A Different Blue

  “I'm going to pull off wherever I can find a hotel. We're still three hours out, maybe more at this speed, and I've had enough,” Wilson sighed, squinting to make out road signs.

  “We have to keep going,” I insisted, gripping the armrest as a wave of pressure moved through my lower body.

  “Why?” Wilson didn't look at me, he was so intent on the road ahead.

  “Because I really don't want to have a baby in a Super 8 Motel.”

  “Bugger!” Wilson's head swiveled toward me, his eyes wide with horror.

  “I'm not in any pain. Not really. It's just uncomfortable. And it's been going on for about three hours. Just keep going and we'll be fine.”

  The next three hours were the longest three hours of my life – Wilson's too, I'm guessing. He was white around the lips, and his face was haggard by the time we saw the Vegas lights smeared like an oil spill beyond the windshield, a muted rainbow in a sea of black. I had timed my contractions, and they had grown steady and increasingly painful at about five minutes apart. I had no idea what that meant, or how far I had to go. But we were both too tired to go home and wait for it to get worse. Getting to the hospital was a feat in itself. Some of the roads were knee deep in water, and the rain wasn't letting up.

  We pulled into the parking garage, and Wilson was out and at my door before I could get my seat belt off. Together we made our way to Labor and Delivery, breathing a small sigh of relief that we had made it. Visions of highways births had been our constant companion for three long hours. I'm sure it was a relief for Wilson to turn me over to the perky blonde nurse who oozed competency. She got me settled in a room, set out a gown, and told me she'd be back momentarily.

  Wilson turned and walked toward the door. Panic bubbled up in my chest as I watched him leave. My fear made me bold.

  “Will you stay with me?” The words came out in a jumble and my face felt hot with shame that I had even uttered them. But I had, and I didn't want to take them back. He was frozen in place, his hand still resting on the door handle.

  “Please.” I didn't know if he heard the final plea, and I had to close my eyes so I didn't see his response. I was afraid to see him shrink, to see his eyes shift away, to hear him make excuses.

  The bed shifted, and I opened my eyes to see him sitting beside me. His eyebrows were drawn together and his grey-eyed gaze was filled with apprehension. But he didn't fidget or shrink, and his eyes held mine.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I can't do this alone, Wilson. I wouldn't ask . . . but . . . I don't . . . have anyone else.” I bit down on my lip, stifling the urge to shamelessly beg. His face softened, and the worry in his eyes faded.

  “Then I'll stay.” He slid his hand into mine and held it tightly. His hand was large and cool, his fingertips calloused. My relief was so intense that I couldn't immediately respond for fear I would lose my composure. I wrapped both of my hands around his and held on gratefully. After several deep breaths, I whispered my thanks as another wave of pressure and pain built within me.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  My assigned nurse was in and out. Wilson always made sure to sit at the head of the bed, trying desperately to respect my modesty as much as possible. He kept his eyes on my face as she checked and pronounced me at five centimeters, then six and then six and a half. And then the progress stalled.

  “You wanna get up and walk a little? Sometimes it helps things along,” the nurse suggested after an hour of watching the clock and counting contractions with no improvement. I didn't want to walk. I wanted to sleep. I wanted to cancel the whole event.

  “Come on, Blue. I'll help you. Lean on me.” Wilson helped me sit and with the nurse's help I pulled another hospital gown around my back like a robe, tying the strings in front so I wouldn't moon the folks as I strolled. And we walked, up and down the hallways, my slippered feet trudging along beside Wilson's longer stride. When the pain was too great to move and my legs shook with the strain of keeping upright, Wilson locked his arms around me and pulled my forehead into his chest, talking quietly as if standing in his embrace was the most natural thing in the world. And it was. My hands clutched his upper arms as I trembled and groaned, and I whispered my gratitude to him again and again. When the pain would ease and I would regain my breath we would retrace our halting steps once more, and when I was desperate for distraction from the relentless waves, I poked at Wilson.

  “Tell me a story, Wilson. It can even be a long, boring, dusty English tome.”

  “Wow! Tome. Learn a new word, Echohawk?” Wilson wrapped his arms around me as I sagged against him.

