The Long and Winding Road

by T. J. Klune

  “Maybe you guys should head out?” the lady from the front office suggests.

  I glare at her for ruining the moment. “Thank you, Nancy. What would I do without you.”

  She sniffs haughtily.

  WE LEAVE my car in the faculty parking lot and take Otter’s SUV. I grab the keys from his shaking hands, and he gives me a relieved look. Even before we’ve left the parking lot, both of us are already on the phone.

  Otter says, “Mom? It’s—she’s gone into labor. Can you—oh my god, why are you crying? Mom. Mom. I need you to—I’m fine. I do not sound like I’m hyperventilating! You’re right. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have screamed that. I’m—I know. I’m just… this is… I’m going to be a dad. Okay? I need you to—can you get Izzie? And call—well, not everyone. You can’t call everyone. Just… mostly everyone.”

  I say, “Dom? Ty’s in class, so I don’t want to interrupt him. Megan’s gone into labor. We’re heading to Eugene now. Can you—what? No, I’m not high. Why would you even ask that? I always sound calm. Okay, that was a lie, but now I do, and your first thought is that I’m high? What is wrong with you?”

  Otter says, “Mom! You don’t need to make a cake, for fuck’s sake! Why the hell would you make a cake? I—I am a grown man. I can use whatever language I want! Um. I mean. Sorry. Sorry. Can I—Dad? Oh my god, I didn’t mean to yell at her! My children are being born and I’m freaking out.”

  I say, “Like, I wouldn’t get high, especially when I’m supposed to be at school with the hoodlums. And I definitely wouldn’t be high while driving to the hospital! But I can’t make any promises about not getting high when I get there, because I—it was a joke. Turn off the cop, Dom, I swear to god! I’m joking!”

  Otter says, “You guys are on the pickup list for Izzie. I already told the principal that you’d be there after. Just—Dad. Dad. Stop telling Mom to make a cake. What is wrong with the both of you? I’m going to hang up now, I swear to—oh. He hung up on me.”

  I say, “You’re not going to arrest me, are you? Dom, I was joking. I’m not going to smoke meth and then hold my kids for the first time. I’m not that kind of person. Not—wow. He hung up on me.”

  “Why are you driving so slow?” Otter says, sounding slightly hysterical. “You are not an eighty-year-old woman!”

  “I’m going the speed limit,” I growl at him. “I’m trying not to break the law, especially since my brother’s boyfriend apparently thinks I’m a crack addict because I sound calm.”

  “You don’t sound very calm to me!”

  “Why thank you. I didn’t—what the hell is that in the back seat?”

  “Watch the road!”

  “I am. Are those car seats?”

  “Yes,” he huffs out. “How the hell else are we supposed to get them home?”

  “Right,” I say weakly. “Because they’re going to be coming home with us.”

  “Exactly,” Otter says, popping his knuckles repeatedly. “They’re going to be coming home with us, and we’re going to be parents, and it’s going to be fine. I mean, yes, we’re going to be at their beck and call for the next eighteen years and we’ll probably never get a moment of privacy for at least that long, and yes, what if the other one ends up being a girl who wants to date when she turns fifteen, and she brings home boys, and yes, I am going to have to buy a goddamn shotgun and point it at every single dickless wonder who thinks he can touch my little girl with his filthy boy hands, and—”

  “Wow,” I say. “That escalated quickly. I feel like we’ve somehow accidentally switched bodies, because you sound exactly like me right now.”

  “This is all your fault!” Otter cries at me.

  “How’s that now?”

  “It was your goddamn super sperm that made two of them.”

  “That’s because of my masculine virility. I’ve told you that—”

  “Bear!”

  “What!”

  His eyes are bulging, and he’s panting a little, but somehow, he’s able to say, “It’s too soon. They’re not supposed to be here for another week. What if something’s wrong?”

  And that hurts. To hear the worry in his voice. The doubt. Because Otter should never sound like that. Not ever. “You know as well as I do that’s not the case,” I tell him quietly. “Twins come early. The fact that she’s made it this far is sort of remarkable. We’ve been told this, okay? We know this. I need you to hear me on this, okay? Are you listening?”

