Chapter 23: Labor

The first contraction came at four in the morning in April, in the big bed at Larkwood, with Ronan's arm across my hip.

I lay still and counted.

The second came soon after, harder.

"Ronan," I said.

He was awake before I finished the word.

"Now?"

"Not yet. Soon. Get the bag."

He was out of bed in his shorts, dragging the hospital bag out of the closet by one strap.

He dropped it, picked it up, dropped it again.

"Ronan."

"I'm fine."

"You're holding my shoe and a lamp."

He looked down.

He put the lamp back on the dresser, very carefully, and I laughed until the third one came and cut the laugh in half.

Kerry was waiting in the delivery wing at St. Anne's in her green scrubs, with her red hair in its knot.

"Twins at thirty-six weeks," she said, and kissed my forehead. "You're a showoff."

"I'm in pain."

"You're in the best hands in the building. Mine."

They took me through the double doors.

Ronan walked beside the bed, holding my hand, in yesterday's trousers and a coat he'd pulled on over his bare chest.

The doctor was calm and quick.

The room was bright, and white, and louder than I'd expected.

I don't remember the order of it.

I remember Ronan's face by my shoulder, gray and wet, and his voice saying, "You're doing it, you're doing it, I've got you."

I remember swearing at him, a long, inventive string.

I remember him saying, "Yes. All of it. I deserve all of it."

Then a thin angry cry filled the room, and the doctor said, "Boy."

I cried, too.

I couldn't help it.

"One more," said the doctor. "Jessa, one more. Come on."

Ronan's forehead pressed against my hair.

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