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Show Motherlunge a novel 126 "You're there," Ellen reported to us, "Ten centimeters. Almost time to start pushing." Ellen left to summon the doctor, tossing the glove in the wastebasket by the door on her way out. The doctor-not Pavia's regular doctor but the guy on call, young and athletic looking-came in smiling. He pulled the wheeled stool to the end of the bed and sat down, getting comfortable. He reminded me of the ferrier at the interpretive farm that Eli and I had visited on a recent Saturday-all hot irons and broad grins, holding forth about Keeping This Traditional Craft Alive as he hammered gaily away and drops of molten metal seared black pockmarks into the tops of his boots. With comparable relish, the doctor on call flipped his tie back over his shoulder and bent between Pavia's trembling thighs. "Perfect ten!" he confirmed, and motioned for the birthing bar to be fitted to the bed. This was a U-shaped bar that fit, upside down-the opposite of a lucky horseshoe I couldn't help noting, which must be hung with the open part up lest all the good fortune drain out-into two holes near the end of the bed. We helped Pavia grab onto the bar and squat beneath it. The doctor started to explain how to push but Pavia was already at it. Ellen was at her side talking in her ear and I was propping her from behind on the bed, and then eventually Jack was in the room, too. I had forgotten about him. The shape of his body displaced some air as it moved across the tile floor toward our bed.... So Jack held the cup of water then, and Jack spoke into Pavia's ear. He became the one who counted to ten during the contractions, tearing off each small piece of time for Pavia as she bore down desperately and then rested in between. He had the part where he says to her each time, "All right, let's go again. One, two, three, four..." |
