by Kelly Utt
“No big deal,” Ali says. “We’re old pros, remember?”
“You’re right, babe,” I reply. I raise my eyebrows and keep them raised as I look around the room at Roddy, Liam, and Mom to indicate my distress. Liam is still standing near me. He reaches a hand up and rests it on my shoulder again. He’s here.
“Dad and I were talking about how to avoid the E.R. and I had the idea that maybe Dr. Madera could examine me,” Ali explains. “Since I’m not officially established with the midwives yet, I’m sort of floating without anyone to turn without an appointment during business hours. I thought maybe Dr. Madera would help out since she knows us and already takes care of Linette and John Wendell. I called her office and they said she was here, so Dad drove me over on the chance I might be able to track her down and get checked out. I asked around a little, and we eventually found our way to you.”
“Where are the boys?” I ask.
“They’re home with Mom,” Ali replies.
“Is Marjorie okay with having both boys and Lady there to manage by herself? Did Taye leave?”
“Taye left a couple of hours ago in order to be sure and make it to Massachusetts to pick Malcolm up before bedtime,” Ali says. “He promises the security measures we have in place will actually keep us safe, so yes, Mom feels fine being there by herself with the boys and Lady. I also got in touch with Jen, so she and Duke are on standby to stop over if needed.”
“Okay, that’s good,” I say. “Was the table delivered this afternoon?”
“It was,” she confirms. “It’s so pretty, Georgie. And huge. I love it. I can’t wait to host big dinners around it. And to pick out some new table settings.”
“Good, babe,” I say. “I want you to love it and to be excited.”
“Tell him what else,” Roddy prompts.
“Oh, yeah,” Ali says. “My office in D.C. called me to ask for guidance on a case. I only talked to them on the phone for a short time, but it felt so good to be needed and to be part of the professional world for a little while. You know what I mean?”
“I think I do,” I reply. “That’s great, babe. Excellent news.”
“I think I know what you mean, too” Mom adds as she walks over and gives Ali a hug. “Good to see you, dear.”
Ali takes a step away from me and turns to address Mom. It’s getting crowded in this small space. I hope the rooms at the hospice house are bigger.
“How are you holding up?” Ali asks.
“Like I told Dr. Madera a little while ago, I guess I’m doing as well as can be expected,” Mom answers.
“I understand,” Ali reassures.
Mom looks like she’s going to add something else, but her phone rings and she suddenly blushes when she sees who is calling. “Um, sorry, but… excuse me, I have to take this,” she says as she walks quickly out of the room, fumbling with her phone and almost tripping on the door frame along the way. When the door is closed behind her, the rest of us look at each other inquisitively to see if anyone knows what that was all about.
“That was weird,” I begin.
“She looked a little like a giddy teenager just now,” Liam says. “Remember, I knew her back when she actually was a giddy teenager in love with Alec.”
“You think that’s what she’s like in love?” Ali inquires as she smiles broadly. “She’s awkward like my Georgie.”
“I don’t know,” Liam answers. “But something about the look on her face definitely reminds me of the days when she and Alec were young, infatuated kids.”
“Go, Linette,” Roddy says with a chuckle. “Get ‘em, tiger.”
Ali laughs, but a contraction seizes her midway through and makes her gasp. She puts one hand on her lower belly and reaches out for me with the other as she breathes through it. The mood in the room suddenly gets more serious. Roddy takes the coat and bag off his daughter’s arm and sets them down on a chair. John Wendell continues to sleep and snore and I wonder if we’re bothering him. I have a hunch he kind of likes having us here and bustling around him though. They say people who aren’t conscious still perceive what’s happening around them. Based on the metaphysical experiences I’ve had lately, I’d tend to believe that’s probably true. I’m glad to have John Wendell here and listening to what’s going on with the family for as long as he wants to stay.
Liam offers to track down Dr. Isabel Madera and is on his way out of the room when we hear another knock on the door. It’s her, thank goodness.
“I have those discharge and transfer orders,” Isabel says proudly. “And in record time. They sympathized with my pleas to help get you folks settled before the storm.”
“Excellent,” I say. “We’re grateful.”
