Pucker Factor

by MariaLisa deMora

  “She’s in a good position. Just support her back on the next contraction. Lindsay, you’re going to push for me, okay? Your baby’s in a hurry, and that’s not a bad thing, but we’ve got to ease through parts of this, so stop pushing when I tell you to, okay?” Lindsay stared at her for a second, not comprehending. “We’re going again, you ready?”

  “Ready,” Oscar said, shoving his arm behind her and lifting. Lindsay reached for the rails, gripping firmly before she tucked her chin to her chest and pushed. And pushed. And pushed, holding her breath. Something changed inside her body again, a lessening of that pressure, a different relief than before, and Oscar was in her face, telling her firmly, “Lindsay, stop now. Stop pushing.”

  She shook her head, staring at him. What he’d asked was impossible. “I have to. Please. I have to.” Huge breath in, and tuck, and push, push, push, then a surprised breath because it was over. There was a slithering release from inside her, and a moment later, she saw her baby lying on the mattress between her feet. Wiggling and squirming, it was coated all over in something white, dark hair matted with liquid and blood, but there was a silence so profound she felt it pressing in against her. “Please.”

  “You’ve got a boy. Oscar, he’s got an Apgar of seven.” Debby’s voice was light and joyous as she scooped the baby up, careful of the trailing cord, and wrapped him in a blanket before she leaned close, holding him out to Lindsay.

  Reverently, she took him in her arms, cradling him to her chest as his mouth opened and he took in a big breath, then with a shaking chin, cried out for the first time. “Oh my God.” His trembling wail struck arrow-straight into her heart and Lindsay started crying. “Oh my God.”

  Oscar chuckled when he said, “Correction, he’s a nine.”

  His words didn’t make any sense, so Lindsay corrected his correction, stating what she firmly believed. “No, he’s a ten. Definitely a ten.” She gazed into her son’s face, that first cry having led to a second and a third before trailing off. “Hey, you,” she cooed as he stared up at her. “Look at you. Just look at you.” She eased the blanket back to count his fingers, then his toes, and cradled his head with her hand. “Look at you.”

  Oscar’s voice was gruff when he said, “He’s gorgeous, Lindsay.”

  There was a tug behind her head, then the gown slipped down until it barely covered her breasts. Instinctively, she shifted her son and laid him against her skin, keeping her gaze on his tiny face.

  “He is, isn’t he? Look at you, baby boy. Just look at you.”

  A hand appeared, then drifted backwards, and without looking up, she reached out and took hold of Oscar, bringing his hand close until the backs of his curled knuckles brushed her son’s cheek. “He’s perfect.”

  “He is.” She looked up at Oscar, seeing a wonder on his face she knew was reflected on her own. “Oscar Mayhan, meet Christopher Sage Ashworth.” She cuddled her newborn son closer. “Thank you.” Throat tight, she struggled but finally got out the rest of what she wanted to say. “What you did for me. For us. Everything. Thank you.”

  Chapter Three

  Oscar

  He stood against the wall beside the door, eyes on Lindsay and Christopher. Debby had finally had a chance to grab another nurse to come in and help Lindsay deliver the placenta while Debby took the baby to the nursery to do the needed measurements. Proud as any aunt, she’d announced to him as she whisked past with Christopher in her arms, “Seven pounds, fourteen ounces, twenty-two inches long. He’s a big boy, Oscar.”

  Doc Cullman had come in after that, chatted with Deb while he reviewed Lindsay’s chart even as he covertly watched how the woman was with her child, then sat on the edge of the bed and talked to her, looking every inch the doting grandfather he was. He’d put her at ease in moments, until she’d willingly given her son up to him to look over. Then, when he’d finished with the baby, he’d glanced at Oscar with a strange look in his eye, marched to where he stood, and deposited Christopher in his arms.

  Oscar’s heart pounded with the remembered terror. He’d frozen in place, afraid he would drop the child. He’d stared down into that tiny face, filled with big eyes and topped with a dark head of hair peeking out from under his knitted cap, and immediately fallen in love. Christopher had studied him for a moment, then yawned, and with a tiny mew like a kitten, turned his head until he found the side of his fist. He sucked for a while, his efforts slowing gradually until Oscar realized the infant had drifted to sleep in his arms, and he fell just a little harder.

