Lover in Law (37 page)

His tone is apologetic, as is his face. He comes right up close, plants a hand on each of my shoulders, leans in, kisses me lightly bang in the middle of my forehead.

“Good luck Ali,” he says.

I don’t know what it is about his forehead kisses, but they get to me. They’re so tender, so caring, so warm and so in the wrong place. My body’s itching to pull him in for a good old-fashioned bear hug, one last time, but my bump’s in the way. Instead I bow my head, rest it a second on his collarbone. That’s when it happens. That’s when my pelvic floor can’t hold it in. That’s when I pee uncontrollably.

***

It just won’t stop. This trickle running down the insides of my trousers, hot and wet and sticky. It’s mortifying. I must have been more excited by his forehead kiss than I’d thought. I pull away, lest I suffer the ignominy of leaking on him.

“Oh my God,” I cry. “I am so embarrassed.”

Anthony’s expression is puzzled, unable to see what the fuss is about.

“What’s up?”

I dare myself to look at the polished wooden boards on the floor. When I do I want the ground to swallow me whole. I’m standing in the middle of a big fat puddle.

“I’ve just weed,” I explain. “I can’t believe it.”

He casts his eyes down, guffaws.

“What’s so funny,” I snap.

Incontinence is no joking matter. He rubs his eyes, which have started to water from laughing so hard. He clears his throat, tries to pull a more serious face.

“Ali Kirk,” he says, “I hate to say it, but I think your waters just broke.”

***

It’s not possible, I tell him. It’s way too early. I’ve still four weeks to go. Besides, I’m not in any pain. Shouldn’t I have pain? When you’re in labour, there’s pain isn’t there? My first contraction chooses that precise moment to rear its ugly head. It’s not the gentle, early warning dull period-like ache I’d have expected. It’s a ripping, ugly, vicious tidal wave of a thousand daggers stabbing into my stomach, all over, turning, boring like screws. It’s got more anger, more frenzy than a nest of disturbed hornets. I bend over double, screeching in agony, my hands reaching out for the desk. I’m petrified by the strength of it.  Panic blocks my air waves, I can’t breathe. I’m aware of a hand resting on my back. You’ve got to breathe, says Anthony. Fuck off, I spit, then the pain starts to subside.

Anthony asks if he should call Adam. I run sweaty hands through my hair, nervously yanking. He’s fucking not here, I say. He’s in the fucking, fucking, FUCKING States. I’m panicking, swearing, twitching. I feel out of control. Where are my parents when I need them? Who’s going to be here for me? There’s only one person. Kayla, call Kayla. He does that, he can’t get hold of her, so he leaves a message and at the end of it another contraction comes, just like the one before. Fuck, shit, fuck, fuck, FUCK, I screech. I’m so loud it’s a wonder the whole of bloody chambers doesn’t come rushing in to see what’s up. Then the pain’s so bad I go quiet, lose myself within. I’ve got to go, says Anthony, his hand still resting on my lower back. I’ve really got to go. I turn to him, pleading with my eyes. Don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me.

Chapter 41

“You’re not pushing Ali. You’ve got to push. Look at me. Breathe with me. Right, one – two – three – PUSH.”

I’m squatting, primal. There are two midwives, both lying, hilariously, were it anybody else but me, on the floor, peering up at my vagina. One has barely spoken since she entered our small little room and the other, Ann-Marie, is the one issuing out commands. She’s a nice woman, in her forties, Irish, with tight red ringlets that touch her shoulders. She would be nicer, though, it has to be said, if she could actually do something to help. Like the fucking pushing, for example, or at least give something for this bloody, frightful, hideous pain. All I’ve been allowed since I got here is gas and air. That’s because, apparently, I was practically fully dilated by the time we got to hospital. When I’d looked to Anthony, blankly, for a translation, he’d told me, in layman’s terms, that I was about to drop. Unusual, Anne-Marie had said, snapping on some latex gloves, the speed of things, for a first labour. Anyway, because the pushing stage was so imminent they refused all form of pain relief. No time, they’d said. Fuck you then, I’d not so much muttered as screeched. Anthony, I think, was a little taken aback by my loss of control and language, but I couldn’t have given a toss. He can’t feel what I’m feeling. He can’t criticize.  