I hastily introduce Isabel to Roddy and then we get down to business regarding my wife’s contractions. Liam and Roddy make note of the hospice house location and promise to meet us there if they have the opportunity to go along with Mom and John Wendell before Ali and I are finished. I’m glad. I want to see Mom and John Wendell have plenty of support. I’m appreciative of my family members stepping in to be there for them even though they aren’t direct relatives. Now to focus on what my wife needs. I pick up her coat and bag to carry with me.
Ali and I explain our predicament and desire to avoid the E.R. to Isabel. We emphasize the fact that we’re most likely dealing with run of the mill Braxton Hicks contractions. Isabel takes us to a private exam room and starts a chart by asking a lot of questions. Once she’s satisfied that we probably don’t belong in the E.R., she agrees to examine Ali. We’d been planning to use Isabel as our family physician anyway, so she’s simply getting started a little early.
The exam room is dimly lit and not all that different from the hypnotherapy room at Dr. Epstein’s office. We’re in a part of the building which isn’t typically utilized in the evening and it looks like most people have gone home for the weekend. I’m sure the incoming weather incentivized day shift employees to pack up and get out even earlier than usual. We don’t mind. It’s nice and quiet.
Ali knows the drill. This is her third pregnancy, after all. Before Isabel can even ask, Ali takes her jeans and panties off and positions herself on the exam table so Isabel can check her cervix.
“Oh,” Isabel says when she sees my wife’s positioning. “You don’t have to lay flat on your back like that, Ali. It isn’t the most comfortable position to be in when a contraction hits. How about you stand up at the end of the table and sort of squat a little while lifting one leg up? That will feel much better.”
Ali agrees and moves into a standing position with one leg up like Isabel suggests. This is new, but Ali is open to it. It’s not much different than the squatting the midwives in D.C. had her try during her previous labors and deliveries.
When I see my wife’s naked bottom and glorious long legs standing exposed beside Isabel, the blood surges again and in an instant, I’m aroused. It’s embarrassing, really. But I can’t seem to help it. Isabel isn’t wearing a lab coat or a name tag. Nothing that would distinguish her as a doctor if you didn’t know who she was. She’s clothed in a sheer pink blouse which clings to her round breasts and sits neatly against her trim, muscular back. Her long, wavy hair falls delicately around her shoulders and chest, dancing as she moves, and it’s not difficult to imagine what her exposed torso must look like. In a flash, I image Ali unbuttoning Isabel’s blouse and then her own as they press their supple breasts against each other. I try and tell myself to stop it.
I watch the exam begin in front of me as Isabel moves her hands lightly over Ali’s forearms and guides her into position, then slowly reaches down and places her soft, delicate fingers on Ali’s labia, which is engorged with blood thanks to pregnancy hormones. Isabel is wearing gloves, of course, but Ali arches her back and closes her eyes for a second at Isabel’s touch. I’ll bet her touch is soft and that it feels much different than a man’s touch does. I wonder if Ali likes it. Ali shoots me a look to see how I’m feeling and I smile and nod to i
ndicate my approval. My wife is apparently enjoying what’s happening because she allows herself to close her eyes and bite her lip as Isabel explores her vagina and cervix. Isabel seems to be enjoying herself as well because she has stepped closer to my wife and has tilted her long, graceful neck to one side. She’s breathing in deeply and seems to be sampling my wife’s scent as she places her free hand on Ali’s bare hip.
This is so incredibly hot. I’m liking this scene more than I can adequately express. I always thought I might be jealous at the sight of my wife being pleasured by someone other than myself— exam or not— but where Isabel Madera is concerned, I want to see more. My imagination is running wild now. I want to watch these two lovely ladies as they enjoy and explore each other’s beautiful bodies. I imagine them both completely naked, Isabel leaning down and taking my wife’s breast into her mouth just like I did last night. I want to see the bounce of Isabel’s breasts and the grinding of her taut buttocks in the air as her soft, delicate mouth envelopes the entire area between my wife’s legs while Ali screams out with unbridled pleasure. If we weren’t in a hospital, I’d put my hand in my pants and pleasure myself right now just thinking about it. I need a release.