  Deb’s appropriation of the baby had been unwelcome, but he’d glimpsed Lindsay’s eager face over Deb’s shoulder and did his best to remind himself of his part in all this. Support when needed, and now, he was no longer necessary.

  Story of my life.

  “Did you hear me?” Deb was looking at him, and he shook his head. “Oscar Mayhan, it’s nearly nine o’clock. You’ve been here for hours, and labor and delivery is exhausting work. You’re dead on your feet. You should head home.”

  He looked past her to see Lindsay had Christopher held to her breast, face flushed and smiling. She stroked the boy’s head as he nursed, tugging down the tiny cap that covered that mop of hair. “She need anything?” He kept his voice quiet, not wanting to disturb the new mother and baby. “Anything at all, Deb?”

  “Not right now. I’ll get her set up best I can, but she’ll only be here a couple of days. She’s going to need a lot of help when she gets discharged.”

  He watched Lindsay’s mouth curve up into a smile as Christopher’s hand curled around her finger, holding on. As if she felt the weight of his gaze on her, she looked up and turned that brilliant, soft smile in his direction, and Oscar felt it in his gut like a velvet blow.

  “I got her, Deb. You keep me updated, but I’m down for anything she needs.” Deb narrowed her eyes but finally nodded. “Lindsay,” he called softly and waited for her to look back at him, her attention already absorbed by her child again. As it should be. “I’ll come see you tomorrow, yeah?” With a come-here gesture, she held her hand out, and he eased closer until he could take it in his. She tugged, pulling him until he was staring down at tiny Christopher happily latched onto his momma’s breast, jaw and cheek working as he nursed. Oscar couldn’t help it; he stroked along the softest baby’s skin he’d ever touched, gliding his fingertip across Christopher’s cheek to his ear until he could cradle the boy’s head. “I’ll see you tomorrow, too, little boy.”

  “Oscar.” He glanced up at Lindsay’s face, struck again by her beauty. Even exhausted, something shown by the lines in her face, she was gorgeous. “You’ll be back, right?”

  “Yeah, Lindsay. I’ll be back.” He lifted his hand and brushed a kiss across his fingertips, then pressed that to Christopher’s temple, gentle and soft. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  Walking back to the clubhouse through the darkness, he ran the day back through his head, the feeling of wonder never leaving him. He’d watched her come through the entryway doors, hand pressed tight against the side of her belly, and had been up and out of his borrowed chair in an instant. She hadn’t argued the wheelchair, thank goodness, but he cursed himself again that he hadn’t realized her black pants were wet, water already broken on her lonely trek to the hospital.

  He’d kept waiting for someone to walk in and claim her. Expected they’d dropped her off at the doors to park a vehicle and would rush in to be with her. Lindsay’s lack of awareness of the doors opening and closing should have been his first clue that she was alone. She’d told him she thought she was in labor but hadn’t seemed distressed, and it had been several minutes before he realized she was experiencing contractions right there in the office, burying whatever she was feeling in a calm façade and quiet words.

  With Debby being Doc Cullman’s niece, he trusted her to do the right thing, but Oscar hadn’t been able to leave Lindsay to her care. I just wanted to help. He suppressed the truth that he hadn’t been capable of forcing himself away.

>   Through it all, Lindsay held to her soft words, gentle nature, not turning into the kind of harridan TV dramas made a man expect to see in that situation. And Oscar had felt honored to help in whatever small way he could. Keeping her calm, rubbing the tension away, even supporting her at the end—she’d been determined, and all he could do was ride alongside her all the way.

  Her beauty, which had been considerable, had compounded and grown as she held her baby. Cradling little Christopher close, she’d looked the epitome of motherhood. Proud and protective, caring and nurturing, Lindsay was all of that and more.

  Crazy days.

  He nearly tripped on a curb and looked up to see he’d walked the full eight blocks without noticing. Another twenty strides farther, and he turned to climb the steps leading into the clubhouse, a building that had been his grandfather’s home at one time. Taking the steps two at a time, he made it to the porch and yanked open the door, looking around to see who was in attendance. His cousin Kirby Westbrook and two members, Donny Doss and Walt Peters, were standing in the kitchen area, leaning on three sides of the island, beers in hand.

