Marcus offering a gentle suggestion every now and then; Sarah at my side, telling me when to breathe and when to push; Ysabeau standing by the door, relaying messages to Phoebe, who waited in the hall and sent a constant stream of texts to Pickering Place, where Fernando, Jack, and Andrew were waiting for news.
It was excruciating.
It took forever.
When at 11:55 P.M. the first indignant cry was heard at long last, I started to weep and laugh. A fierce protective feeling took root where my child had been only moments before, filling me with purpose.
“Is it okay?” I asked, looking down.
“She is perfect,” Marthe said, beaming at me proudly.
“She?” Matthew sounded dazed.
“It is a girl. Phoebe, tell them Madame has given birth to a girl,” Ysabeau said with excitement. Jane held the tiny creature up. She was blue and wrinkled and smeared with gruesome-looking substances that I’d read about but was inadequately prepared to see on my own child. Her hair was jet black, and there was plenty of it.
“Why is she blue? What’s wrong with her? Is she dying?” I felt my anxiety climb.
“She’ll turn as red as a beet in no time,” Marcus said, looking down at his new sister. He held out a pair of scissors and a clamp to Matthew. “And there’s certainly nothing wrong with her lungs. I think you should do the honors.”
Matthew stood, motionless.
“If you faint, Matthew Clairmont, I will never let you forget it,” Sarah said testily. “Get your ass over there and cut the cord.”
“You do it, Sarah.” Matthew’s hands trembled on my shoulders.
“No. I want Matthew to do it,” I said. If he didn’t, he was going to regret it later.
My words got Matthew moving, and he was soon on his knees next to Dr. Sharp. In spite of his initial reluctance, once he was presented with a baby and the proper medical equipment, his movements were practiced and sure. After the cord was clamped and cut, Dr. Sharp quickly swaddled our daughter in a waiting blanket. Then she presented this bundle to Matthew.
He stood, dumbstruck, cradling the tiny body in his large hands. There was something miraculous in the juxtaposition of a father’s strength with his daughter’s vulnerability. She stopped crying for a moment, yawned, and resumed yelling at the cold indignity of her current situation.
“Hello, little stranger,” Matthew whispered. He looked at me in awe. “She’s beautiful.”
“Lord, just listen to her,” Marcus said. “A solid eight on the Apgar test, don’t you think, Jane?”
“I agree. Why don’t you weigh and measure her while we clean up a bit and get ready for the next one?”
Suddenly aware that my job was only half done, Matthew handed the baby into Marcus’s care. He then gave me a long look, a deep kiss, and a nod. “Ready, ma lionne?”
“As I’ll ever be,” I said, seized by another sharp pain.
Twenty minutes later, at 12:15 A.M., our son was born. He was larger than his sister, in both length and weight, but blessed with a similarly robust lung capacity. This, I was told, was a very good thing, though I did wonder if we would still feel that way in twelve hours. Unlike our firstborn, our son had reddish blond hair.
Matthew asked Sarah to cut the cord, since he was wholly absorbed in murmuring a stream of pleasant nonsense into my ear about how beautiful I was and how strong I’d been, all the while holding me upright.
It was after the second baby was born that I started to shake from head to foot.
“What’s. Wrong?” I asked through chattering teeth.
Matthew had me out of the birthing stool and onto the bed in a blink.