“Okay,” Isabel says, removing her hands from Ali’s body and snapping me back to reality. “You’re three centimeters dilated and sixty percent effaced. That’s not unusual for someone at this point in their third pregnancy.” She pulls a pregnancy wheel out of her bag to calculate an exact gestational age.
“I checked my calendar this afternoon and it looks like I’ll hit the thirty-seven-week mark tomorrow,” Ali adds.
“That’s right,” Isabel says. “And thirty-seven weeks is considered full term.”
“Wow,” I say. “So much has been going on that I completely lost track of that fact.”
“Me, too, Georgie,” Ali says. “Ethan and Leo were both born right around their due dates. I guess that’s what I expected with little Will as well.”
“Makes sense,” Isabel confirms. “You’re not in active labor yet, but more than likely you won’t go all the way to your due date. How far apart are your contractions?”
“Still pretty far apart,” Ali says. “I haven’t really been timing them because I think the closest two were something like six or seven minutes apart.”
“Okay,” Isabel confirms. “So, I think you’re fine for now, Ali. Take it easy as much as possible this weekend, and call me if the contractions last thirty to sixty seconds each and occur every five minutes. You have an appointment at the birth center on Monday morning anyway, correct?”
“Correct,” Ali replies.
“I know the midwives over there fairly well,” Isabel adds. “If you should go into labor over the weekend, I’ll personally call and talk to them about allowing you to deliver at the birth center instead of the hospital. You meet all of their requirements for a low-risk pregnancy and you have a proven pelvis given your previous vaginal births with your older sons. And now I’ve examined you. I don’t see any reason for them to turn you away.”
“I appreciate that, Dr. Madera. Thank you,” Ali says.
“To be clear,” I inquire, “you think Ali could actually go into labor this weekend?”
“She could,” Isabel replies.
“Wow,” I say quietly as Ali and I look at each other in disbelief. It’s hard to envision little Will arriving this early. And with everything going on. I keep saying the word everything as if it adequately explains the magnitude of what’s happening in my life right now. It doesn’t.
We thank Isabel Madera again and head back to John Wendell’s room only to find out that he has already been transported to the hospice house. I check my phone and, sure enough, Liam has texted to let me know the rest of the gang is on their way over. They’re following behind the ambulance. I really need to figure out why my phone isn’t vibrating to alert me of calls and texts when I have the ringer turned off. I’ll add it to my growing list of things to do. I reply back to say that Ali and I are finished and will meet them there.
I suggest walking through the desolate clinic section of the hospital on our way out to the car, and Ali agrees. We don’t say it out loud, but we both have lovemaking in mind. We find a small unisex restroom with a single door. We enter the bathroom and lock the latch behind us without turning on the light. We peel each other’s clothes off as much as necessary for me to enter my wife from behind and reach around to grip her perky breasts while I push. I thrust hard and fast. We climax quickly. When we’re finished, we piece ourselves back together and walk out of the building holding hands. Neither of us mentions Isabel Madera. We don’t have to.
12
The Dawn
When a baby is truly loved and when they’re treated in every moment of their infancy and childhood like they’re valuable beyond measure, they learn to treat themselves that way and they don’t allow anyone into their adult lives who won’t do the same. They’ll find and make good friends who will have their backs through thick and thin. They’ll marry loving partners who will honor and cherish them for decades. They’ll raise kind children who will grow up to advocate for and protect them as they age. On their deathbeds one day, they’ll lay still and solemn, ready to journey on the next invisible leg of this existence, and they’ll know, deep down, how valuable they are. They’ll know how valuable their precious life has been. They’ll ask for and receive the kindest loving care. They’ll believe they deserve it. Their loved ones will gather around and usher them into the unknown, and they’ll go forth, knowing full well that they are wonderful, beautiful, valuable beings. And it all begins in the baby bed.
John Wendell was born in the nineteen twenties as part of the Greatest Generation. I never met his parents, but he says they were the ones who deserved to be known as the greatest. The love and affection they showed him provided a solid foundation which allowed him to find a great love in his Eleanor and to share that love with Mom. In turn, Mom found Dad and passed that love down to me, then I found Ali and together we are passing it on to our boys. It’s awe-inspiring to think about how the loving environment which little Will is about to be born into has roots going all the way back to people I never met who cared for my precious John Wendell when he was a baby. He reminds me of an infant now, small and vulnerable in his bed. In a way, he’s preparing to be born, the same as little Will is.
