Make Room for Baby

by Cathy Gillen Thacker

  “Maybe we should get rid of the feather ticking,” Tad suggested thoughtfully, knowing that people with back problems often slept on harder—not softer—surfaces. “Try just lying on the extra-firm mattress without the ticking,” he said.

  Abby rolled toward him, her breasts and tummy colliding with his chest. “You wouldn’t mind?”

  Tad grinned and pressed a playful kiss to the tip of her nose. “I like the bed either way—it makes no difference to me. Besides, it’s not like I’m going to get a lot of sleep if you’re tossing and turning all night.” He helped Abby to her feet.

  “True,” she said.

  “Besides, this is all part and parcel of being an expectant dad.” Tad turned the bedroom light back on. Insisting he needed no help, he made her sit in one of the chairs next to the window while he removed the sheets and blankets and the feather ticking that covered the mattress, then replaced the sheets and blankets. Finished, he helped Abby back to bed.

  “Well?” he said as she settled slowly, gracefully onto her back.

  She lay there a moment while he gently drew the covers to her waist. She made a comical face. “I still feel like a beached whale.”

  Tad chuckled as he got into bed. Abby had been saying that for months now, and nothing could have been further from the truth. Her skin was so luminous it glowed, and there was a fundamental warmth and tenderness about her, a certain serenity, that increased daily. “You look—” Tad paused to kiss her deeply then reluctantly pulled away “—like an incredibly beautiful expectant mother.”

  Abby ducked her head. “You’re just saying that.”

  “No, Abby, I’m not. Right now you are the most beautiful woman in the world to me,” he said huskily. He paused to kiss her again. Lifting his lips from hers, he whispered in a voice not to be denied, “Now roll over on your side.”

  “What!”

  “I’m going to give you a back rub. Maybe that will help.”

  “At this point,” she grumbled cantankerously enough to make him chuckle, “the only thing that will help is this baby being born.”

  Tad was getting anxious, too. But it wasn’t time.

  “Hush.” He turned down the lights, turned on some soft music and slipped his hands beneath the hem of her gown. He knew—from the faint shadows beneath her eyes—she needed sleep—and a hefty dose of tender loving care.

  “Close your eyes,” he ordered softly.

  Abby protested immediately, just as he’d known she would.

  “Close your eyes, Abby.”

  With a sigh she did. Loving the silky feel of her skin beneath his hands, he kneaded the muscles of her back until she moaned. “That feels so good,” she murmured, her whole body going languid. “It’s even making me sleepy.”

  Tad grinned. Knowing she needed her rest now more than ever, he put his own desire on hold and kept up the gentle massage. “Just close your eyes and cuddle close.”

  Abby snuggled into her pillow contentedly. “You really are the best expectant dad a woman could ever ask for.”

  High praise from a tough customer, Tad thought, recalling that when Abby had first moved into this house she’d refused even to sleep in the same room with him. So who knew? Maybe this would work out. Maybe after the baby was born, Abby would decide not to leave, after all.

  Chapter Twelve

  The phone rang at four in the morning. Groaning, Tad reached for it while Abby got up for what seemed the millionth time that night to head for the bathroom. When she came back, she looked surprised to see him getting dressed. Her eyes gleaming with curiosity, she perched on the edge of the bed. “What’s up?”

  Tad grinned as he took in the mussed layers of golden-brown hair. Eight and a half months into her pregnancy, her breasts and tummy swollen with child, she had never been sexier or more desirable.

  “Ernest Lee Scruggs has finally decided he’s ready to talk to me about Joe Don’s car dealership.” Tad pocketed his tape recorder, notepad and pen, a cell phone and his flashlight as Abby bounded off the bed.

  She wreathed her arms about his neck. “Be careful.”

  “Count on it.” He paused to kiss Abby on the tip of her nose, then headed out into the cold.

  As expected, Ernest Lee was waiting eagerly. He came out onto his front porch, a jug of moonshine in his hand. Tad greeted him and then hustled them both inside.

  “See that pickup?” Ernest Lee pointed drunkenly out the window at his shiny red truck. “A thing of beauty is what it is, and it’s also a worthless pile of manure.”