  He nods, head jerking up and down.

  “It’s going to be fine. Everything is going to be fine. She’s healthy. The twins are healthy. This is all planned out. She’s done this before, and she knows her body. It’s going to be—”

  Otter’s phone rings.

  “It’s Marty,” he says, sounding rather breathless.

  Fine, right, Bear? it whispers. Everything is going to be fine. Because nothing bad has ever happened to you, isn’t that right? Oh, no. Of course not.

  “Answer it,” I tell him, shoving that damnable voice away. “We need to find out what’s going on. Make sure they don’t need anything from us.”

  He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly before connecting the call. It’s on speakerphone, and it crackles, voices muffled in the background.

  “Marty?” Otter asks.

  “—you are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” Marty is saying. “Your skin is glowing, and I know it’s mostly sweat, but damn, baby, you look good. All that life growing in you. I can’t wait till it comes out and I can put my own in—”

  “Nope,” I say. “Nope, nope, nope. Marty, I swear to god, if you finish that sentence, I will have your balls on a chopping block, and you will never get to have your own children!”

  “It’s the daddies!” Marty cries into the phone. “How we doing this fine morning?”

  “We’re fine,” Otter says, though he sounds like anything but, given that he’s squeaking.

  “Is there a small cat traveling with you?” Marty asks. “Because whatever that was, it sounded like a small cat.”

  “That was Otter,” I say. “He’s… excited.”

  “Oh, you guys are adorable,” Marty sighs. “You’re going to be the best daddies ever. Well. Until I’m a daddy, and then we can share that title, okay?”

  “Marty,” another voice says in the background. “Maybe now’s not the time to talk about other babies.”

  “You’re absolutely right, my love,” Marty says. “We can save that for later.”

  “Is that Megan?” I ask, baffled. “I thought she was giving birth!”

  Marty chuckles. “Oh, my poor, naïve daddies. She’s in the early labor phase. Water broke, but she’s only dilated a couple of centimeters. This part will probably last a little while. Babies don’t just fall out, you know. After that, it’s the active labor phase, when her cervix will dilate up to seven centimeters. Can you just imagine. And then it’s the transition phase, when the cervix will get all the way up to ten—”

  Otter and I are both staring at the phone in horror while it sounds as if it’s being shuffled from one person to another. Then, “Bear? Otter? It’s Megan. You know. Your surrogate?”

  I almost smack my head against the steering wheel. I don’t, but it’s close. “Hi, Megan.”

  “You’re having babies,” Otter breathes, and I almost smack his head against the steering wheel.

  “I am!” Megan says cheerfully. “The contractions aren’t too bad yet, but they’re coming regularly. We’re sitting around waiting to get this show on the road. When you get to Sacred Heart, you’ll want to head up to the prenatal unit on the fourth floor, okay? They know you’re coming and ow ow ow, okay, here is a good one. Ohhh, that has some bite to it.”

  “Did you just have a baby?” Otter asks frantically. “Did one come out yet?”

  “Who are you and what have you done with my husband?” I demand.

  “Tell them it doesn’t look like you’ll need an episiotomy,” I hear Marty
say in the background.

  “Oh god, no,” Megan says to him. “I would rather wait until they get here so I can see the look on their faces.”

  “What the hell is an episiotomy?” Otter asks. “Is it bad? It’s bad, isn’t it?”

  “It’s not bad,” Megan assures him. “Well. Mostly. But it’s not used a whole lot anymore, and only in special cases. It’s to help avoid vaginal tearing. They make… a bigger opening. By slicing.”

  “Women are so hard-core,” I whisper to Otter.

  “But,” Megan continues. “The babies are positioned head down, which is how they’re supposed to be, so I don’t see that being an issue. If there’s any repositioning, there will be a C-section most likely instead. I really hope it doesn’t go that direction, because I want to do this naturally.”

  “It’s no water birth, but it’ll do,” Marty says. “Should we talk to them about what can be done with the placenta?”

  “Now you’ve scared them,” Megan sighs as Otter and I both choke horribly, because what.

