Exiled (A Madame X Novel) (23 page)

I’m starting to think the contractions I was feeling weren’t Braxton-Hicks contractions—practice contractions—but real, actual labor. Which means I could be closer to having these babies than I thought. I glance at the clock as the contraction finally releases me: 7:32
P.M.

We inch through traffic, stuck between blocks, waiting through cycle after cycle of the traffic light. Inch by inch, forcing myself to think of nothing, to just breathe and just be. Fight the panic, fight the anticipation of when the next contraction will hit. Inch by inch, minute by minute. We make it through the intersection after five minutes. At the eight-minute mark almost exactly, another contraction strikes.

I try to remember what I’ve read about the stages of labor, but my brain will not supply the answers.

Two more sequences of contraction/rest, and we finally reach
the block where we have to turn. And then, God, we’re stuck on that block. And the next. Inch by inch, minute by minute. You aren’t talking, which is fine, but You are still holding my hand, and You don’t say a word when I bear down with each contraction, squeezing Your hand until I’m sure I’m close to breaking bones. You just tolerate it, and squeeze back.

By the time we reach the hospital, the contractions are six minutes apart.

You pull under the ER pavilion, and we’re met by a large black male nurse with a wheelchair, who greets us by name; apparently You called ahead? I don’t remember that. I remember hearing Your voice, but I was in the middle of a contraction at the moment and had no attention to spare.

I’m wheeled through the hospital—but You’re not at my side. Where are You? Parking the car, I think. But I need You, Logan. I can’t do this without You, not any of it.

I feel You first, as I always do. And then Your hand is in mine and You’re beside me, kissing the back of my hand, telling me it’s going to be okay. A contraction hits, and when it clears, we’re in the maternity ward, and I’m being helped to my feet, out of my clothes, into a gown, into bed. Wires connected, monitors and leads. Another contraction, hard and painful. But still six minutes apart.

I need them closer together, not because I want the pain but because the closer they are together the sooner I’ll have my babies in my arms. The sooner this will be over. The sooner I’ll know my babies are safe, and healthy.

By the time a doctor shows up, I’m embroiled in the battle against panic. It’s taking too long. The contractions are too far apart. It took over an hour before the OB showed up to check me.

The OB is an older man, medium height, thin, with small,
almost delicate hands. Bald, but with a short, trimmed beard going white.

I’m almost fully dilated, but not very far effaced. Which means more labor.

God, it hurts.

Another two hours of pain, and then another doctor shows up: the anesthesiologist. I’m turned to sit on the edge of the bed, legs dangling off the edge, my gown pushed forward, nearly off. A minute or two of preparation, packages being opened, sterile gloves tugged on.

“Dad, you may want to step out for this,” the anesthesiologist says to You.

“I’m a combat veteran,” You say. “Not gonna freak out over a needle. And there’s no way in hell I’m leaving her.”

“Well then, pull up a chair in front of her. Hold her hands and let her put her forehead on your shoulder.” You do as he says, and there’s a smear of cold on my back. “This is iodine, to clean the area. Now, hunch your back for me. Lean your forehead on Dad’s shoulder and push your spine out toward me. Good. Yeah, now hold it like that—hold real still for me, okay? Deep breath in . . . and let it out all the way. . . . Now a quick pinch—”

Jesus, that’s not a pinch, it feels like a fucking sword being shoved through my flesh. I breathe through it, teeth clamped, squeezing Your hands so hard I think I hear bones being ground together. You are stoic, letting me crush Your hands, watching the doctor insert the needle. I stare at Your feet, at the worn, beloved Adidas sneakers You’ve owned for so many years, the laces tied in a permanent double knot, tongue tugged to one side, heels scuffed and frayed from years of shoving Your feet into them. Breathe through the pain as the doctor fiddles with things at my back.

“Okay,” the doctor says, “that’s in, all connected. I’m gonna start you off kind of low, and they’ll crank it up as you go. Good luck, Mom and Dad.”

There’s a rushing sense of numbness spreading through me, a sense of relief. Calm. I can see the contraction-measuring device’s readout from my bed, and I watch with wonder as the readout shows a contraction, but I feel nothing. Blessed, peaceful nothing.