  “Hey,” he called, walking towards them.

  Kirby straightened and gave him a puzzled look, repeating his greeting, “Hey.” He tipped his head to the side. “I thought you were only supposed to be at the hospital for lunch?”

  “Way past noon, Oscar.” Donny grinned at him.

  “Yeah, had a—” He stopped, unsure how to characterize today in a way that would convey the wonder he still felt. A miracle.

  “Had a what?” Kirby set his beer down and stared at Oscar, concern darkening his expression. “You okay, brother?”

  That summed up the club. Mayhan Bucklers MC had been his and Kirby’s grandfather’s motorcycle club, forged after the man’s service to his country ended, then fallen to ruin following his death. Kirby had come back from his overseas duty changed, his TBI a challenge set to make his life hard, but he’d had the idea to resurrect the club in a different way. They were a group of combat-injured veterans—except for Oscar—who’d banded together to lift up and support each other. Kirby’s vision made flesh and carried out by example every day.

  “Yeah, brother. I’m good. Just had the most amazing thing happen today.” Oscar took the beer Walt held out, popped the top, and drank deep. “Amazing.”

  “Do tell? Share, my man. I could use a little amazing today.” Donny stretched, then jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the media room, where Oscar could hear the muted sounds of video games. “Brain’s in there makin’ life a misery for everyone.”

  “What’s up with Brian?” Brian Nelson, also called Brain, had been in the MBMC for as long as any of the men Oscar and Kirby had recruited, and like many of them, he still struggled with the demons left from his time in the military. His TBI symptoms were relentless and plagued every aspect of his life with anger, flashes of forgotten memories, and despair. “You have to call the doc?” He looked at Kirby, who was shaking his head. “What’s he need, brother?”

  “Just someone to sit with him, mostly. We’ve been trading off back and forth today.” There was a loud burst of gunfire from the video game, the sound real enough Oscar had to curb his instinct to duck, and he saw the other men doing the same. “Sounds like he needs another body to be in his space.” More than any of them, Brian found it easy to get lost in the controlled violence of his favorite first-person shooter games, and having someone to balance reality with the world on the screen helped anchor him.

  “Tell us your news, first.” Walt tipped the top of his beer towards Oscar. “I wanna hear about some amazing, too.”

  “Woman walked into admitting. I was filling in for Ticia since she’s out with her little girl sick.” All three men nodded. Leticia was known and a favorite, showing up at the clubhouse on weekends when she had a sitter, and hanging out to watch movies and drink a beer or two. She’d hooked up with a couple of the men, after making it clear that was all she wanted, so she didn’t cause problems between brothers. “So this woman walked in by herself, already in labor. I took her upstairs, and Deb was pretty much on her own there in OB, so I stuck around. I’ve never…she was a trouper, didn’t really complain about anything, just tried to get through it best she could.” He took a drink, surprised to see every eye turned towards him, the men avidly listening. “It took a little bit, couple of hours, but she had a little boy.”

  “Jesus. You delivered her baby?” Kirby shook his head. “That’s something else, Oscar.”

  “No, Deb did that part, I just was there for Lindsay.” He wrapped both hands around the can and rested it on the island. His heart pounded at the memory. He cleared his throat and told them a truth he’d found out today, “It’s a profound thing, to be there when a life’s beginning.”

  “Amen, brother. That’s a thing to be proud of. No matter your role, just being present is humbling.” Walt lifted his beer in a salute. “To our brother, the baby whisperer.”

  “Fuck you.” Oscar laughed when the men raised their cans and echoed Walt’s words. “She’s a good little momma. She reached out and latched onto that boy, and the look on her face was…like he was the most important thing in her life. Devotion like I’ve never seen, right there in front of me.” He remembered Deb’s reflected pride in Lindsay, how she’d put voice to what had been in his head when she declared they’d get Lindsay through it all. She’s got nobody here, though. Doesn’t even know anyone except me and Deb. Single mom, not just on her own, but doing that in a town where she was a stranger. He drew his brows down, scowling as he told them, “She’s in a tough spot, though. She came to town to work, but she’ll be laid up for a while.”