  “We’ll be there in an hour,” I manage to tell her. “Do you need anything?”

  “Adult diapers?” Megan asks.

  “What?” Otter and I both screech at the same time.

  But Megan and Marty just laugh at something we don’t quite understand.

  IN THE movies, anytime anyone gives birth, there’s this great big splash of the water breaking, immediate contractions, and the woman is wheeled into the hospital in a wheelchair, clutching her stomach and breathing like she just ran a marathon. Cut to the next scene, and her feet are in stirrups, and everyone is telling her to push, and maybe she’ll get snarky with a really deep voice, demanding a goddamn epidural before she kills someone, and the father of the child will be standing next to her, grimacing as the woman breaks his hand. A few minutes later, the baby comes out, looking sparkling clean with a full head of hair, and the anonymous doctor in scrubs and wearing a mask says, “It’s a boy!” or “It’s a girl!” and then the dad cries and the mom cries and they hug the baby, who appears to actually be a wrinkled burrito, and they all look amazing and live happily ever after.

  That is a fucking lie.

  Because nothing can prepare you for the reality.

  It’s not episiotomies.

  It’s not gross fluids.

  It’s not cutting an umbilical cord that looks like Italian sausage.

  It’s waiting.

  For hours.

  “You guys look bored,” Megan says, sounding amused as she sits up in her hospital bed. Marty’s rubbing her back like the dutiful partner he is.

  Otter and I are sitting in two chairs whose sole purpose seems to be as uncomfortable as possible, possibly to simulate what the woman is experiencing in prelabor. If that’s the case, then it has succeeded immensely, and I hate it. Because we’ve been here for three hours already.

  “We’re not bored,” Otter reassures her.

  “Definitely not,” I say.

  “I mean, you’re giving us children,” Otter says.

  “That negates everything else,” I say.

  “They’re so bored,” Marty whisper-shouts to Megan.

  “Isn’t it cute how they’re trying?” Megan asks him.

  “How’s your cervix?” Otter asks her.

  I smack him on the arm. “You can’t just ask someone that, Jesus Christ!”

  He looks offended. “I’m pretty sure there is no more polite way to ask that.”

  “I can find out for you if you’d like,” Marty says. “It’s part of my training.”

  “No!” Otter and I both shout as he starts to reach under Megan’s hospital gown.

  “That’s not necessary,” I add hastily.

  They both grin at me.

  “You’re fucking with us,” I accuse them.

  “A little,” Megan admits, a look of slight discomfort on her face. “You guys are acting so tense. It’s starting to stress me out a little.”

  “Don’t be tense,” Marty says. “We need to maintain positive vibes in here. Maybe we should sing a happy song that will make everyone feel better.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I’m not going to do that.”

  “Otter?” Marty asks.

  Otter looks at me. Then at Marty. Then back at me. “It could make everyone happy.”

  I glare at him.

  “But maybe next time,” Otter tells Marty.

  “You guys want more already?” Marty asks, eyes wide. “Did you hear that, Megan? They already want more. Far out.”

  “That’s not what I meant!” I hiss at Otter.

  He rolls his eyes. “How was I supposed to know that?”

  “We haven’t even had two yet!”

  “So much stress,” Megan moans dramatically.

  We end up singing.

  It’s the most terrible thing in the world.

  But Megan’s smiling with her eyes closed, so I deal.

  TWO HOURS later, the obstetrician announces Megan’s three centimeters dilated.

  “Moving right along,” she hums as she smiles at us and exits the room.

  “If you jump up and down, will that help?” I ask.

  Marty and Megan burst out laughing.

  “Really, Bear?” Otter whispers to me. “That’s what you come up with?”

  “I don’t see you offering any solutions!”

  “Yeah, nothing is still better than jumping up and down.”

  “Another song!” Marty cheers.

  “God-fucking-dammit,” I mutter.

  FOUR HOURS later, there’s been little progression, and Marty has shoved Otter and me out of the hospital room, telling us to take a walk, because we are killing the vibe. “I’ll call you if anything happens,” he tells us, the most stern I’ve ever seen him. Which means he’s smiling only a little. “Get out for a while, take a breather. I’ll handle things in here. There are a few things I can try to help further things along. Like abdominal lifts. Or sex.”