  “I think you taught me that one, Mr. Dictionary.” I tried not to whimper as the pain swept through me.

  “How about Lord of the Flies?”

  “How about you just kill me now?” I ground out, my teeth gritted against the onslaught, appreciative of Wilson's diversionary tactics if not his choice in stories.

  Wilson's laughter made his chest rumble against my cheek. “Hmm. Too realistic and depressing, right? Let's see . . . dusty tomes . . . how about Ivanhoe?”

  “Ivan's Ho'? Sounds like Russian porn,” I quipped tiredly. Wilson laughed again, a sputtering groan. He was practically carrying me at this point and looked almost as exhausted as I felt.

  “How about I tell you one,” I offered as the pain eased, and I stepped back from the circle of his arms. “It's my favorite story. I used to beg Jimmy to tell it to me.”

  “All right. Let's make our way back to your room and see if all this walking has done any good.”

  “This is the story of Waupee –”

  “Whoopee?”

  “Very funny, Wilson. Fine. I won't use his Indian name. This is the story of White Hawk, the great hunter, and the Star Maiden. One day, White Hawk was out in the woods hunting and he found a strange circle in a clearing. He hid at the edge of the clearing and watched, wondering what made the strange markings.

  “Ahhh. Now I will discover the origin of the crop circles,” Wilson interrupted once more.

  “Hey! I'm the one who makes the jokes. Be quiet. I have to tell you this story before I can't talk anymore.” I gave him a long look, and he made the motion of zipping his lips. “After a while, White Hawk saw a large woven basket descending from the sky. Twelve beautiful girls climbed out and began dancing in the clearing. As White Hawk watched them, he noticed that all the girls were lovely, but the most beautiful was the youngest, and White Hawk immediately fell in love with her. He ran out, trying to catch her, but the girls screamed and climbed back into the basket, which rose high into the sky until it disappeared in the stars. This happened three more times. White Hawk couldn't eat or sleep. All he could do was think of the star maiden who he had fallen in love with.

  “Finally he hatched a plan. He transformed himself into a mouse –” I reached up and placed my hand over Wilson's mouth when he began to speak. “He had powers, okay?” Wilson nodded, but his eyes gleamed with mirth. We had made it back to my hospital room, and Wilson helped me ease down to a sitting position on the edge of the bed. I stayed sitting, holding onto him as I felt my insides start the slow clenching that would build until I was holding back tears. I tried to talk through it, clinging to Wilson's arms as the pressure became almost unbearable.

  “He . . . waited,” I panted, speaking in little gasps, “until the star sisters . . . . . . descended from the sky again. He knew . . . they wouldn't . . . . . . be afraid of a small mouse.”

  “Of course not. Women love mice,” Wilson amended agreeably, and I laughed and moaned and tried to continue. Wilson smoothed my hair back from my face, following it down my back in steady strokes as I pressed my face into him, trying to escape the pain that was only mine to bear. But he didn't interrupt again as I told the story in fits and gasps.

  “When the sisters climbed from the basket and began dancing . . . . . . White Hawk . . . crept closer and closer . . . . . . to the youngest, until he was right . . . next to her. Then he transformed .
. . back into a man and swept her up in his arms.” The pain began to ease in increments, and I took several long breaths, unclenching my hands from around Wilson's arms. The man was going to have some serious bruises when all this was over.

  “The other sisters screamed and jumped into the basket, which ascended into the sky, leaving the youngest behind. The star maiden cried, but White Hawk wiped her tears away and told her he would love her and take care of her. He told her life on earth was wonderful, and she would be happy with him.”

  I stopped talking as a nurse hustled into the room, pushing the curtain aside with a swoop of her hand.

  “Okay, sweetie. Let's see where you're at.” I looked up at Wilson as I was eased down onto the bed. He sat down on the stool by the bed and leaned into me, ignoring the nurse and the discomfort of the intimacy I had forced upon him. His face was only inches from mine as he again took my hand and met my gaze.