Another three long boring hours and the OB comes back, checks me again. “You’re effacing nicely, Miss de la Vega, almost a hundred percent now, and fully dilated. That’s good news. And your contractions are consistently a minute or two apart now, which means we’re getting closer to baby time. You’ll get there. Not long now.” A pat to my hand, and then the OB is gone again, white coat billowing, bald head gleaming.

*   *   *

D
espite the OB’s promise of “not long now,” it is still several more hours before anything changes. I’m dozing, rolling from one side to another. I start to feel an ache. Distant, but real. A sense of the contraction through the epidural, a clamping down of my womb. And a need to push.

You’re sleeping, curled up awkwardly on the fold-out chair/bed, asleep instantly in that soldier’s way You have.

I endure the ache and the need to push for a few minutes, but then it starts to become unbearable, pushing down on me, a kind of desperation infusing me.

I push the call button, and within seconds a nurse is bustling in, efficient, energetic, eyeing the monitor, casting a glance at You.

“Oops, looks like it’s go time, Mama.” A nudge to Your foot. “Wake up, Dad, you’re about to have some babies.”

You sit up immediately, rub Your eyes, blink a few times, and then
the room is full of people. One person does something to the bed, removing part of it and unfolding stirrups, lifting my feet high and wide, spreading me open for the whole room to see. I’m beyond caring, though, because now even with the epidural the pain and need to push is all-consuming. Someone else has turned on blinding lights overhead. Another person is getting supplies ready, and yet another—or maybe it’s the same few nurses moving in efficient harmony—is turning on a machine and shoving aside the chairs.

“Go stand by her head, Dad,” the OB says, by way of entrance. “Hold her hand and when I tell her to push, you count to ten. She takes a breath, and then you count to ten again. Okay? Oh, yep, here we go. Moving right along, aren’t we? Maria, can you cut the epidural off? She needs to feel the contractions now. It’s gonna hurt a bit, but you have to feel them so you know when to push. Hold your man’s hand and break his fingers if you have to, we’ll fix them when you’re done.”

A nurse does something to the IV feed, and the epidural fades, a reversal of how it kicked in. Peace, calm, relief . . . it all fades away, replaced by crushing, all-consuming, fierce, fiery agony. All-pervading pressure centered on my womb and my bowels. There is no space between the contractions, it feels like, no chance to catch my breath, just wave after wave, one contraction on the heels of the last, and the need to push, push, push.

“Not yet, Mom, don’t push yet.” The OB is putting on a kind of gown covering the front, and then a kind of clear plastic face mask, and a pair of sterile gloves. “Okay, I think we’re set. Here comes a contraction, Mom, get ready to push. Deep breath in . . . and PUSH! Count for her, Dad!”

I hear You, feel You. I bear down with every fiber of my being, teeth clenched. I don’t scream, don’t waste the effort on it. Just push, push, as hard as I can, while You count.

“. . . Seven . . . eight . . . nine . . . ten!”

I let out the breath, gasping, whimpering, turn to look up at You, try to smile when You take a moment to brush my sweaty hair out of my face. And then I’m sucking in a breath and bearing down, pushing.

Again.

Again.

Again.

“Good, Mom! You’re doing great, the first one is crowning! Keep pushing, keep pushing!” I take a quick breath and push even harder, and then there’s a feeling of being emptied, something pulled out of me, and there’s a moment of silence, a brief respite from the pain.

And then a sound fills the room, and I am irrevocably altered. A sound, and my heart now exists in the world outside of my body.

A cry.

Small, fragile, but strong and loud.

A wail, high and thin and quavering.

“You’ve got a girl, Mama!” The OB lays a wet, warm, wriggling, squalling body on my chest, still smeared with blood and effluvia. Light hair, blond, thick in a ruff over the top of her head in a mohawk. Little fists shaking, clenched. Little feet kicking.

“Hi, Camila,” I whisper, clinging to her, cuddling her close. “Hi, baby girl.”

But then another contraction rips through me, and I have to push again, because oh yeah, there’s another baby inside me still, ready to come out.

A nurse takes Camila and then I can’t think or breathe or feel anything but the ache, the grip, the pressure, and You’re counting and I’m pushing.

It hurts.

I’m exhausted.

But I’m not done yet, so I push.

You count, and I push.