  And then he shuts the door in our faces.

  “He better not have sex with our babies,” I mutter.

  “You have got to stop phrasing it like that,” Otter says, and he’s pulling me down the hall toward the waiting room. “Let me buy you a cup of disgusting vending machine coffee.”

  “You know the way to my heart.”

  He grins crookedly at that, squeezing my hand just a little tighter.

  It’s going on five o’clock, and I’m thinking I need to turn my cell phone back on, just to make sure everything’s okay, when we get blasted by a wave of noise as soon as we enter the waiting room.

  Otter and I both jump back, because everyone is rushing us. Jerry and Alice Thompson. Stephanie and Ian Grant. Anna. Creed, with AJ strapped to his chest. JJ. Izzie. Dom. And the Kid, all of whom are demanding to know what’s going on. Well, maybe not all of them. Because JJ is cackling as he plays some handheld video game, saying, “Take that Overlord Zork, the gemstones of Runia are mine and you shall never have them again! You are my bitch now. Bwahaha!”

  Even though I’ll never tell Creed and Anna this, I hope our children are nothing like him. He’s so odd. I try not to applaud as Anna scolds him for language.

  “Are we grandparents?” Alice demands. “Was there a third hiding behind the other two? Because that can happen. Did you have triplet babies!”

  I don’t know if I should tell her Otter said the same thing or not.

  “I don’t know if that actually happens,” her husband tells her.

  “Stephanie and I have decided that we will also be grandparents to your kids,” Ian tells Otter. “I hope that’s okay. And if it’s not, well. It’s already been decided.”

  “Because we deserve it too,” Stephanie says, patting her husband’s hand. “After everything.”

  “Dude,” Creed says. “You guys look really freaked out right now. This is hilarious. I can’t wait for you to—JJ, I swear to god, if you try and order pizza from the courtesy phone one more time, I will drop-kick you
r video game into the ocean. Do you understand me?”

  JJ sets down the phone gingerly. I hadn’t even seen him move. “How do you do that?” I ask Creed. “You weren’t even looking at him.”

  “I told you, man. When your kids come out of the chick you knocked up, you get superpowers,” Creed says, waggling his eyebrows.

  “Goo-rah!” AJ shrieks, fat little fists waving in the air.

  “He already somehow ordered an olive and anchovy pizza,” Anna says with a sigh. “Twice.” She then socks her husband in the shoulder. “And if you ever refer to me as the chick you knocked up again, I will drop-kick you into the ocean.”

  “You are the light of my life,” Creed says. “And also, did you notice how rock hard my bicep is? Didn’t even jostle the little guy.”

  AJ screams again. He’s a loud, loud child.

  “Is Otter about to fall over?” Izzie whispers to the Kid.

  “He does look really pale,” Ty whispers back.

  “Be nice,” Dom says to the both of them, cuffing them on the back of the head. “It’s a really stressful time.”

  “What are you all doing here?” I ask.

  They all stare at me blankly for a good long moment.

  “You’re having children,” Alice says slowly. “You do know that, don’t you?” She glances at her husband. “I don’t think Bear knows where he is. Or who he is. This might be worse than we thought. Someone get a doctor!”

  “He’s fine,” Otter says, swaying just a little. I step closer to him, letting him lean on me. “We just didn’t expect you guys here so soon.”

  “Where else would we be?” Jerry asks. “You guys are about to have your children. Of course we’re going to be here.”

  And maybe there’s something to my thought that pregnant-woman hormones are contagious by proximity, because as soon as his father says that, as soon as those earnest words land upon us, my big, strong, ridiculous husband bursts into tears.

  Everyone gapes at him except for his father, who steps forward and wraps him in a hug, Otter’s head lying on Jerry’s shoulder.

  “Holy hell,” Ty breathes. “Is the world ending?”

  “He’s just a little overwhelmed,” Jerry hums, patting his son’s back, chin hooked over his shoulder. “It happens.”