  “You're moving along. You're at a loose seven. Let's see if we can't get that anesthesiologist up here to get you some relief –”

  The lights flickered, and suddenly there was a cessation of sound and the darkness was complete. The nurse swore under her breath.

  The lights came back on with a whir, and the three of us breathed out in unison.

  “The hospital has generators. Don't you worry.” The nurse tried for lightness, but her eyes shifted to the door, and I could tell she was wondering what else the night would bring. “That must be some storm.” She swished back out the door with promises to be right back.

  I thought of Tiffa at an airport in Reno and immediately pushed the thought away. She would come, she would make it. There would be someone to hold my baby. Someone had to hold her. I wouldn't be able to. The thought brought ice to my veins and dread pooling in my chest. Tiffa and Jack needed to be there, ready with open arms to swoop up my child and take her immediately away.

  Pain drove the thought from my head, the more immediate misery taking my attention from thoughts of Tiffa and my child. Twenty minutes passed, then twenty more. The nurse did not return nor did the anesthesiologist. Then the pain reached a crescendo. Giant cascading waves threatened to tear me in half. I writhed in agony and clutched at Wilson, desperate for reprieve.

  “Tell me what I can do, Blue. Tell me what to do,” Wilson insisted quietly. I had settled into silence, my energy and focus drawn into the narrowest pin-prick of light, caught in the seemingly never-ending cycle of pain and pardon, unable to find words. I just shook my head and clung to his hand. He swore violently and rose from my bedside with a jerk, his stool clattering across the floor. He eased my fingers from his hand, and I whimpered my dismay as he turned toward the door. He crossed the room in long strides, and yanked the door open. Then I heard him, his voice raised, demanding assistance in very, very impolite terms. I was so proud and ridiculously touched that I almost laughed, but the laugh caught in my throat, and I screamed instead. My body shook and the pressure in my legs was overpowering. The need to push was so intense that I acted without thought. I screamed again, and my door slammed open and Wilson, his hair a wild, curling mess, along with a horrified nurse came flying into the room.

  “Doctor's on his way! Doctor's on his way!” the nurse babbled, her eyes growing wide as she positioned herself between my drawn up legs. “Don't push!”

  Wilson was instantly at my side, and I turned my face to him once more, unable to stop the ripples of pressure that sought to expel my child. The door slammed again as the nurse left the room and bellowed down the hallway for reinforcements. All at once I was surrounded – another nurse, a doctor, someone else was hovering by the incubator on wheels.

  “Blue?” The doctor's voice seemed far away, and I struggled to focus on his face. Brown eyes met mine as I bore down helplessly. “It's time to push, Blue. It won't be long 'til your baby is here.”

  My baby? Tiffa's baby. I shook my head. Tiffa wasn't here yet. I bore down once more, pushing through the pain. Then again. And again. And again. I don't know how long I pushed and pleaded with God for it to be over. I lost count in the haze of pain and exhaustion.

  “Just a little more, Blue,” the doctor urged. But I was too tired. I didn't think I could do it. It hurt too much. I wanted to float away.

  “I can't,” I croaked. I couldn't. I wouldn't.

  “You're the bravest person I know, Blue,” Wilson whispered into my hair. His hands cradling my face. “Did I ever tell you how beautiful I think you are? You're almost there. I will help you. Hold on to me. It's going to be all right.”

  “Wilson?”

  “Yes?”

  “If I see her . . . I don't know if I will be able to let her go. I'm afraid if I hold my baby, I won't be able to let her go.” The tears ran down my cheeks, and I didn't have to strength to hold them back.

  Wilson wrapped his arms around me as the agony inside me rose up and howled.

  “Come on, Blue!” The doctor was insistent. “Here we go! One more.”

  And somehow I did. Somehow I did. A last desperate effort, the final thrust, and a moment of relief as the baby was pulled free. Wilson's arms fell away, and he rose to his feet as the room erupted in excited exclamation. A girl. She was here, arms flailing, black hair wet and slicked to her tiny head, eyes wide. She howled in outrage, a war cry worthy of the battle that had been waged and won. And I reached for her.

