal heart rate during labor.”

I nod. And go on. “And Kate’s blood pressure? Any sign of

preeclampsia?”

Knowledge is power. The more you know, the more control

you have over a situation. At least that’s what I’ve been telling

myself for the last eight months.

“No, like I told you on the phone yesterday—and the day

before that—Kate’s blood pressure is perfect. It’s been steady the entire pregnancy.”

I rub my chin and nod. “have you ever actually delivered a

baby with shoulder dystocia? Because you realize you won’t know

it’s happening until the baby’s head is already—”

“Drew. I thought we agreed you were going to stop watching

ER
reruns?”

ER
should come with a warning label. It’s disturbing. If you’re a mild hypochondriac or a parent to be, expect to lose a shitload of sleep after just one episode.

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“I know, but—”

Roberta puts her hand up. “Look, I know how you feel—”

“Do you?” I ask sharply. “have you ever taken your whole life

and put it in someone else’s hands and asked them to take care of

it for you? To bring it back to you in one piece? ’Cause that’s what I’m doing here.” I push a hand through my hair and look away.

And when I speak again, my voice is shaky. “Kate and this baby . . .

if anything ever . . .”

I can’t even finish the thought, let alone the sentence.

She puts her hand on my shoulder. “Drew, you have to trust

me. I know it’s difficult, but try and focus on the positives. Kate is young and healthy—we have every reason to believe that this

delivery will progress without any complications at all.”

I nod my head. And the logical part of my brain knows she’s

right.

“Go back to Kate. Try and enjoy the time you have left. After

tonight, it’s not going to be just the two of you anymore—not for

a long time.”

I force myself to nod again. “Okay. Thanks.”

I turn and walk back toward the room. I stop in the doorway.

Can you see her?

Surrounded by pillows—buried under the puffy down com-

forter she insisted on bringing from home. She looks so tiny. Almost like a little girl hiding in her parents’ bed during a thunderstorm.

And I need to say the words—to make sure she knows.

“I love you, Kate. Everything that’s good in my life, anything

that really matters, is only there because of you. If we hadn’t met? I’d be fucking miserable—and probably too clueless to even realize it.”

She looks at me, totally straight faced. “I’m having a baby,

Drew—I’m not dying.” Then her eyes widen. “Jesus Christ, I’m

not dying, am I?”

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And that’s all it takes to snap me out of my panic.

“No, Kate. You’re not dying.”

She nods. “Okay, then. And just for the record, I love you too.

I love that you’re funding Mackenzie’s future because you won’t

stop cursing. I love how you tease your sister unmercifully but

would kill anyone who hurt her. But most of all . . . I love how you love me. I feel it every moment . . . every day.”

I walk up to her and cup her cheek. Then I lean over and softly

kiss her lips.

She takes my hand and gives it a squeeze. And then her jaw

tightens with determination.

“Now, let’s do this thing.”

Turns out all the worrying was for nothing. Because at 9:57 this

morning, Kate gave birth to a bouncing baby boy. And I was right

next to her the whole time. Sharing her pain.

Literally.

I’m pretty sure she broke my hand.

But who cares? A few broken bones don’t mean much—not

when you’re holding a seven-pound, nine-ounce miracle.

And that’s just what I’m doing.

I know every parent thinks their child is adorable—but be

honest—he’s one good-looking kid, don’t you think? A patch of

black hair lays smoothly on top of his head. his hands, his nose,

his lips—looking at them is like looking in a mirror. But his eyes, they’re all Kate.

he’s exquisite. Perfection made flesh.

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Granted, he didn’t come out looking like this. A few hours ago,

he bore a strong resemblance to a screaming featherless chicken.

But he was
my
screaming featherless chicken, so he was still the most beautiful fucking thing I’ve ever seen.