  Tad turned on his tape recorder, set it down in the middle of the kitchen table and pulled up a chair. “It never has run right, has it?”

  “Nope.” Ernest Lee dropped into the chair opposite Tad with a clumsy thud. “It sure as blazes hasn’t. And you want to know why?” He pounded the kitchen table with his fist. “’Cause it ain’t new! Joe Don Jerome rolled back the mileage on it.”

  Tad took out his notepad. “How’d you find this out?”

  Ernest Lee hiccuped loudly. “I tracked down the serial numbers through the company that made it. When I said I was the original owner, they thought I was somebody else, so I did some more hunting on my own and found out that the reason Joe Don has so much trouble with so many of his cars is that he’s been buying up all the known lemons on the market dirt cheap, rolling back the mileage a’fore they get to his place and then selling them as great deals. Only they aren’t such good deals, are they—” Ernest Lee hiccuped again “—if they never run right from day one.”

  “Why doesn’t anyone complain to the state attorney general?” Tad asked as he got up to make some coffee for the drunk mechanic.

  “’Cause they can’t.” Ernest Lee’s red-rimmed eyes filled with despair.

  Tad leaned forward urgently. “Why not?”

  Tears rolled down Ernest Lee’s wind-burned cheeks. “’Cause they lied, that’s why.”

  “NOW WE KNOW the whole scam,” Tad told Abby as soon as he got home some five hours later. “Joe Don Jerome sold the lemons to unsuspecting customers at what appeared to be cut-rate prices, Nowell Haines the banker encouraged customers to falsify through exaggeration or outright lies the information on their credit applications whenever necessary to push through the loans at a higher-than-market interest rate, and Cullen Marshall took care of the insurance. Together they made sure people got more expensive cars than they truthfully would have been qualified to purchase, and if anyone complained, they’d point out that they’d lied on their credit applications, and if found out, could go to jail for fraud.”

  Abby put aside the Lifestyle article she’d been editing while she waited for him and accompanied him to the kitchen.

  “No wonder people were too scared to kick up a ruckus.”

  Tad helped himself to a bowl of the cinnamon-raisin oatmeal simmering on the stove. “Fortunately I now have the ammunition to stop them. I talked to the district attorney on my way home. He’s going to launch a criminal investigation after he reads my article. He’s not going to prosecute anyone who fudged on their credit application.”

  Abby sat opposite him. “That’s wonderful, Tad.”

  Yeah, it was, he thought as he picked up her hand and kissed the back of it.

  Just as suddenly Abby tensed. “Oh, no...”

  “What?” Tad asked, baffled.

  One hand on the tabletop, Abby levered herself upright. “Don’t look now, but my water just broke.”

  “TAD, WILL YOU JUST calm down?” Abby said after putting on some dry clothing and telephoning the obstetrician.

  “I’m calm.”

  Like an erupting volcano is calm, Abby thought. “It’s going to be fine. My labor has barely started. The pains aren’t even regular yet. We have plenty of time to get to the hospital.” Plenty of time. She was not going to panic.

  “That’s good,” Tad said. “Because I don’t want you having our baby in the car en route to the hospital.”

  Abby smiled, amazed how calm she
felt now that the moment was finally upon them. She’d thought she might fall apart. “All right. Just hang on while I get the articles I edited this morning while I was waiting for you. I want to drop them off at the newspaper on the way to the hospital. It’ll just take a second.”

  Tad regarded her in exasperation. “Abby, I’m going to feel much better when I get you and the baby to the hospital over in Asheville.”

  “Then help me here.” Abby collected the edited papers she’d left strewn across the living-room coffee table. “And we can leave all the sooner.”

  “CAN YOU BELIEVE she was worried about dropping off some work at the newspaper?” Tad asked Sadie and Raymond, who’d driven to the hospital to be with them. His adrenaline pumping, Tad paced the corridor floor as, inside the private labor room, the nurses prepped Abby for the birth.

  Raymond smiled. “Sounds like Abby. Hardworking and practical to the bone. And she was right. It did just take a second. You had to drive right by the office, anyway. And you got her here in plenty of time.”