  In that moment she was mine. The nurse laid her on my chest, and my hands were there to hold her. The world around me fell away. Time ceased, and I drank her in. I felt simultaneously dizzy with power and impossibly weak as I stared at my tiny daughter. She blinked up at me, her eyes blurry and swollen, her mouth moving, making mournful sounds that ripped at my heart. Terror rose inside of me, blinding me, and for a heartbeat I considered fleeing the room, running wildly down long corridors and out into the storm with my child in my arms to escape the promise I had made. I loved her. Insanely and completely. I loved her. I swung my head around, wild with turmoil, sick with dread, searching for Wilson. He stood only a few feet away, his hands shoved into his pockets, his face haggard, and his hair falling across his forehead. His eyes met mine, and I saw that he was crying. And then the nurse whisked her away – just like that – and the moment was gone. Time resumed its normal speed, competently unhindered by my devastation. I fell back against the pillows, stunned, and let the world rush on without me.

  It was mere minutes before the room emptied and I lay alone, the refuse of childbirth efficiently bundled and trundled away. Wilson had stepped out into the hall to call Tiffa, the nurses had taken the baby to places unknown for measuring and bathing, the doctor had neatly finished his work, removed his gloves, and congratulated me on a job well done. And now I lay, spent and rejected, like yesterday's news. And it was done.

  I was moved to a recovery room, helped into the shower, and unceremoniously tucked back into my bed. Nobody asked me if I would like to see my baby. Wilson had hovered for a time, but when it was evident that I was in good hands, he decided to run home and grab a shower and some clean clothes as well. The rain had finally stopped. The flash flood warning had been lifted, but the lowest level of the hospital had had to be evacuated because of flooding – which had caused chaos throughout the rest of the hospital. My nurses had apologized profusely that I had been neglected during my labor. Staff had already been skeletal due to the difficulties of getting to the hospital in the storm, and the flooding had almost done them in.

  Jack and Tiffa were unable to get home. The storm that had caused flooding in Las Vegas caused a blizzard in Reno as the massive storm stretched from one end of the state to the other. The airport in Reno had been shut down by the blizzard, and flights weren't scheduled to resume until morning. I managed to eat and was dozing off when Wilson returned. The lights were off in my room, but it wasn't truly dark. My room had a “lovely view” of the parking lot and the orange-yellow streetlights below cast a burnished glow into my darkened room. Wilson tried to sit unobtrusively in the corner chair
, but the chair squeaked loudly, and he cursed quietly.

  “You didn't have to come back.” My voice sounded scratchy and wrong to my own ears, hoarse, like I'd been screaming for hours.

  Wilson sank down into the noisy rocker, resting his elbows on his knees and propping his chin in his hands. I had seen him do this before, and it brought a sudden rush of tenderness so intense that I gasped.

  “Are you hurting?” he asked softly, misinterpreting the sound.

  “No,” I whispered. It was a lie, but at the moment the truth was too complicated.

  “Did I wake you?”

  “No,” I repeated. Silence magnified the sounds in the room and in the corridors beyond. Squeaking wheels chirped down the hallway, the squelching sound of sneakers on the linoleum floor. A nurse entered the room across the hall with a cheerful “How we doin'?” And I found myself listening for sounds I couldn't hear. Straining to hear a baby's cry. My mind traveled down the hall and into the nursery where a child lay unclaimed.

  “Did you hold her?” I asked suddenly. Wilson straightened in his chair, and his eyes searched my face for clues in the murky light of the room.

  “No,” it was his turn to reply. Again, silence.

  “She's all alone, Wilson.”

  He didn't argue that Tiffa was on her way or that my baby was being taken care of and was most likely sleeping. Instead, he stood up and approached the bed. I was curled up on my side, facing him, and he squatted down so his eyes were level with mine. We studied each other silently. And then he brought his hand up and laid it gently against my cheek. Such a simple gesture. But it was my undoing. I closed my eyes and cried, blocking out his stormy grey eyes, the understanding there, the compassion. Eventually, I felt him lay down beside me on the narrow bed and wrap his arms around me, pulling me up against him. Occasionally, he would stroke my hair or shush softly, but he made no comment as my heavy grief saturated the pillow beneath my head.