  “Her people can help her, right?” Kirby was staring at him with a strange expression, frowning when Oscar shook his head. “She’s got people, right? Has someone comin’ for her?”

  Trust him to drill straight to the piece that bugs me the most. “No, man. She walked in alone, said she’s got nobody in town. She’s from the Dallas area, but it didn’t sound like she’d been there in a while.” He sighed, remembering the sadness in Lindsay’s voice when she told him there was no one in the waiting room for her. “Deb’s going to see what kind of info she can get and let me know. I’ll help if I can.”

  “What’s she do?” Kirby took a step back, resting a hip against the countertop, one arm crossed over his chest. This was his thinking mode, and Oscar grinned to see him tackling a problem that would never impact him, just because it was the right thing to do. “For work, I mean.”

  “She’s a marketer, said the city hired her for something. I’m betting she’s either at the BnB here in town or that rent-by-the-week motel out near the highway.” He mentally measured the distance she would have walked to the hospital from either and winced. “I’ll call the Chamber of Commerce tomorrow, see what they say.”

  “If she’s looking for work, we could use some help with a few things I want to do with the foundation.” Kirby shrugged. “It’s an option.”

  “One worth exploring.” Oscar nodded. “I’ll keep it in mind.” He thought again about how Lindsay looked in the bed, her small newborn cradled to her chest. “It would be flexible hours and stuff—that’ll be important now that she’s got little Christopher.”

  “Christopher?” Walt retrieved another beer from the refrigerator. “That her boy?”

  “Christopher Sage. She didn’t hesitate to name him, seemed to be about the only thing she’d thought through with him.” Exhaustion in the form of a yawn hit him suddenly, jaw-crackingly huge, and he shook his head when it passed finally. “Jesus, I’m tired. If I go in and sit with Brian, I’ll be asleep in five minutes. If one of you can take this shift and let me get a couple hours’ shut-eye, I can take him on.”

  “We got him, brother. You go crawl into bed and sleep.” Kirby walked around the island and gripped Oscar’s shoulder, rocking him back and forth. “Congratulations on being the baby whisperer and all that, but you’re beat, man. Go get
some sleep.”

  He yawned again, ending on a stretch. “Yeah, yeah. Wake me when you need to.”

  ***

  It didn’t matter that he knew it was a dream. He could tell his dream self that it wasn’t real a thousand times, and it still felt like he was right back in the middle of a war zone.

  The unmistakable whistle of an incoming round split the air, and he watched as the men around him ran for the bunkers near the center of the base they called Mortaritaville. Bent double, heads up while making themselves as small a target as possible, they raced towards the dirt-and-sandbag reinforced holes they’d been told to occupy during moments like this. He’d heard it called the pucker factor, a level of terror that took a body over when danger was imminent. A measure of how tight it made a body’s sphincter, and how a soldier handled themselves through it. Growing up, his Pops had told him more than once that a man couldn’t manufacture courage. It wasn’t a thing that could be awarded or trained. Had reassured him that feeling terror didn’t make him less of a man. Pops’ words of wisdom stated that courage was pushing through to do the needed thing even if he was terrified.

  He sure wasn’t feeling courageous right now. Oscar wanted to follow the men, he needed to, but his body wouldn’t cooperate, feet as heavy as if they were fitted with cement shoes and stuck in molasses. A nearby boom, striking with a bone-rattling concussion, said the insurgents hadn’t found their range yet. That one had hit short of the camp. Oscar could see the dust rising in the air from what was no doubt a collapsed building. It didn’t matter that they hadn’t hit their target, since according to them, it was the privilege of those townspeople who’d just died to help the cause and take out as many infidels as possible.

  Another whistling racket started, growing louder by the second, and he watched as the mortar exploded against a building just to the side of the camp. More a waystation than a true camp, but with the bunkers, this posting felt slightly more permanent. The flash and boom were immediate, a wave of hot air nearly knocking him off his feet, and he swayed into the wind, eyes narrowed protectively against the ash and soot.