  Sadie patted Tad’s arm and brought him back to the sofa to sit between her and Raymond. “Now, honey, you just calm down,” she said, rubbing his back. “Everything is going to be fine.”

  Tad reminded his aunt and her husband tensely, “The baby isn’t due for another two weeks.” What if he or she wasn’t quite ready? What if something goes wrong during the delivery? What if, what if...?

  “Babies come early all the time, Tad,” Aunt Sadie said as a nurse appeared, held up a sterile gown and cap and motioned Tad to come with her. “Everything’s going to be fine,” Sadie added reassuringly.

  And for a time Abby’s labor was textbook perfect, if a bit slow. Over the course of the next eight hours, she went from one stage to another, with nary a complaint. Handling the pain and the brand-new experience well, she even managed to joke with Tad and Dr. Ellison and the nurses. But as soon as their baby’s head emerged, everything changed.

  Tad saw it on the obstetrician’s face even before the doctor stated urgently, “We’ve got a nuchal cord times two and it’s tight.”

  The nurse’s expression turned gravely serious, too. She grabbed Abby’s shoulders. “Stop pushing, Abby.”

  Perspiration streamed down Abby’s face. “But I feel like I have to push,” she protested breathlessly, still clutching Tad’s hand and struggling to sit up, to see what was going on.

  “Don’t push,” the nurse repeated. “The cord is wrapped around the baby’s neck. The doctor has to release it. Don’t push”

  “Tad,” Abby whispered, looking to him for help. Tears of pain and terror streamed down her face.

  “Hold on, Abby,” Tad whispered against her ear. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.” He put his hands around her shoulders, and held her all the tighter, infusing her with strength and being careful not to dislodge her IV or get in anyone’s way. “Everything’s going to be fine,” he repeated firmly. It had to be, he thought as a lump appeared in his throat and tears gathered in her eyes. They couldn’t lose their baby. They couldn’t.

  Dr. Ellison swore. “I can’t get it.” He grabbed a pair of large bent-angle scissors from the sterile table. He struggled for what seemed to Tad like an eternity but was probably really more like half a minute—then abruptly exhaled in relief. “I got it.” He placed the scissors down on the table. “Okay, push, Abby.”

  The nurse echoed Dr. Ellison. She lifted Abby’s shoulders slightly. “Push, Abby, push!”

  Abby gave it her all. Two pushes later the baby slid out.

  But instead of the healthy pink or red they’d been led to expect in Lamaze class, their baby son was tiny and bluish-gray. And he wasn’t crying and he wasn’t moving. The silence in the cold and sterile delivery room was deafening. Quickly Dr. Ellison cut the cord. “Call the neonatal resuscitation team, stat!”

  Abby’s obstetrician carried the baby to a warming table with short glass walls and a bright light. The doctor and two nurses clustered there. Tad and Abby could see and hear the frantic activity as the nurses and doctor rubbed the baby vigorously with towels, trying to get him to wake up and breathe on his own. “Do you have a heart rate?”

  The nurse replied, “One hundred and falling.”

  “No spontaneous respirations,” Dr. Ellison reported grimly. “Let’s bag him.”

  Clinging to each other, Tad and Abby watched as an oxygen mask was fit over their son’s face. The nurse began to squeeze the bag ever so slightly, and at that point a new medical team rushed in.

  “What’s the story?” the doctor asked and Abby’s obstetrician filled him in.

  “We had good fetal heart tones up until the moment of delivery,” Dr. Ellison added.

  “Keep up the manual stimulation. Let’s get ready to intubate and prepare a dose of epinephrine.” One nurse scrambled to get the epinephrine, the other the intubation tube. With his thumbs the pediatrician opened the baby’s mouth, inserted a silver instrument and tilted the baby’s head back so he could see down the throat. He put the tube in, pulled out the silver scope, put on his stethoscope, listened to both sides of the baby’s chest. “Good aeration,” the pediatrician reported briskly. “Heart rate?”

  “Sixty and falling.”

  One nurse put the epinephrine down the breathing tube. The other continued with the chest compressions.