Heavy snow has begun to fall and it’s blustery outside. Inside, the hospice house is warm and peaceful. We can’t fully appreciate the scenery out the big windows in John Wendell’s room yet because it’s too dark, but I’m sure sunrise will be beautiful. The hospice nurse on duty, Gloria, brought in a couple of wireless speakers that work with electronic devices. Liam took charge of cueing up some of John Wendell’s favorite songs and has Dream a Little Dream playing quietly in the background. The Bing Crosby version, of course. Roddy stopped by Mom’s house on the way over from the hospital and picked some things up. Mom had already packed two bags which were waiting by the front door: one for herself and one for John Wendell. It looks odd to see my grandfather’s clothing, shoes, and coat all stacked neatly on top of a dresser here in his room at the hospice house. He’s clothed in his own pajamas now, but he won’t be wearing any of the rest ever again. That realization sends a pang through my chest and puts a knot in my stomach. I hope I’m ready.
Gloria seems great. She’s a Caucasian woman with what looks like naturally blonde hair cut neatly into a chin-length bob. White strands are interspersed with the blonde ones, but it doesn’t seem like she’s trying to hide them. I’ve always admired women who age gracefully and let their hair fade rather than hiding behind chemical color which they have to go into the salon and get touched up every two weeks. There are strength and a beauty in being willing to be yourself and being proud of your age. Women tend to think us guys like all of the fake color and adornment, but I know I, for one, prefer a more natural look. I hope Ali will let her hair fade rather than coloring it as she grows older. I’d gues
s that Gloria is somewhere in between mine and Liam’s age. Probably closer to his age, but it’s hard to tell with any degree of certainty. She has a midwestern accent and a kind smile. Sounds like Minnesota. I’ll have to ask her where she’s from when I have a chance.
It must take a special type of person to work with hospice patients on a day to day basis. I imagine tending to people as they die is an honor, but I’ll bet it’s emotionally and spiritually draining. The experience is such a vulnerable one for the patient. I knew a hospice worker years ago who told me people die as they live. Some have beautiful, peaceful deaths surrounded by loved ones, while others have fitful, jagged, fearful deaths. There are six bedrooms in this particular hospice house, so six is their max capacity at any given time. I wonder if the beds stay full or if they have lulls where there are fewer patients to care for. I’m guessing the former.
It’s dinner time and we’re hungry, so after a brief discussion about whether or not we should eat in front of John Wendell, we decide to order something in. Gloria assures us that John Wendell won’t mind. She says if he’s hungry, it’s fine for him to eat. Besides, there’s a big table in the common room we can eat at if we prefer. Most likely though, he won’t be interested in our food or in eating. She explains how as part of the dying process, the body no longer needs to eat. She says it’s hard on the family to see their loved one refusing food and drink, but that the patient truly doesn’t feel hungry or thirsty and doesn’t need the physical nourishment anymore. She asks if we received the blue booklet, then brings us a couple of extra copies upon hearing that we only have one.
We decide on delivery from Pepperoni Parlor. Maybe it’s because they’re new in town and want to build a base of loyal customers, but they’re still delivering in the snow even though some other places have shut down for the night. We enjoyed the food when we were there last, so we’re glad they’re willing to take care of us. Mom hasn’t tried them yet. Roddy coordinates our order like a pro and happily pays over the phone for a sumptuous spread of salad, mozzarella sticks, spinach and artichoke dip, meatballs in marinara, deep dish pizza, calzones, baked ziti, and chocolate cake for dessert. He calls Marjorie, who agrees to bring the boys and meet us at the hospice house for dinner. We want Ethan and Leo to have a chance to see John Wendell anyway. Marjorie has no problem driving in the snow. She kind of likes it, actually. Jen and Duke are going to spend the evening at our house to tend to Lady. I sure do appreciate all of the support. I know Mom is used to being by herself with John Wendell. I hope she isn’t overwhelmed by my expansive crew. So far, she seems to be appreciating them, too.