I was, however, grateful beyond belief not to have been abandoned. He’d made a quick call from chambers, had Jon the clerk get a cab like yesterday, rang Adam, left a message on my behalf. It being five in the morning in Jackson, Mississippi, where Adam is, meant his mobile was switched off. I didn’t have the hotel details, couldn’t remember the name off-hand. Then some way, I don’t remember how, Anthony shoved me into a taxi. First off, in between contractions, I’d mentioned it was lucky he was with me because he’d been here before, knew what to do, in terms of breathing and pushing stuff, being a birth partner. Unfortunately, he’d said, not wanting to alarm, but that wasn’t quite the case. His daughter had been breech. His ex-wife had had a planned C-section. Any prior knowledge he might have had has long been forgotten. I’d gone quiet then, reflective, looking out the window. Long overdue, yet ahead of schedule, I was forced to properly confront the reality of it, what I’d been shoving both subconsciously and consciously to the back of my head, choosing to focus on Scott Richardson or getting married or anything else but this. Now though, procrastination has been taken out the equation. Like it or lump it, judgment time, crunch time, is round the corner. Like it or lump it the baby will soon be here. Like it or lump it, the uncertainties are about to vanish. How ironic, therefore, that now I at long last wanted to think about it, prepare for the possible outcomes, on what I would or should do, I was unable. Every time I got somewhere, the pain would start up again. It was as much as I could do to concentrate on getting through the contraction, squeezing my nails so hard into Anthony’s hand that they left indentation marks, screaming so shrill the taxi driver kept slamming the brakes. I was consumed by this baby, trying, it felt, to free itself from my womb, fighting to find an alternative escape route, via my tummy button instead of my birth canal. It was as much as I could do to concentrate on the baby inside. I couldn’t begin to fathom what it would be like on the outside.  

They’d wanted to lie me down when I got to hospital, so they could put a strap round my waist, attach me to a monitor, check up on the baby’s heartbeat. I’d point blank refused. Lying down, right then and indeed now, felt alien. It felt like I needed to stay on the move, on my feet, sometimes leaning on the bed, or on this little table next to it, or onto Anthony, for support. So they tied the monitor belt round my belly whilst I was upright and it’s been the midwife who’s not said a word’s job to follow me around, keep checking the baby’s doing ok. Anthony, too, hasn’t said much. He’s been a quiet, supportive presence, his hand constantly somewhere on my back, comforting, not irritating. Despite his silence there’s a right racket in here. Anne-Marie and I are making enough noise for ten.

“Come on,” she says, forcing me to make eye contact as she looks up at me, lying on her back, underneath my squat. “I need more from you Ali. That wasn’t even a nudge. Give me a push now. Give me a proper push.”

I grunt and groan, pretend to give it all I’ve got, but truth be told I’ve turned shy in this, the final stage. Every time I push it feels like I’m going to wee and poo, which in present company would be hideously embarrassing. It’s bad enough that he’s here, watching me, butt naked. I’ve thrown on a loose gown to hide my modesty, but it’s hitched right up, to allow the midwives a clearer view of the action.   

“Again Ali. I’m starting to see something. You’re nearly there.”

Beads of sweat drip down from my forehead onto the floor. My lips taste salty.  My hamstrings are starting to hurt from keeping up this position for so long. I give it some this time, encouraged that it might soon be over, wailing, wild, like a cat in a fight. Anthony rubs his hand up and down my back, firm, reassuring. 

“You’re doing really well,” he says softly, speaking for the first time in ages.

I grunt in response. There’s a sudden flurry of activity. Anthony’s pager goes. I’m aware of his hand breaking contact, of him whispering to someone that he’ll only be a couple of minutes, something urgent has come up. Then lots of wheels and feet enter the room. “We’ve a medical team here now Ali,” informs Anne-Marie, “because you’re ever so slightly premature. We’ll need to run some checks on the baby when it comes, to make sure it can breathe on its own. Do you understand what I’m saying?” I nod. I don’t care about anything that happens afterwards. The here and now is what matters, the getting this bloody baby out. With Anthony gone I push with much more vigour and verve. Every last muscle in my body contracts, tight, hard, driving down energy to where it’s needed. Scream after scream after scream after scream, I let rip, giving my pelvic floor a workout like it’s never had, my vocal chords a chance to show off their full range. Primal, unabashed, unrivalled, the symphony builds to a masterful crescendo. I hear symbols clash five times in my head and then, a couple of timpani later, it comes, slipping out my vagina, sliding into a pair of hands below. “It’s a boy,” someone yells.  “Cut,” someone instructs. The baby cries. It’s whisked away from under my nose. “Got it,” says a man. “Three kilos,” says a woman. Then everyone, bar the midwife who doesn’t speak, clears the room.

