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Authors: Fran Baker
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hours.
Her gaze skimmed the empty road in front of the house, then swung to Nick. He held his head in an alert pose, his profile a bronze relief carving in the sepia light of winter. Until now, she’d been too preoccupied to notice that he’d removed his sunglasses. “He said he’d be here as soon as humanly possible.”
The unspoken question hovered between them: But would he be in time?
“High forceps.”
Dovie stood quietly in a secluded corner of the delivery room, every nerve, muscle, and sense strained to the limit as Dr. Rodgers prepared to take Linda’s baby. This was the moment of truth, what the battle in the bedroom and that hair-raising ride with Harley had been all about, and her eyes automatically sought Nick’s reassuring presence.
Like everyone else in the room, herself included,he wore baggy surgical greens. A loosely-tied cap hid his thick black hair, while a gauzy white mask covered his crooked nose and mobile mouth. He stood to the right of Dr. Rodgers, his head cocked at that vigilant angle she’d come to associate exclusively with him. Dovie thought it must be a trick of the bright overhead lights that made him seem to shimmer and vibrate with new energy as the crisis neared conclusion. But something told her he was simply back in his element.
She couldn’t see very well from where she stood, but she didn’t dare voice a complaint. A high-forceps delivery was an exceedingly difficult and dangerous operation, indicated now because the baby was too far into the birth canal for a cesarean section. Dr. Rodgers had been adamantly opposed to her presence during the procedure. Only after Nick intervened on her behalf, citing her experience as midwife for her mother, had the reluctant physician relented.
Linda lay draped and anesthetized on the delivery table, her eyes closed peacefully and her chest rising and falling to the rhythm of the ventilator. She’d been told the truth when she’d asked, that Curtis was alive but too weak to be with her, and Dovie could only pray that her sister-in-law somehow sensed that she wasn’t totally alone in her time of travail.
“Blood pressure,” Dr. Rodgers demanded.
“One-thirty over eighty,” the nurse-anesthetist answered.
Thinking that sounded a little high, Dovie looked at Nick. He seemed to realize she was worried and nodded reassuringly.
“Forceps,” Dr. Rodgers ordered.
“Forceps,” the scrub nurse repeated before placing it in his gloved palm with a firm snap.
If she lived to be a hundred, Dovie would never forget the almost palpable tension that gripped the room when Dr. Rodgers went after Linda’s baby. She trained her gaze on Nick, reading in his body language what she couldn’t see.
When sweat beaded on his brow, perspiration rolled in rivulets down her stomach and thighs. If he listened to the fetal monitor overly long, her pulse did a three-minute mile. And when he leaned over and reached out, her heart flew into her throat.
“It’s a boy,” Dr. Rodgers announced.
Nick straightened up, laid the blue-gray baby on his mother’s belly, and gently massaged him. “Start the oxygen and get his blood gases.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
Dovie could hardly breathe as she watched her new little nephew. His head was covered with wet, downy black hair, almost like a fledgling bird. When Nick rubbed his back, he opened his mouth and gave a mew. Before her eyes, he began to bleach and pinken. Ribs tiny as a sparrow’s sprang outward—she could see their whiteness through the skin.
Suddenly he screwed up his face and screamed,shaking a fist wildly at the great surgical light. That cry carried the wattage of chain lightning, burning away the tension and bringing thanks to the hearts and lips of all who heard.
Dr. Rodgers looked up from between Linda’s swaddled knees, admiration and relief evident in his eyes. “It’s good to know you’ve still got that magic touch, Dr. Monroe.”
It might have been Dovie’s imagination, but did
Her gaze skimmed the empty road in front of the house, then swung to Nick. He held his head in an alert pose, his profile a bronze relief carving in the sepia light of winter. Until now, she’d been too preoccupied to notice that he’d removed his sunglasses. “He said he’d be here as soon as humanly possible.”
The unspoken question hovered between them: But would he be in time?
“High forceps.”
Dovie stood quietly in a secluded corner of the delivery room, every nerve, muscle, and sense strained to the limit as Dr. Rodgers prepared to take Linda’s baby. This was the moment of truth, what the battle in the bedroom and that hair-raising ride with Harley had been all about, and her eyes automatically sought Nick’s reassuring presence.
Like everyone else in the room, herself included,he wore baggy surgical greens. A loosely-tied cap hid his thick black hair, while a gauzy white mask covered his crooked nose and mobile mouth. He stood to the right of Dr. Rodgers, his head cocked at that vigilant angle she’d come to associate exclusively with him. Dovie thought it must be a trick of the bright overhead lights that made him seem to shimmer and vibrate with new energy as the crisis neared conclusion. But something told her he was simply back in his element.
She couldn’t see very well from where she stood, but she didn’t dare voice a complaint. A high-forceps delivery was an exceedingly difficult and dangerous operation, indicated now because the baby was too far into the birth canal for a cesarean section. Dr. Rodgers had been adamantly opposed to her presence during the procedure. Only after Nick intervened on her behalf, citing her experience as midwife for her mother, had the reluctant physician relented.
Linda lay draped and anesthetized on the delivery table, her eyes closed peacefully and her chest rising and falling to the rhythm of the ventilator. She’d been told the truth when she’d asked, that Curtis was alive but too weak to be with her, and Dovie could only pray that her sister-in-law somehow sensed that she wasn’t totally alone in her time of travail.
“Blood pressure,” Dr. Rodgers demanded.
“One-thirty over eighty,” the nurse-anesthetist answered.
Thinking that sounded a little high, Dovie looked at Nick. He seemed to realize she was worried and nodded reassuringly.
“Forceps,” Dr. Rodgers ordered.
“Forceps,” the scrub nurse repeated before placing it in his gloved palm with a firm snap.
If she lived to be a hundred, Dovie would never forget the almost palpable tension that gripped the room when Dr. Rodgers went after Linda’s baby. She trained her gaze on Nick, reading in his body language what she couldn’t see.
When sweat beaded on his brow, perspiration rolled in rivulets down her stomach and thighs. If he listened to the fetal monitor overly long, her pulse did a three-minute mile. And when he leaned over and reached out, her heart flew into her throat.
“It’s a boy,” Dr. Rodgers announced.
Nick straightened up, laid the blue-gray baby on his mother’s belly, and gently massaged him. “Start the oxygen and get his blood gases.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
Dovie could hardly breathe as she watched her new little nephew. His head was covered with wet, downy black hair, almost like a fledgling bird. When Nick rubbed his back, he opened his mouth and gave a mew. Before her eyes, he began to bleach and pinken. Ribs tiny as a sparrow’s sprang outward—she could see their whiteness through the skin.
Suddenly he screwed up his face and screamed,shaking a fist wildly at the great surgical light. That cry carried the wattage of chain lightning, burning away the tension and bringing thanks to the hearts and lips of all who heard.
Dr. Rodgers looked up from between Linda’s swaddled knees, admiration and relief evident in his eyes. “It’s good to know you’ve still got that magic touch, Dr. Monroe.”
It might have been Dovie’s imagination, but did
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