  “Heart rate’s going up. Eighty. Ninety. It’s over a hundred.”

  “We’re getting spontaneous respirations.”

  Thank God, Tad thought. He noted with relief their baby’s chest was at last moving on its own.

  Still clinging to each other, Tad and Abby watched, barely daring to breathe. They knew, although doing better, their son was not yet out of danger.

  “Heart rate?” the pediatrician asked.

  “One hundred twenty and strong.”

  Tears of joy streamed down Abby’s and Tad’s faces as they saw their baby’s feet and hands were at last moving, too.

  “Well, he looks like he’s coming around,” the pediatrician said with satisfaction. “Let’s try to extubate him and see how he does.” With the nurses’ assistance, the pediatrician removed the tube. As soon as he did, the baby let out a lusty cry that echoed throughout the room.

  Tad and Abby laughed and cried and hugged each other all at once. Tad knew the sound of their son exercising his tiny lungs for the very first time was the most beautiful sound in the world. And he knew he’d remember it the rest of his life, as would Abby. And one day, when their son was much older, a teenager maybe, they’d tell him what a scare he’d given them.

  The nurses smiled. “Let’s get him a dry blanket.” They removed the blanket beneath him and slid in another, then put a white knit cap on his head. All the while their baby—who was now a healthy pink—continued to cry and carry on as if furious at being yanked from Abby’s warm womb into this cold world.

  “Okay, let’s get him over to the special-care nursery where I can keep an eye on him,” the pediatrician told the nurses assisting him.

  The nurses transferred the baby to a glass-covered incubator and wheeled him out. The doctor headed for Abby and Tad, introduced himself as the neonatologist and briefly explained what would happen. “Your baby’s breathing on his own now and his heart is beating, but we need to keep a very close eye on him for the next few hours, so I’ll be moving him to the special-care nursery.” The doctor’s eyes were kind. “Depending on how he does, we’ll decide whether we can move him out to the regular mother-baby nursery or if we need to keep him here and do some testing.” He held up a cautionary hand. “Most babies who suffer this sort of insult recover completely and there are no residual damages, but we won’t know exactly how your baby’s going to do until he gets through the next few hours.”

  The nurse looked at Tad. “When you’re ready, we’ll take you over and show you where it is and how you can visit your son.”

  ABBY, EXHAUSTED from the birth, stayed awake just long enough to get stitched up and be
moved to a private room. Then she fell asleep, her hand clutching Tad’s, tears of joy and relief still rolling down her face.

  Tad knew Abby believed the worst was over. He wished he felt the same. Deciding to check on the baby again—hoping that would waylay his anxiety—he left the room and headed down the hall to the special-care nursery. As he neared the glassed-in area, he saw Doc Harlan—who’d told Tad he’d be by to check on Abby and the baby—inside, consulting with the nurses and the neonatologist.

  Tad moved closer to the window. Little William was in a warming bed. He was dressed in just a diaper and his color was still good. He was motionless again, but this time it was because he was sleeping. Tad noted he had a full head of black hair and looked a lot like Abby. As Tad thought about what had almost happened back there in the delivery room, guilt assailed him anew. He didn’t care what anyone said. He knew it was his fault Abby had delivered early. They’d both been pushing hard at the newspaper. Too hard, he now saw.

  When Doc finished consulting with the neonatologist, he strode out into the hall. “How’s Abby?”

  Tad swallowed hard around the ache that had been in his throat since things had first started to go wrong. “Sleeping.” Please, God, don’t let her wake up to bad news. “How’s baby William doing?”

  Doc clapped an immensely comforting hand on Tad’s shoulder and confided gently, “They’ve done two tests on the baby to see how much oxygen is circulating in his blood—which tells you how well he’s breathing. The first one, taken right after he was revived, was not as good as we’d like to see. However, it was consistent with the type of trauma the baby suffered at the time of delivery.

  “He seemed to be breathing well on his own, so the pediatrician held off on reintubation and repeated the test twenty minutes later. The second test showed marked improvement, and the pediatrician feels comfortable just observing the baby in the special-care nursery for the next twelve to twenty-four hours.