Is it hours, or minutes, that I push, crushing Your hands in a death grip? I don’t know, cannot measure time, only the increments of one through ten and the brief respite between contractions and the pushpushpushpush
pushPUSH
, almost there, keeping pushing, Mama . . .

Another push, and then the same pulling emptying sensation, a sense of relief, and the silence . . . the cry.

Oh, that cry.

It pulls at my heart, slices me open, puts my world, my life, my being, my love into a little bundle, a wailing wriggling bundle of baby boy.

“Here he is, Mama, a boy! He and his sister have all their fingers and toes!” But there’s an odd note in the OB’s voice.

I see why, when my son is settled on my chest.

Camila is fair, and blond. I see her, being lifted, cleaned, diapered, swaddled, and her skin is fair, like Yours, only not tanned golden by the sun as Yours is. Hair is platinum, like yours. And I just know, when she opens her eyes and the irises have adjusted to their permanent shade, they’ll be Yours, indigo, blazing blue.

But the boy on my chest . . .

He’s dark. Thick black hair. Swarthy skin.

Utterly unlike You.

I sob.

Because I know.

I know.

He is yours, Caleb.

His name isn’t Luis.

He is Jakob.

I look to You, and I see that You know as well. I don’t know how it’s possible, but one look tells me it’s not just possible, it’s undeniable.

You lean close to me. Kiss me. Brush hair from my face with a broad thumb, smile, that beautiful, sun-warm smile. “He’s perfect, Isabel.”

“But he’s—”

“Mine, my love. He’s mine. He’s
ours
. Okay?” You lift him, slimy and afterbirth-gray, crying, shaking angry, indignant fists, and cradle him to your chest. “His name is Jakob.”

Did I say that out loud? I don’t think I did.

I know I did not.

So that is You, claiming the child as Your own, loving him as Your own, even though, somehow, genetically he is not. You claim him, but honor the genetic father.

Not Caleb, but Jakob.

Jakob, the man I could have fallen in love with, had I known him. Jakob, the man, I believe, who let me go.

I’m not quite done yet, though.

I have to push again, one more time, to deliver the afterbirth.

I push through it, but I’m focused on You, now holding Camila and Jakob both, one in each arm, and the pain is nothing to the fierce wild all-consuming ache of love.

Jakob is taken, cleaned, diapered, tested, swaddled, and I’m allowed to get up and shower and eat something—it’s been hours, almost a whole day, and I’m starving.

And then I have my babies, my son and my daughter. Sleeping, nuzzling against me, mewling now, hunting. Latching on, fumbling at my nipples, and then latching on perfectly. Suckling, and the tug is sharp and beautiful as my milk flows.

And You’re there, sitting beside me, watching me feed our babies.

“I love you so much, Logan.” It’s all I know how to say, right now. I don’t even know how to verbalize or even understand myself the emotions regarding Jakob’s genetic heritage. “I just—I love you.”

You have tear tracks on Your face, and You are proud of them, I think. To weep at the birth of Your children is the mark of a man in touch with his emotions, I think; a sign of strength and confidence rather than a mark of weakness. You have brought a life into the world. A new life, and it is beautiful. It is enormous. Momentous, and life-changing.

You lean in, kiss me, kiss Jakob, kiss Camila—

So this is what completion feels like.

*   *   *

W
hat we’re looking at,” the doctor says, a day after the birth, “is heteropaternal superfecundation.”

The doctor pauses, taps the heel of a shoe with the tip of a pen. Glances at me, and I can feel the silent, unspoken, but very real judgment.

“In layman’s terms, it’s when a woman releases more than one egg in the same cycle, and those two eggs are both fertilized by sperm from separate acts of sexual intercourse with different males.” Another pause, a glance to me, to You, back to the shoes. “It is extremely rare, but there have been a few other documented cases. I’ve been delivering babies for thirty-two years, and I’ve never seen it before. What it means, practically speaking, is that the two children are fraternal twins, genetic half siblings, despite being developed and carried in the same womb.”

You speak up for me. “So how are they?”

“Camila and Jakob are doing beautifully. Healthy, scored high on all the postbirth tests, they’re eating well from Mom, great lung development. Absolutely no issues whatsoever.”

“So aside from genetics . . . ?”

“Genetics aside? They’re beautiful, healthy twins. You can go home in the morning.”