***

Kayla’s the next person to enter. She opens the door, leaving it slightly ajar. She stares hard, looking for clues, in absence of an actual baby, but I’m giving none away, at long last tucked up in bed, blankets and sheets loosely covering my slowly deflating bump.

“Oh my God,” she says, slightly breathless, rushing to my side, taking a hand. “I came as quick as I could. I’m not too late am I? Tell me I’m not too late.”

It’s good to see her. Actually, good’s an understatement. It’s fucking fantastic. As Anthony once predicted, at moments like this, family’s important. She hugs me, kisses me. I burst into tears from the contact, releasing, relieved, emotional from the last couple of hours, from the baby having been taken away so quickly I barely got a proper look. Her face is so hopeful that she hasn’t missed the main event, I hate to disappoint. I shake my head, more together now.

“I’m afraid it finished about ten minutes ago. ”

She pulls back to arms’ length, checking my expression.

“Girl or boy?”

“Boy,” I smile, proud.

“And?” asks Kayla.

It’s at this moment that the sound of wheels wafts in my direction. I sit bolt upright, praying that it’s the baby on his way back.  Anne-Marie’s voice pipes up. I can’t see her, but she can be heard loud and clear from the other side of the slightly open door. “He’s a cracker,” she says. “He looks just like you.” I’m not sure whom she’s talking to. There’s a pause. “Definitely your eyes,” she says again. “Possibly even the nose,” she carries on. There’s another pause. Then I hear Anthony. “No,” he laughs nervously, as if he’s suddenly got what she’s getting at. “Sorry. I suppose, come to think of it, we never actually said who I am to Ali, but I’m not the father. The father’s overseas at the moment. I just happened to be in the right place, right time.”

***

Kayla gave a look that explained to me, in detail that surpassed even words, exactly what was on her mind. Her eyes said that she’d known, all along, without my ever saying and without her ever asking me, that this baby’s paternity was in question. Her expression also said that it was ok, that she loved me all the same, that she wasn’t judging. She got up and stepped outside. Anne-Marie wheeled in my beautiful boy in an incubator, said he was doing just dandy, was breathing very well for himself, she’d be back to check up on us later. After we’d had a couple of minutes alone, my son and I, Anthony joined us. Standing, staring, as he closed the door behind him, biding his time, slowly coming over, sitting down on the bed next to me. We are now, the three of us, alone. We have been for about five minutes. In complete silence. Both avoiding the real issue, choosing instead to focus on the gorgeous little package swaddled in sheets, lying, peaceful, making small movements with his mouth, twitching his tiny hands up above his head. The silence is comfortable, so far. It’s hard to imagine what’s going on in Anthony’s head. His expression gives little away. He appears mesmerized by the new arrival, but that could be a façade, as his brain ticks over, working out the next move. He came in as understudy for the lead role in today’s performance. To find out that the lead’s been axed, the job’s up for grabs full-time, must be quite some news. As for me, I’m waiting, anxious, for some reaction, a response to this shattering revelation, anything but silence. This is what’s been building, for half a year, the potential for unrivalled anger, unspeakable recriminations. This is where it’s bound to get ugly. Whatever’s coming my way is deserved. I prepare myself, a punch-bag, ready to take the blows, but still the silence. 

I wish he’d speak, because I don’t trust myself to. It’s easier to concentrate on Jasper. That’s what I’d like to call him. It suits. It suits his mass of chestnut, corkscrew curls. I’ve never seen a newborn with so much hair. It suits his dark brown eyes. It suits his divine skin tone, a rich tan. I hope Anthony approves of the name, because Jasper is, undeniably, his. He clears his throat, Anthony, that is, not Jasper.